CHAPTER XII THE REALMS OF GAUTAMA

Difficult, indeed, would it be to choose a more striking introduction to the wonderland of the Far East than that egg-shaped remnant left over from the building of India. How incomplete and lusterless seems the picture drawn by the anticipating imagination when one stands at last in the midst of its prolific, kaleidoscopic life! Sharp and vivid are the impressions that come crowding on the traveler in jumbled, disordered succession, and he experiences a confusion such as comes with the first glance at a great painting. He must look again and again before the underlying conception stands out clearly through the mass of unfamiliar detail.

It would have been strange if the white man of peripatetic mood had not found his way to this Eden of the eastern seas. Within ten minutes of my landing I was greeted by a score of “beachcombers” gathered in the black shade under the portico of a large government building. In garb, they were men of means. It costs nothing worth mentioning to keep spotless the jacket and trousers of thinnest cotton that make up the wardrobe of the Indias. More than their sun-baked faces, their listless movements and ingrown indolence betrayed them as “vags.” Those of the band who were not stretched out at full length on the flagging of the veranda dangled their feet from the encircling railing or leaned against the massive pillars, puffing lazily at pipe or cigarette. On the greensward below, two natives sat on their heels before portable stands, rising now and then to pour out a glass of tea for the “comber” who tossed a Ceylon cent at their feet.

Theoretically, the party had gathered to seek employment. The morning hour, since time immemorial, had called the exiles together in the shade of the shipping office to lay in wait for any stranger, the “cut of whose jib” stamped him as a captain. “Shipping,” however, was dull. Imbued with the habit, “the boys” continued to gather, but into their drowsy yarning rarely intruded the fear of being driven forth from this island paradise.

Now and again some energetic member of the band rose to peer 252through the open door of the shipping office; yet retreated hastily, for a roar as of an angry bull was the invariable greeting from within. When courage came, I ventured to glance inside. A burly Englishman, as nearly naked as a mild sense of propriety permitted, lay on his back in a reclining chair, on the arm of which he threw a mass of typewritten sheets every half-minute, to mop up the perspiration that poured down his rotund face and hairy chest in spite of the heavy velvet punkahs that swung slowly back and forth above him.

“Shippin’ master,” volunteered a recumbent Irishman behind me. “But divil a man dast disturb ’im. If you valy your loife, kape out of ’is soight.”

At noonday the office closed. The beachcombers wandered languidly away to some other shaded spot, and seeking refuge from the equatorial sun in a neighboring park, I dreamed away my first day’s freedom from the holly-stone. A native runner roused me towards nightfall and thrust into my hands a card setting forth the virtues of “The Original and Well-Recognized Sailors’ Boarding House of Colombo, under Proprietorship of C. D. Almeida.” It was a two-story building in the native quarter of Pettah, of stone floor, but otherwise of the lightest wooden material. The dining-room, in the center of the establishment, boasted no roof. Narrow, windowless chambers of the second story, facing this open space, housed the seafaring guests.

Almeida, the proprietor, was a Singhalese of purest caste. His white silk jacket was modestly decorated with red braid and glistening brass buttons. Beneath the folds of a skirt of gayest plaid peeped feet that had never known the restraint of shoes, the toes of which stood out staunchly independent one from another. For all his occupation he clung stoutly to the symbols of his social superiority—tiny pearl earrings and a huge circle comb of celluloid. Fate had been unkind to Almeida. Though his fellow-countrymen, with rarely an exception, boasted thick tresses of long, raven-tinted hair, the boarding master was well nigh bald. His gray and scanty locks did little more than streak his black scalp, and the art of a lifetime of hair dressing could not make the knob at the back of his head larger than a hickory nut. Obviously no circle comb could sit in position so insecure; at intervals as regular as the ticking of his great silver watch, that of Almeida dropped on the ground behind him. Wherever he moved, there slunk at his heels a native urchin who had known no other task in many a month than that of restoring to its place the ornament of caste.

An outrigger canoe and an outdoor laundry in Colombo, Ceylon

Road-repairers of Ceylon. Highway between Colombo and Kandy

253The simple formality of signing a promise-to-pay made me a guest. Four white men and as many black leaned their elbows on the unplaned table, awaiting the evening meal. In an adjoining grotto, two natives were stumbling over each other around a kettle and a fire of fagots. Both were clothed in the scantiest of breechclouts. Now and then they squatted on their smoothly polished heels, scratched savagely at some portion of their scrawny bodies, and sprang up again to plunge both hands into the kettle.

In due time the mess grew too hot for stirring. The pair resumed their squat and burst forth in a dreadful chatter of falsetto voices. Then fell ominous silence. Suddenly the cooks dashed into the smoke that veiled the entrance to the cave, and, flinging themselves upon the caldron, dragged it forth into the dining-room. The senior scooped out handfuls of steaming rice and filled our plates. The younger returned to the smoky cavern and laid hold on a smaller pot that contained a curry of chopped fish. Besides these two delicacies, there were bananas in abundance and a chettie of water, brackish, discolored and lukewarm.

Having distributed heavy pewter spoons among the guests, the cooks filled a battered basin with rice and, dropping on their haunches, thrust the food into their mouths with both hands. The blazing fagots turned to dying embers, the wick that floated in a bottle of oil lighted up a bare corner of the table, and the rising moon, falling upon the naked figures, cast weird shadows across the uneven floor.

