Chapter XIII

The fact that before Saadi’s arrival there had been no discussions in the Caravansery, much less any quarrelling, was due to a happy constellation of forces. Each of the five students was a picked man, and Trench evoked each man’s best. Each wanted to master the master’s method and Trenchify some bit of the world. And peace was strengthened by the very differences of temperament. Ameen was peaceful because it was simply not in his nature to give pain to any living creature. Becker was peaceful on principle, having resigned himself to the tedious march of economic evolution. Wu, whose interests were strictly terrestrial, had a perfectly celestial capacity for minding his own business. Chatterjee was peaceful because nothing terrestrial was permanent enough to quarrel about. And Deland was peaceful because he was a Christian, and would have peace even if he had to fight for it.

All these types, from Trench to Deland, were new to Saadi. He reacted to them as naïvely as a cat reacts to a dog, or a fire to powder. But there was neither bite nor explosion.

Wu and Chatterjee were well-nigh inseparable, like earth and heaven. They and Trench were having lunch on October 7, when the doctor remarked that they might take the afternoon off, because the one professor who claimed them that afternoon had been called out of town.

Wu suggested that it would be a good time to take Saadi to the stockyards, and invited Chat to come along and see the sights. The invitation was purely formal, for Wu was well aware that nothing would induce Chat even to glance and pass. But Chat said that he would show Saadi the region known as Back of the Yards, and deliver him later at the portal of the inferno.

Saadi fell in with the plan, and by three o’clock was inspecting the Slovak district. School was out, and Chat exhibited some scores of children in the street before a single block. The crowding of that block was beyond belief, but Chat explained how the children came to survive. It was due, he said, to the destruction of the garbage dumps. And the Augean task had been accomplished single-handed by Miss McDowell, who kept after the city for nineteen years.

“It shows what one person can do. One person can clean up a garbage dump, or some such thing.”

“Well, Chat, we will make bronze statue of Miss McDowell and set up here, and it will say: ‘This is woman who saved all you damn rabbits.’ But I do not see what is use of rabbits—”

He was interrupted by a boy who pointed at Chat and called out, “Nigger, nigger!” The boy darted past, but he was not quick enough. Saadi had him by the collar and into an alley before any one noted what was up. The lad was perhaps fifteen years old, and made a struggle, but he was like wax in Saadi’s hands. He was set against the wall, like a prisoner about to be shot.

“What is your name?”

“None of your business.”

“Look into my eye.”

The boy looked, and saw murder.—“My name is Gavro.”

“Gavro is Gavrilo. You know what Gavrilo means?”

“No, I don’t, and I don’t care.”

“It means Gabriel. Gabriel is angel by whom Bog speaks to men. You know Bog?”

“Yes.”

“You are hell of nice angel for God to send message by! Are you hell of nice angel?”

“No.”

“Say, no, sir.”

“No, sir.”

“You think Bog yells, ‘Nigger, nigger’?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you got sister?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know what some niggers do to white boys’ sisters?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You do not, you hell of nice angel boy.”

“Yes, I do. I ain’t no kindergarten kid.”

“Well, Gavrilo, you think it makes negro nice toward your sister to call him nigger?”

“No, sir.”

“Gavrilo, you are damn liar. You would stand still and see nigger insult your sister. Your father came over here to get away from Black Austria, but he has black coward for son. Who is little girl standing in front of alley shaking in shoes?”

“It is my sister.”

“Oh! I think I will go kiss your sister.”—Saadi turned away and approached the child. The boy hesitated a second, dashed after him, headed him off, and struck him in the face. An enraged boy of fifteen can strike a hard blow. Saadi reeled, got his balance, and smiled.

“That is better, Gavrilo. You are not black coward. May I have pleasure to speak to sister now?”

“Yes.”

“Say ‘Yes, Your Highness.’”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Saadi stooped and looked into the frightened face. As he spoke, his voice was softer than a summer wind.

