He gave a sign of recognition with his eyes; his body remained immobile. I had seen many members of the family but never him. I greeted him in German, thinking he would prefer that to English which no one seemed to speak in this queer house.
«You can talk English if you like,» he said, in a thick accent. He gazed straight ahead into space, as before.
«Am I disturbing you?»
«Not at all.»
I thought I ought to tell him who I was. «My name is…»
«And I,» said he, without waiting to hear my name, «am Dr. Onirifick’s father. He never told you about me, I suppose?»
«No,» I said, «he never did. But then I hardly ever see him.»
«He’s a very busy man. Too busy perhaps….»
«But he will be punished one day,» he continued. «One must not murder, not even the unborn. It is better here— there is peace.»
«Wouldn’t you like me to put out some of the lights?» I asked, hoping to divert his thoughts to some other subject.
«There should be light,» he answered. «More light… more light. He works in darkness up there. He is too proud. He works for the devil. It is better here with the wet clothes.» He was silent for a moment. There was the sound of drops of water falling from the wet garments. I gave a shudder. I thought of the blood dripping from Dr. Onirifick’s hands. «Yes, drops of blood,» said the old man, as if reading my thoughts. «He is a butcher. He gives his mind to death. This is the greatest darkness of the human mind—killing what is struggling to be born. Even animals one should not kill, except in sacrifice. My son knows everything—but he doesn’t know that murder is the greatest sin. There is light here… great light… and he sits up there in darkness. His father sits in the cellar, praying for him, and he is up there butchering, butchering. Everywhere there is blood. The house is polluted. It is better here with the wash. I would wash the money too, if I could. This is the only clean room in the house. And the light is good. Light. Light. We must open their eyes so that they can see. Man must not work in darkness. The mind must be clear, the mind must know what it is doing.»
I said nothing. I listened respectfully, hynoptized by the droning words, the blinding light. The old man had the face and manners of a patrician; the toga he wore and the velvet skull cap accentuated his lofty air. His fine sensitive hands were those of a surgeon; the blue veins stood out like quicksilver. In his overlighted dungeon he sat like a court physician who been banished from his native land. He reminded me vividly of certain celebrated physicians who had flourished at the court of Spain during the time of the Moors. There was a silvery, musical quality about him; his spirit was clean and it radiated from every pore of his being.
Presently I heard the patter of slippered feet. It was Ghompal arriving with a bowl of hot milk. Immediately the old man’s expression altered. He leaned back against the wall and looked at Ghompal with warmth and tenderness.
«This is my son, my true son,» he said, turning his full gaze upon me.
I exchanged a few words with Ghompal as he held the bowl to the old man’s lips. It was a pleasure to watch the Hindu. No matter how menial the task he performed it with dignity. The more humble the service the more ennobled he became. He seemed never to be embarrassed or humiliated. Neither did he efface himself. He remained always the same, always completely and uniquely himself. I tried to imagine what Kronski would look like performing such a service.
Ghompal left the room for a few moments to return with a pair of warm bedroom slippers. He knelt at the old man’s feet and, as he performed this rite, the old man gently stroked Ghompal’s head.
«You are one of the sons of light», said the old man, lifting Ghompal’s head back and looking into his eyes with a steady clear gaze. Ghompal returned the old man’s gaze with the same clear liquescent light. They seemed to flood each other’s being—two reservoirs of liquid light spilling over in a purifying exchange. Suddenly I realized that the blinding light which streamed from the unshaded electric bulbs was as nothing in comparison to this emanation of light which had passed between the two. Perhaps the old man was unaware of this yellow, artificial light which man had invented; perhaps the room was illuminated by this flood-light which came from his soul. Even now, though they had ceased gazing into one another’s eyes, the room was appreciably lighter than before. It was like the after-glow of a fiery sunset, a supernal, empyrean luminosity.