Almeida took his leave. The dropping of his comb sounded twice or thrice between the dining-room and the street, and the patter of his bare feet mingled with the whisper of the night outside. I laid my head on a hand as a sign of sleepiness, and a cook led the way to the second story and into one of the narrow rooms. It was furnished with three wooden tables of Dachshund legs. From two pegs in the wall hung several diaphanous tropical garments, the property of my unknown roommates. I inquired for my bed; but the cook spoke no English, and I sat down on the nearest table to await a more communicative mortal.

A long hour afterward two white men stumbled up the stairs, the first carrying a candle high above his head. He was lean and sallow, 254gray-haired and clean shaven, with something in his manner that spoke of better days. His companion was a burly, tow-headed Swede.

“Oho! Ole,” grinned the older man; “here’s a new bunkie. Why don’t you turn in, mate?”

“Haven’t found my bed yet,” I answered.

“Your bed!” cried the newcomer, “Why, damn it, man, you’re sitting on it.”

I followed the example of the pair in reducing my attire to the regulation coolie costume and, turning my bundled clothing into a pillow, sweated out the night.

Over the tea, bananas, and cakes of ground cocoanut that made up the Almeida breakfast, I exchanged yarns with my companions of the night. The Swede was merely a sailor; the older man a less commonplace being. He was an Irishman named John Askins, a master of arts of Dublin University and a civil engineer by profession. Twenty years before, an encroaching asthma had driven him from his native island. In his wanderings through every tropical country under British rule, he had picked up a fluent use of half the dialects of the east, from the clicking Kaffir to the guttural tongue of Kabul. Not by choice was Askins, M. A., a vagabond. Periodically, however, employment failed him and he fell, as now, into the ranks of those who listened open-mouthed—when he chose to abandon the slang of “the road” and the forecastle—to his professorial diction.

Brief as was my acquaintance with Ceylon, I had already discovered two possible openings to the wage-earning class. The first was to join the police force. Half the European officers of Colombo had once been beachcombers. Between them and our band existed a liaison so close that the misdemeanors of “the boys” were rarely punished, and more than one white castaway was housed surreptitiously in the barracks on Slave Island. I had no hesitancy, therefore, in applying for information to the Irishman whose beat embraced the cricket-ground separating Pettah from the European quarter.

He painted the life in uniform in glowing colors. His salary was fifty rupees a month. No princely income, surely, for bear in mind that it takes three rupees to make a dollar. The “graft,” too, he admitted sadly, was next to nothing. Yet he supported a wife—a white one, at that, strange to say—and three children, kept several servants, owned a house of his own, and increased his bank account 255on every pay day. Ludicrous, you know, is the cost of living in Ceylon.

I hurried eagerly away to the office of the superintendent of police. An awkward squad of white recruits was sprinkling with perspiration the green before the government bungalow, from which a servant emerged to inquire my errand. The alacrity with which I was admitted to the inner sanctum aroused within me visions of myself in uniform that were by no means dispelled by the hasty examination to which the superintendent subjected me.

“Yes! Yes!” he broke in, before I had answered his last question; “I think we can take you on all right. By the way, what part of the country are you from? You’ll be from Yorkshire side, I take it?”

“United States.”

“A-oh! You don’t say so? An American! Really, you don’t look it, you know. What a shame! Had a beat all picked out for you. But as an American you’d better go to the Philippines and apply on the force there. We can’t give you anything in Ceylon or India, don’t you know. Awfully sorry. Good day.”

None but a man ignorant of the ways of the Far East could have conceived my second scheme in one sleepless night. It was suggested by the fact that, in earlier years, I had, as the Englishman puts it, “gone in for” cross-country running. Returning to Almeida’s, I soon picked up a partner for the projected enterprise. He was a young and lanky Englishman, who, though he had never indulged in athletic sports, was certain that in eluding for a decade the police of four continents he had developed a record-breaking stride.

In a shady corner of Gordon Gardens we arranged the details of our plan, which was—why not admit it at once?—to become ’rickshaw runners. The hollow-chested natives who plied this equestrian vocation leased their vehicles from the American consul. That official surely would be glad to rent the two fine, new carriages that stood idle in his establishment. The license would cost little. Cloth slippers that sold for a few cents in the bazaars would render us as light-footed as our competitors. We could not, of course, offer indiscriminate service. Half the population of Colombo would have swept down upon us, clamoring for the unheard-of honor of riding behind a sahib. But nothing would be easier than to hang above our licenses the announcement, “for white men only.”

“By thunder,” enthused the Briton, as we turned out into the sunlight 256once more, “it’s a new scheme all right, absolutely unique. It’s sure to attract attention mighty quick.”

It did. So quickly, in fact, that had there been a white policeman within call when we broached the subject to the American consul, we should have found lodging at once in two nicely padded chambers of the city hospital.

“Did you two lunatics,” shrieked my fellow-countryman, from behind the protecting bulwark of his desk, “ever hear of Caste? Would the Europeans patronize you? You bet they would—with a fine coat of tar and feathers! You’d need it, too, for those long, slim knives the runners carry. Of all the idiotic schemes! Why, you—you—don’t you know that’s a crime—or, if it isn’t, the governor would make it one in about ten minutes. Go lie in the shade somewhere until you get your senses—if you’ve got one!”