“What is your name, little Slav woman?”

The child managed to moisten her dry lips and answer, “Sophie, ma’am.”

“Well, is your papa’s name Ferdinand?”

“No, ma’am.”

Saadi smiled.—“Why you call me ma’am?”

“I forget. I call teacher ma’am.”—Sophie began to smile back.

“Do you like teacher?”

“When she ain’t cross.”

“Cross! Teacher is cross with little woman like you? Sophie, do you know what I will do when I am Vazee?”

“No, sir.”

“I will hang only school teachers! Here is silver dollar, dear Sophie. Go away buy big doll.”

Sophie took the dollar and looked into the grey eyes.—“Please, sir, you said you would kiss me.”

“So I will, if brother permits.”

Gavro grinned and nodded, and Saadi touched the little forehead with his lips.

Gavro went up to Chat. “Please excuse me, mister.”

“Jak!” said Chat. “It is nothing.”

The children departed, Gavro with an arm about Sophie’s shoulders. Chat and Saadi proceeded down the street.

“Well, Chat, it is very kind to bring Saadi down here to complete his education. If I was mean, I would ask why you don’t go after India for nineteen years till she cleans up garbage dump called British Raj, or some such thing. But I won’t. I will think how I can be like Miss McDowell and do something for Bo—” Saadi stopped short.

“For what?”

“For Bokhara. It is no damn use, but I will go through motions, anyhow.”

“That remark pleases me, Mr. Sereef. Gita says that we have a right to action, but not to the fruits of action. Who can guess how far away his motions register!”

“Maybe Chat doesn’t know what motions Saadi means. It was one brave man in India little while ago—he chucked bomb at viceroy in Delhi. But damfool only hit elephant. He needed Saadi to teach him motions—five, like this: One, take off coverlock; two, strike cap with lock; three, chuck lock away; four, raise arm very slow, not excited; five—throw, by golly! And throw straight. If at automobile, don’t throw underneath like damfool who threw at Shah in 1908. Drop it inside—bang!”

“It is illusion,” replied Chatterjee, calmly. “You do not know yourself.”

“Self? What is self? I am piece of nature. When I see enemy, blood vessels dilate, respiration comes quick, arm goes up,—biff! More I biff, faster burns oxygen, faster comes sugar out of liver, faster pours out adrenalin. I am not tired. I yell ‘Na nosch! Na pred na nosch—give ’em bayonet!’”

“It is illusion,” repeated Chat, even more calmly. “It is māyā. You can slay or starve the millions, but they are safe within the One.”

“Oh, ho, Chat, I get your little system now. God is big Bokhara rug, very rich and red.”

“Yes,” smiled the Hindu, “and the coloured threads of our little passions only enrich the pattern of God’s impersonal love. You are a part of God, but you do not know Him.”

“You know him? Will you introduce me?”

“Naham manye suvedite no na vedite vedacha—I do not think I know Him well, or that I know Him, or that I know Him not.”

“I thought so. Chat’s exposition of acquaintance with gentleman is clear as Ganges mud. It would be better if Chat was Kali-worshipper. Bloody Kali I understand.”

“I doubt it, my friend. Do you know what this day may be?”

“It is October seventh. Five years ago to-day damn Thronfolger Ferdinand annexed Bosnia.”

“No! It is the happiest day of the year! It begins our Pooja, the feast of the Mother, whom you choose to call Kali. The shephâlika blossoms have fallen, and the children have cried, ‘Mother is coming!’ And now she comes, and families are joyfully reunited. She is the energy of all the gods. She destroys all demons and some such things that terrify humanity. To her bosom she tenderly gathers all the slain, as some day she will gather you.”

“Pooh, pooh, Pooja! Take me quick to stockyards. You bring me down here to show what one person can do, and then show me it is not necessary to do anything. All is done already. It is what Deland sings, Jesus paid it all. All distinctions of right and wrong are merged in Absolute. Bismillah! I will now go see butcher merge all distinctions of blood in absolute red.”