I stole back to the living room to await Ghompal. He had something to tell me. I found Kronski seated in the arm-chair reading one of my books. He was ostensibly calmer, quieter than usual, not subdued but settled in some queer, undisciplined way.
«Hullo! I didn’t know you were home,» he said, startled by my unexpected presence. «I was just glancing at some of your junk.» He threw the book aside. It was The Hill of Dreams.
Before he had a chance to resume his habitual banter Ghompal entered. He walked towards me holding the money in his hand. I took it with a smile, thanked him, and put it in my pocket. To Kronski it appeared that I was borrowing from Ghompal. He was irritated—more than that— indignant.
«Jesus, do you have to borrow from him?» he blurted out.
Ghompal spoke up at once, but Kronski cut him short.
«You don’t have to lie for him. I know his tricks.»
Ghompal spoke up again, quietly, convincingly. «Mr. Miller doesn’t play tricks with me,» he said.
«All right, you win,» said Kronski. «But Jesus, don’t make an angel of him. I know he’s been good to you—and to all your comrades on the messenger force—but that’s not because he has a good heart-He’s taken a fancy to you Hindus because you’re queer fish, see?»
Ghompal smiled at him indulgently, as if he understood the aberrations of a sick mind.
Kronski reacted testily to this smile of Ghompal’s. «Don’t give me that commiserating smile,» he screeched. «I’m not a wretched outcast. I’m a doctor of medicine. I’m a…»
«You’re still a child,» said Ghompal quietly and firmly. «Anybody with a little intelligence can become a doctor…»
At this Kronski sneered vehemently. «They can, eh? Just like that, hah? Just like rolling off a log—» He looked around as if searching for a place to spit.
«In India we say…», and Ghompal began one of those child-like stories which are devastating to the analytical-minded person. He had a little story for every situation, Ghompal. I relished them hugely; they were like simple, homeopathic remedies, little pellets of truth garbed in some innocuous cloak. You could never forget them afterwards, that was what I liked about these yarns. We write fat books to expound a simple idea; the Oriental tells a simple, pointed story which lodges in your brain like a diamond. The story he was narrating was about a glow-worm that had been bruised by the naked foot of an absent-minded philosopher. Kronski detested anecdotes in which lower forms of life communicated with higher beings, such as man, on an intellectual level. He felt it to be a personal humiliation, an invidious aspersion.
In spite of himself he had to smile at the conclusion of the tale. Besides, he was already repentant of his crude behavior. He had a profound respect for Ghompal. It nettled him that he had been obliged to turn sharply on Ghompal when he meant merely to crush me. So, still smiling, he inquired in a kindly voice about Ghose, one of the Hindus who had returned to India some months ago.
Ghose had died of dysentery shortly after arriving in India, Ghompal informed him.
«That’s lousy,» said Kronski, shaking his head despairingly, as if to imply that it was hopeless to combat conditions in a country like India. Then, turning to me, with a sad flicker of a smile: «You remember Ghose, don’t you? The fat, chubby little guy, like a squatting Buddha.»
I nodded. «I should say I do remember him. Didn’t I raise the money for him to go back to India?»
«Ghose was a saint,» said Kronski vehemently.
A mild flicker of a frown came over Ghompal’s face. «No, not a saint,» he said. «We have many men in India who…»
«I know what you’re going to say,» Kronski broke in. «Just the same, to me Ghose was a saint. Dysentery! Good Christ! it’s like the Middle Ages-worse than that!» And he launched into a terrifying description of the diseases which still flourished in India. And from disease to poverty and from poverty to superstition and from these to slavery, degradation, despair, indifference, hopelessness. India was just a vast, rotting sepulchre, a charnel house dominated by conniving British exploiters in league with demented and perfidious rajahs and maharajahs. Not a word about the architecture, the music, the learning, the religion, the philosophies, the beautiful physionomies, the grace and delicacy of the women, the colorful garments, the pungent odors, the tinkling