Years ago, I came to the conclusion that the day of the enterprising young man is past. But it was cruel of the consul to put the matter so baldly. Luckily, the Englishman possessed four cents or we should have been denied the bitter joy of drowning our grief and dissolving our partnership in a glass of arrack.

From the distance of the western world the rate in Almeida’s boarding house—a half rupee a day—does not seem exorbitant. It was, however. In the native restaurants that abounded in Colombo, one could live on half that amount; and as for lodging—what utter foolishness to pay for the privilege of sleeping on a short-legged table when the ground was so much softer? No sooner, therefore, had a pawnbroker of Pettah appraised my useless winter garments at two rupees than I paid my bill at the “Original Boarding House” and became resident at large.

On the edge of the native section stood an eating shop that had won the patronage of half the beachcombers in the city. It was a low, thatched shanty, constructed, like its neighbors, chiefly of bamboo. The front wall—unless the canvas curtain that warded off the blazing sunshine be reckoned such—was all doorway, before which stood a platform heaped high with multicolored tropical fruits.

A dozen white men bawled out a greeting as I pushed aside the curtain and crowded into a place on one of the creaking benches around the table. At the entrance stood the proprietor, guarding a home-made safe, and smiling so vociferously upon whomever added to its contents that his circle comb rose and fell with the exertion. Plainly in sight of the yawning customers, in a smoke-choked back 257room, two chocolate-colored cooks, who had evidently divided between them a garment as large as a lady’s handkerchief, toiled over a long row of kettles.

The dinner was table d’h?te, and cost four cents. A naked boy set before me a heaping plate of rice, four bananas, a glass of tea, and six small dishes of curried vegetables, meat, and shrimps. The time had come when I must learn, like my companions, to dispense with table utensils. I began the first lesson by following the movements of my fellow-guests. Each dug in the center of his mound of rice a hole of the size of a coffee-cup. Into this he dumped the curries one after another and buried them by pushing in the sides of the excavation. The interment finished, he fell upon the mess with both hands, and mixed the ingredients as the “board-bucker” mixes concrete—by shoveling it over and over.

Let no one fancy that the Far East has no etiquette of the table. It was the height of ill-breeding, for example, to grasp a handful of food and eat it from the open palm. Obviously, the Englishman beside me had received careful Singhalese training. Without bending a joint of his hand, he plunged it into the mixture before him, drew his fingers closely together, and, thrusting his hand to the base of the thumb into his mouth, sucked off the food by taking a long, quick breath.

I imitated him, gasped, choked, and clutched at the bench with both hands, while the tears ran in rivulets down my cheeks. ’Twas my introduction to the curries of Ceylon. A mouthful of cayenne pepper would have tasted like ice cream in comparison. The stuff was so calorific—in chillies, not in temperature—that it burned my fingers.

“Hot, Yank?” grinned the Englishman. “That’s what all the lads finds ’em when they first get out here. In a week they’ll be just right. In a month you’ll be longin’ for Madras where they make ’em ’otter.”

The dinner over, the guests threw under their feet the food that remained; washed their fingers, surreptitiously, of course, in a chettie of drinking water; and sauntered out into the starlit night. Across the way lay the cricket ground of Colombo, a twelve-acre field, silent and deserted. While the policeman yawned at the far end of his beat, I scrambled over the bamboo fence, and, choosing a spot where the grass was not entirely worn off, went to bed. The proverbial white elephant was never more of a burden than my kodak had become. Hitherto, I had easily concealed it in a pocket of my corduroy 258coat. Now my entire wardrobe could have been packed inside the apparatus, and wherever I wandered I was forced to lug the thing under one arm, like a pet poodle, wrapped in a ragged cover that deceived the covetous as to its real value. By night it served as pillow, and so fixed a habit had its possession become, that I ran no more risk of leaving it behind than of going away without my cap.

The grassy slope was as soft as a mattress, the tepid night breeze just the right covering. I quickly fell asleep. A feeling, as of someone close at hand, aroused me. Slowly I opened my eyes. Within a foot of me, his naked body glistening in the moonlight, crouched a coolie. I bounded to my feet. But the native was quicker than I. With a leap that would have done credit to a kangaroo, he shot suddenly into the air, landed noiselessly on his bare feet some three yards away, and, before I could take a step in his direction, was gone.

Midnight, certainly, had passed. The flanking streets were utterly deserted. Not a light shone in the long rows of shops. Only the ceaseless chanting of myriads of insects tempered the stillness of the night. I drew a cord from my pocket, tied one end to the kodak and another to a wrist, and lay down again. The precaution was wisely taken. A tug at my arm awakened me a second time and, as I started up, a black rascal, closely resembling my first visitor, scampered away across the playground. Dawn was drawing a thin gray line on the black canvas of night. I left my bed unmade and wandered away into the city.

Before the sun was high I had found employment. A resident in the Cinnamon Gardens had advertised for a carpenter, and for the three days following I superintended the labors of a band of coolies in laying a hardwood floor in his bungalow. During that period, a rumor, spreading among the beachcombers, aroused them to new wakefulness. Colombo was soon to be visited by a circus! It was not that the mixed odor of sawdust and pink lemonade appealed greatly to “the boys.” But tradition whispered that the annual show would bring employment to more than one whose curry and rice advanced with laggard steps.