Chatterjee was silent, withdrawing his vexed soul from the life of the senses into the central peace. In the process he walked clear across Halsted at Forty-seventh, whereas he should have stopped on the west side of the street and turned north. He would have gone on still farther east had not Saadi’s quick eye analysed the situation. So, at the last, it was Saadi who guided Chat to the portal.

Wu was waiting for them. He was gazing at a window full of neat packages to which living beings had impersonally been reduced. Chat boarded the Halsted car, and Wu stepped forward—like a yellow Vergil to guide a new Dante.

The yards seemed to fascinate Saadi. He occasionally shuddered, but, gladly quaked, saw more.

They came to the man who stands like a machine all day and opens the throats of the imploring hogs that pass him. Through such a din as Herod’s soldiers heard, Saadi shouted to his leader.

“Does it make you sick in stomach, Mr. Wu?”

“No. Pork is excellent food.”

“Well, most things that go round and round make me tired. Every morning same old sunrise. Every morning same old bath and shave. Every afternoon same old clinic. Every dinner same old meats—animals do not give any more kinds of meats. Every day Dr. Trench fixes up same old baby. But this repetition—do you hear me, Wu?—gives me thrill in nerves.”

Wu bowed, and spoke close to Saadi’s ear. “On the first occasion when I had the pleasure of receiving Mr. Sereef, I suggested that repetition is the secret of success.”

“I accept amendment,” yelled Saadi. “Reason why this butcher butcherises so good, he is jolly old repeater. He is essence of revolution. Always revolution has revolved, but always more hogs are born. Watch history repeated now before Mr. Wu’s honourable eyes. Here comes Stolypin!”

“You will not find our last emperor in the procession,” said Wu, and led Saadi away from the ghastly pageant.

“It is true, but Yuan Shih-Kai will come along. Yesterday he was elected president for life, and pretty quick he will be emperor, and then he will have to join line of assassinated pigs. But to change conversation, how is starvation prospect in China?”

“Mr. Sereef, we shall never have famine after we get transportation between the valleys. When my father was a child, nine millions starved in three years. We of the republic will change all that. One good engineer can prevent the repetition of nine million deaths.”

“One?”

“One.”

“It is pipedream, Wu. Republic is form pipedream takes after opium joints are shut up. I am what you say inconsolable for nine millions.”

Wu did not even shrug his shoulders. Like a machine he said: “They have mingled with the weather.”

“That is good answer. Very damn good indeed. From fruitless pity may Allah deliver all us children of Hassan Sabah. But I am not satisfied with China.”

“We exist only to please you, Mr. Sereef.”

“What I mean is this, Wu. For four five thousand years China has been jolly old repeater of teacups and babies. What is result? Nine millions mingled in weather without starting drop of rain from Wu’s eyes. And same eyes saw fifty girl babies thrown in one field in Yunnan. It would be better to raise all girls and breed them to soldiers, and leave fifty khaki kids in one field in Nippon. Japanese are going to lick you, Wu, because it is what you say psychological moment. Every son of gun wishes to die for Mikado, because Mikky is son of gaseous vertebrate in sky.”

The imperturbable Wu replied to this lecture by taking Saadi’s elbow and politely guiding him out of the building. As they waited for the Halsted car, Saadi perceived a very thin cat in the street.

“See cat? Cat appears to be one of nine million. About to-morrow cat will mingle with weather. You think cat has owner?”

“I am agnostic on that point. But in Mr. Sereef’s present mood he is not bound to respect ownership. Cats are carriers of Klebs-Loeffler bacilli, but even bacilli are frequently captured in war.”

“Mr. Wu, you have most levelest head of whole damn family. Look! I will take cat prisoner and name him Jaffer. I will wash cat, and feed cat, and swab out cat’s mouth with listerine in honour of Lister College, and put cat on shoulder, same as Prophet in paradise.”