Dropping in at Almeida’s when my task was ended, I found Askins agog with news of the coming spectacle.

“She’ll be here in a week or ten days,” he cried, gayly. “That means a few dibs a day for some of us. For circuses must have white men. Niggers won’t do. That’s our game, Franck. Just lay low and 259when she blows in, we’ll swoop down on the supe and get our cognoms on the pay roll.

“Or say!” he went on, in more excited tones. “Better still! You won’t need to lie idle meantime, either. An idea strikes me. Remember the arrack shop where the two stokers set us up a bottle of fire-water the other day? Well, just across the street is the Salvation Army. Now you waltz down to the meeting there to-night and get converted. They’ll hand you down a swell white uniform, put you right in a good hash-house, and throw a few odd grafts in your way. All you’ll have to do’ll be to baste a drum or something of the kind twice a day, and you can have quite a few chips tucked away by the time the circus comes.”

“Good scheme,” I answered, “but I’ve got a few chips tucked away now, and if she isn’t due for ten days that will give me time for a jaunt into the interior of the island.”

“Well, it’s a ramble worth making,” admitted the Irishman, “but look out for the sun, and be sure you’re on hand again for the big show.”

The city of Colombo is well spread out. Though I set off early next morning, it was nearly noon when I crossed the Victoria bridge at Grand Pass and struck the open country. Great was the contrast between the Ceylon of my imagination and the reality. A riot of tropical vegetation spread out on every hand; in the dense shadows swarmed naked humans uncountable. But jungle was there none, neither wild men, nor savage beasts. Every acre was producing for the use of man. The highway was wide, well-built as in Europe, close flanked on either side by thick forests of towering palm trees. Here and there, bands of coolies repaired the roadway, or fought back the aggressive vegetation with ax-like knives. Clumsy, broad-wheeled bullock carts, in appearance like our “prairie schooners,” creaked by behind humped oxen ambling seaward at a snail’s pace. Under his protecting roof, made, not of canvas, as the first glimpse suggested, but of thousands of leaves sewn together, the scrawny driver grinned cheerily and mumbled some strange word of greeting. Even the heat was less infernal than I had anticipated. The glare of sunshine was dazzling; a wrist uncovered for a moment was burned red as with a branding-iron; my face shown browner in the mirror of each passing stream; but often are the sun’s rays more debilitating on a summer day at home.

In the forest the slim bamboo and the broad-leafed banana tree 260abounded; but the cocoanut palm predominated. In every grove, prehensile coolies, armed with heavy knives, walked up the slender trunks, and, hiding themselves in the tuft of leaves sixty feet above, chopped off the nuts in clusters of three. One could have recited a poem between the moment of their launching and the time when they struck the soft, spongy earth, to rebound high into the air. ’Tis a national music, the dull, muffled thump of cocoanuts, as reminiscent, ever after, of dense, tropical forests as the tinkle of the donkey bell of Spain, or the squawk of the water wheel of Egypt.

I stepped aside from the highway in the mid-afternoon, and lay down on a grassy slope under shielding palms. A crackling of twigs drew my attention, and, catching sight of a pair of eyes filled with mute wonder, I nodded reassuringly. A native, dressed in a ribbon and a tangle of oily hair, stepped from behind a great drooping banana leaf and advanced with faltering steps. Behind him emerged a score of men and boys, as heavily clothed as the leader; and the band, smiling like a company of ballet dancers en scène, moved forward hesitatingly, halting frequently to exchange signs of mutual encouragement. Their timidity was in strange contrast to the boisterous or menacing attitude of the Arab. One felt that a harsh word or a gesture of annoyance would have sent these deferential country-folk scampering away through the forest. A white man, whatever his station in life, is a tin god in Ceylon.

With a simultaneous gurgle of greeting, the natives squatted in a semicircle at the foot of the knoll on which I lay, as obsequious in manner as loyal subjects come to do homage to their cannibal king. We chatted, intelligibly if not glibly, in the language of signs. My pipe aroused great curiosity. When it had burned out, I turned it over to the leader. He passed it on to his companions, each and all of whom, to my horror, tested the strange thing by thrusting the stem halfway down his throat and sucking fiercely at it. Even when they had examined every other article in my knapsack, my visitors were not content, and implored me with tears in their eyes to give them leave to open my kodak. I distracted their attention by a careful inspection of their tools and betel-nut pouches. With truly Spanish generosity they insisted on presenting me with every article that I asked to see; and then sneaked round behind me to carry off the gift while I was examining another.

I rose to continue my way, but the natives burst out in vigorous protest, and, despatching three youths on some unknown errand, 261dropped again on their haunches and fell to preparing new chews of betel-nut. The emissaries soon returned, one carrying a jack-fruit, another a bunch of bananas, and the third swinging three green cocoanuts by the rope-like stem. The leader laid the gifts, one after another, at my feet. Two men armed with jungle knives sprang forward, and while one hacked at the adamantine jack-fruit, the other caught up a cocoanut, chopped off the top with one stroke, and invited me to drink. The milk—the national beverage of Ceylon—was cool and refreshing, but the meat of the green nut as inedible as a leather strap. The jack-fruit, of the size and appearance of a water melon, was split at last into longitudinal slices. These, in turn, split sidewise into dozens of segments not unlike those of the orange, each one containing a large, kidney-shaped stone. The meat itself was white, coarse-grained, and rather tasteless. The bananas were smaller, but more savory than those of the West Indies. When I had sampled each of the gifts, I distributed them among the donators, and turned down to the highway.

It is easy to account for the vagabond’s fondness for tropical lands. He loves to strut about among reverential black men in all the glory of a white skin; it flatters him astonishingly to have native policemen and soldiers draw up at attention and salute as he passes; he adores, of course, the lazy indolence of the East. But all these things are as nothing compared with his one great advantage over his brother in northern lands. He escapes the terror of the coming night. Only he who has roamed penniless through a colder world can know this dread; how, like an oppressive cloud, rising on the horizon of each new day, it casts its gloom over every niggardly atom of good fortune. In the north one must have shelter. Other things which the world calls necessities the vagrant may do without, but the night will not be put off like hunger and thirst. In the tropics? In Ceylon? Bah! What is night but a more comfortable day? If it grows too dark for tramping, one lies down in the bed under his feet and rises, refreshed, with the new dawn.

From my forest lodging bordering the twenty-first mile post, I set out on the second day’s tramp before the country people were astir. The highway, bursting forth from the encircling palm trees now and then, stalked across a small, rolling plain. Villages rose with every mile, rambling, two-row hamlets of bamboo, where elbow room was ample. Between them, isolated thatched cottages peeped from beneath the trees. Here were none of the densely-packed collections of 262human stys so general in Italy and the land of the Arab; for Ceylon, four centuries tributary to Europe, knows not the fear of marauding bands.

As the sun climbed higher, grinning groups of rustics pattered by, the men beclouted, the women clad in a short skirt and a shorter waist, between which glistened ten inches or more of velvety brown skin. Hunger and thirst come often in the tropics, but never was highway more liberally stocked with food and drink. Half the houses displayed for sale the fruits of the surrounding forest, and tea and cocoanut cakes could be had anywhere. On a bamboo pedestal before every hovel, however wretched, stood an earthenware chettie of water, beside which hung as a drinking-vessel the half of a cocoanut-shell; commonly slimy and moss-grown. Great was the joy of every family whose hut I entered—silent joy, generally, for the unhoped-for honor of welcoming a white man left one and all, from the half-naked wife to the babe in arms—no household lacked the latter—speechless with awe and veneration. They are charming children, these smiling brown people, and industrious, though moving always after the languid manner of the tropical zone.

Bathing is the national hobby of Ceylon. Never a stream crawling under the highway but was alive with splashing natives. Mothers, plodding along the route, halted at every rivulet to roll a banana leaf into a cone-shaped bucket and pour uncounted gallons of water on their sputtering infants, crouched naked on the bank of the stream. Travelers on foot or by bullock cart took hourly dips en route. The husbandman abandoned his tilling at frequent intervals to plunge into the nearest water hole. His wife, instead of calling on her neighbors, met them at the brook and, turned mermaid, gossiped in cool and comfort. The men, subjected only to a loin cloth, gave no heed to their clothing. The women, wound from knees to armpits in gossamer-like sheets of snowy white, emerged from their aquatic couches and, turning themselves round and round in the blazing sunshine like spitted fowls over a fire, marched homeward in dry garments.

With the third day the landscape changed. The slightly rolling lowlands of the coast gave way to tea-clad foothills, heralding the mountains of the interior. The highway, mounting languidly, offered noonday vista of the ranges that have won for Ceylon the title of “Switzerland of the tropics.” Here were none of the rugged peaks and crags of the Alps nor the barren wilderness of Palestine. Endless, to the north and south, hovering in a sea-blue haze, stretched rolling mountains, thick clothed in prolific vegetation. Unaggressive, effeminate they seemed, compared with northern highlands; summits and slopes a succession of graceful curves, with never an angular stroke, hills plump of contour, like Ruben’s figures.

Singhalese ladies wear only a skirt and a short waist, between which several inches of brown skin are visible

A Singhalese woman rarely misses an opportunity to give her children a bath

263Try as I would, I had not succeeded in making my daily expenditures since leaving the coast more than ten cents. Near the summit of the route I paused at an amateur shop by the wayside. It was a pathetic little hovel, built of rubbish picked up in the forest. A board, stretched like a counter across the open doorway, was heavily laden with bananas. Near at hand a plump, brown matron, in abbreviated skirt and a waist little more than neckerchief, was spreading out grain—with her feet—on a long grass mat. Unfortunately, the list of Singhalese words that I had jotted down at the dictation of Askins lacked the all-important term “how much.” I pointed at the fruit and tossed a coin on the counter. It was a copper piece, worth one and three-fourths cents; enough, surely, for the purchase of a half-dozen bananas. The matron approached, picked up the coin gingerly, and, turning it over and over in her hand, stared at me with wide-open eyes. Had I been niggardly in my offer? I was thrusting a hand into my pocket for another copper, when the female, motioning to me to open my knapsack, dropped into it three dozen bananas, hesitated, and, assuming the air of one whose conscience is master of his cupidity, added a fourth cluster.

A furlong beyond, in a shaded elbow of the route, I turned to the task of lightening my burden. Small success would have crowned my efforts but for the arrival of a fellow-wayfarer. He was a man of fifty or sixty, blacker of skin than the Singhalese. A ten-yard strip of cloth, of a pattern in which two-inch stripes of white and brilliant red alternated, was wrapped round his waist and fell to his knees. Over his head was folded a sheet of orange hue. In either hand he carried a bundle, wrapped in cloth and tied with green vines. The upper half of his face was that of meekness personified; the rest was covered with such a beard as one might swear by, deeply streaked with gray.

Painfully he limped to the roadside, and squatted on his heels in the edge of the shade. By every token he was “on the road.”

“Have a bite, Jack?” I invited, pushing the fruit towards him.

A child’s voice squeaked within him. Gravely he rose to his feet to express his gratitude in every known posture of the human figure except that of standing on his head. That formality over, he fell to with a will—and both hands—so willingly in fact that, with never a 264pause nor a choke, he made way with twenty-eight bananas. Small wonder if he would have slept a while in the edge of the shade after so noteworthy a feat.

I rose to plod on, however, and he would not be left behind,—far behind, that is. Reiterated solicitations could not induce him to walk beside me; he pattered always two paces in the rear, too mindful of his own inferiority to march abreast with a sahib. From the gestures and gasps that my questions drew forth, I gathered that he was a yogi, a holy man—temporarily at least—bound on a pilgrimage to some shrine in the mountains. Two hours beyond our meeting, he halted at a branch road, knelt in the highway, and, ere I had divined his intention, imprinted a sonorous kiss on the top of one of my Nazarene slippers. Only my dexterity saved the other. He stood up slowly, almost sadly, as one grieved to part from good company—or bananas, shook the dust of the route from his beard, and, turning into the forest-throttled byway, was gone.

Night, striding over the mountains in the seven-league boots he wears in the tropics, playfully laid hand on me just at the entrance to the inn of the Sign of the Palm Tree. The landlord demanded no fee; the far-off howling of dogs lulled me to sleep. With dawn, I was off once more. Sunrise waved his greeting over the leafy crests of the Peradiniya Gardens, and her European residents, lolling in their church-bound ’rickshaws, stared at my entrance into the ancient city of Kandy.

Centuries ago, this mountain-girdled metropolis of the interior was the seat of the native king. To-day, the monarch of Ceylon is a bluff Englishman, housed within sight of the harbor of Colombo in a stone mansion more appropriate to Regent’s Row than to this land of swaying palm trees. The descendant of the native dynasty still holds his mock court in the capital of his forefathers, struggling against the encroachment of trousers and cravats and the wiles of courtiers stoop-shouldered with the wisdom of Oxford and Cambridge. But his duties have narrowed down to that of upholding the ancestral religion. For Kandy is a holy city. Buddhists, not merely of Ceylon but of India and the equatorial islands, make pilgrimage to its ancient shrine. Long before the coming of the Nazarene, tradition whispers, there was found in Burma one of the teeth of Gautama, the Enlightened One. How it came to be picked up thus far from the burial place of the Wandering Prince is as inexplicable as the discovery of splinters of the true Cross in strange and sundry regions far distant from Calvary. Be that as it may, a rich embassy from the king of Burma bore the relic to this egg-shaped island, and over it was erected the celebrated “Temple of the Tooth.”

The woman who sold me the bananas

The thatch roof at the roadside, under which I slept on the second night of my tramp to Kandy

265It is a time-worn structure of gray stone, simple in architecture from the view point of the Orient, set in a lotus grove on the shores of a crystal-clear lake. Mindful of the assaults that I had more than once provoked by entering a house of worship in the East, I contented myself with a circuit of its double, crenelated walls and a peep up the broad steps that led to the interior.

The keeper of the inn to which fate assigned me had two sons, who, thanks to the local mission-school, spoke fluent English. The older was a youth of fifteen. In the West he would have been rated a child. Here he was accepted as a man, to whom the problems of life had already taken form. Our conversation turned naturally to the subject of religion; naturally, because that subject is always first and foremost in the East. His religion sets for the Oriental his place in the community; it tells him what work he shall do all the days of his life, what his children and his children’s children shall do. According to the dictates of his faith he eats or refrains from eating, he seeks repose or watches out the night, he greets his fellow-beings or shuns them like dogs. Society is honey-combed with sects and creeds and castes. Every man wears some visible symbol of his religion, and before all else he scrutinizes the sign of caste of any stranger with whom he comes in contact. No secondary matter, nor something to be aired once a week, is a man’s religion in the East. It stalks at his heels as relentlessly as his shadow at noonday.

“I suppose,” I was saying, soon after the son of the innkeeper had broached this unavoidable topic, “I suppose that, as you have been educated in a Protestant school, you are a Christian?”

The youth eyed me for a moment with noncommittal gravity.

“May I know,” he asked in reply—to change the subject, I fancied—“whether you are a missionary?”

“On the contrary,” I protested, “I am a sailor.”

“Because,” he went on, “one must know to whom one speaks. I am a Christian always—when I am in school or talking to missionaries.

“There are many religions in the world, and surely that of the white man is a good religion. We learn much more that is useful in the schools of the Christians than in our own. But, my friend,” he leaned forward with the earnestness of one who is about to disclose a great secret, 266“there is but one true religion. He who is seeking the true religion—if you are seeking the true religion, you will find it right here in our island of Ceylon.”

It comes ever back to that. Hordes of missionaries may flock to the “heathen” lands, bulky reports anent the thousands who have been “gathered into the fold” may rouse the charity of the pious at home; yet in moments of sober earnest, when, in the words of Askins, “it comes to a show-down,” the convert beyond seas is a stout champion of the faith of his ancestors.

“Many people,” continued my informant, “nearly all the people of Ceylon who would learn from the Christians, who are hungry and poor, or who would have work, pretend the religion of the white man. For we receive more, the teachers are our better friends if we tell them we are Christians. And surely we do the right in saying so? We wish all to please the missionaries and we have no other way to do; for it gives them much pleasure to have many converts. Have you, I wonder,” he concluded, “visited our Temple of the Tooth.”

“Outside,” I answered. “Are sahibs allowed to enter?”

“Surely!” cried the youth, “The Buddhists have not exclusion. We are joyed to have white men in our temples. To-night, we are having a service very important in the Temple of the Tooth. With my uncle, who keeps the cloth-shop across the way, I shall go. Will you not forget your religion and honor us by coming?”

“Certainly,” I answered.

Two flaring torches threw fantastic shadows over the chattering throng of Singhalese that bore us bodily up the broad stairway to the sacred shrine. In the outer temple, at the top of the flight, surged a maudlin multitude around a dozen booths devoted to the sale of candles, bits of cardboard, and the white lotus-flower sacred to Gautama, the Buddha. Above the sharp-pitched roar of the faithful sounded the incessant rattle of copper coins. The smallest child, the most ragged mendicant, struggled against the human stream that would have swept him into the inner temple, until he had bought or begged a taper or flower to lay in the lap of his favorite statue. From every nook and corner, the effigy of the Enlightened One, defying in posture the laws of anatomy, surveyed the scene with sad serenity.

Singhalese infants are very sturdy during the first years.

The yogi who ate twenty-eight of the bananas at a sitting.

Of all the throng, I alone was shod. I dropped my slippers at the landing, and, half expecting a stern command to remove my socks, advanced into the brighter light of the interior. A whisper rose beside me and swelled in volume as it passed quickly from mouth to mouth:—“Sahib! 267sahib!” I had dreaded lest my coming should precipitate a riot, but Buddha himself, arriving thus unannounced, could not have won more boisterous welcome. The worshipers swept down upon me, shrieking their hospitality. Several thrust into my hands newly purchased blossoms, another—strange action, it seemed then, in a house of worship—pressed upon me a badly-rolled cigar of native make; from every side came candles and matches. At the tinkle of a far-off bell the natives fell back, leaving a lane for our passing. Two saffron-robed priests, smiling and salaaming at every step, advanced to meet me and led the way to a balcony overlooking the lake.

In the semi-darkness of a corner squatted, in scanty breechclouts and ample turbans, three natives,—low-caste coolies, no doubt, to whom fell the menial tasks within the temple inclosure; for before each sat what appeared to be a large basket. I took station near them with my attendant priests, and awaited “the service very important.”

Suddenly the cornered trio, each grasping in either hand a weapon reminiscent of a footpad’s billy, stretched their hands high above their heads and brought them down with a crash that would have startled a less phlegmatic sahib out of all sanity. What I had taken for baskets were tom-toms! Without losing a single beat, the drummers began, with the third or fourth stroke, to blow lustily on long pipes from which issued a plaintive wailing. I spoke no more with my interpreter. For the “musicians,” having pressed into service every soundwave lingering in the vicinity, monopolized them during the ensuing two hours. Two simple rules govern the production of Singhalese music: first, make as much noise as possible all the time; second, to heighten the effect, make more.

Puffing serenely at my stogie, I marched with the officiating monks, who had given me place of honor in their ranks, from one shrine to another. Behind us surged a murmuring, self-prostrating multitude. No one sat during the service, and there was nothing resembling a sermon. The priests addressed themselves only to the dreamy-eyed Buddhas, and craved boons or chanted their gratitude for former favors in a rising and falling monotone in which I caught, now and then, the rhythm and rhyme of poetry.

It was late when the service ended. The boiler-factory music ceased as suddenly as it had begun, the worshipers poured forth into the soft night, and I was left alone with my guides and a dozen priests.

“See,” whispered the intermittent Christian. “You are honored. The head man of the temple comes.”

268An aged friar, emerging from an inner shrine, drew near slowly. In outward appearance, he was an exact replica of the surrounding priests. A brilliant yellow robe was his only garment. His head was shaven; his arms, right shoulder and feet, bare.

Having joined the group, he studied me a moment in silence, then addressed me in the native tongue.

“He is asking,” explained my interpreter, “if you are liking to see the sacred tooth?”

I bowed my thanks. The high priest led the way to the innermost shrine of the temple, a chamber in arrangement not unlike the holy sepulchre in the church of that name in Jerusalem. In the center of the vault he halted, and, imitated in every movement by the attendant priests and my guide, fell on his knees, and, muttering a prayer each time, touched his forehead to the pavement thrice.

Erect once more, he drew from the tabernacle before him a gold casket of the size of a ditty-box. From it he took a second, a bit smaller, and handed the first to one of his companions. From the second he drew a third, from the third a fourth. The process was repeated until nearly every subordinate priest held a coffer, some fantastically wrought, some inlaid with precious stones. With the opening of every third box all those not already burdened fell on their knees and repeated their first genuflections. There appeared at last the innermost receptacle, not over an inch each way, and set with diamonds and rubies. Its sanctity required more than the usual number of prostrations and murmured incantations. Carefully the superior opened it, and disclosed to view a tooth, yellow with age, which, assuredly, never grew in any human mouth. Each of the party admired the molar in turn, but even the high priest took care not to touch it. The fitting together of the box of boxes required as much mummery as its disintegration.

The ceremony was ended at last, the tabernacle locked, and we passed on to inspect other places of interest. Among them was the temple library, famous throughout the island. It contained four books. Two of these—and they were thumb-worn—were in English,—recent works of Theosophists. For the priests of Buddha, far from being the ignorant and superstitious creatures of Western fancy, are often liberal-minded students of every phase of the world’s religions. Printed volumes, however, did not constitute the real library. On the shelves around the walls were thousands of metal tablets, two feet long, a fourth as wide, and an inch thick, covered on both sides with the hieroglyphics of Ceylon. When I had handled several of these, and heard a priest read one in a mournful, sing-song chant, like the falling of water at a distance, I acknowledged myself content and turned with my guides toward the door.

Central Ceylon. Making roof-tiles. The sun is the only kiln

The priests of the “Temple of the Tooth” in Kandy, who were my guides during my stay in the city

269The high priest followed us into the outer temple. During all the evening he had addressed me only through an interpreter. As I paused to pick up my slippers, however, he salaamed gravely and spoke once more, this time, to my utter amazement, in faultless English.

“White men,” ran his speech, “often join the true religion. There are many who are priests of Buddha in Burma, and some in Ceylon. They are much honored.”

“You see,” explained the son of the innkeeper, as we wended our way through the silent bazaars, “he did not wish that you should at first know that he speaks English. He has done you great honor by asking you to become a priest; for so he meant. But often come white men to the temple and mock all that is brought to see, making, many times, very cruel jokes, and he who is close to Buddha waited to see. You have not done so. Therefore are you honored.”

We mounted to the second story of the inn and, stripped naked, lay down on our charpoys—native beds consisting of a strip of canvas stretched on a frame. But it was long before I fell asleep; for the youth, seeing it his clear duty, harangued me long and ungrammatically from the neighboring darkness on the virtues of the “true religion.”

Somehow the impression gained ground rapidly among the residents of Kandy that the white man who had attended the Sunday evening service contemplated joining the yellow-robed ascetics at the Temple of the Tooth. Just where the rumor had its birth I know not. Belike the mere fact that I had turned none of the rites to jest had won me favor. Or was it that my garb marked me as one more likely to attain Nirvana than the bestarched Europeans whose levity so grieved him who was “close to Buddha”?

At any rate, the rumor grew like the cornstalk in Kansas. With the morning sun came pious shopkeepers to fawn upon me. Before I had breakfasted, two temple priests, their newly-shaven heads and faces shining under their brightly-colored parasols like polished brass, called at the inn and invited me to a stroll through the market place. Never an excursion did I make in Kandy or its environs without at least a pair of saffron-garbed companions. That I should find a ready welcome in the temple a hundred natives assured me, the priests by veiled hints, the laymen more openly. They were moved, perhaps, by 270a no more altruistic motive than a desire to have on exhibition in the local monastery a white priest. But to their credit be it said that no suggestion of a material inducement crept into their arguments.

“Buddhism,” ran their plea, “is the true religion. The mere fact that it has many more followers than any other religion proves that, does it not? And the doctrine of the Enlightened One embraces every anomaly of humanity—even white men. Only those who accept it can hope for future happiness. Even if you are not yet convinced of its truth, why not accept it now and run no risk of future perdition?”

Surely, the most conscientious of Christian missionaries never attempted proselytism less underhandedly.

My escape from Kandy savored of strategy, but I reached the station unchallenged, and, exchanging my last two rupees for a ticket to Colombo, established myself in a third-class compartment. It was already occupied by a native couple more gifted with offspring than attire. Barely had I settled down to study Singhalese domestic life at close range, however, when a mighty uproar burst out near at hand. A half-breed in the uniform of a guard raced across the platform, and, thrusting his head into the compartment, poured forth on my apparently unoffending companions a torrent of incomprehensible words. Had he denounced me as a victim of the plague? Plainly the family was greatly frightened. The father sprang wildly to his feet and attempted to clutch a half-dozen unwieldy bundles in a painfully inadequate number of hands. The wife, no less terrified, raked together from floor and benches as many naked urchins, in assorted sizes, but entangled, in her haste, the legs of her lord and master, and sent him sprawling among his howling descendants. With a sizzling oath, the trainman snatched open the door and, springing inside, tumbled baggage, infants, and parents unceremoniously out upon the platform. Still bellowing, he drove the trembling wretches to another compartment; a party of well-dressed natives took possession of the recently vacated benches; and we were off.

That self-congratulatory attitude common to traveling salesmen the world over betrayed the caste of my new companions. All of them spoke English, and, eager to air their accomplishments, lost no time in engaging me in conversation. Marvelous was the information and the variations of my mother tongue that assailed me from all sides. It is with difficulty that one refrains from “stuffing” these vainglorious, yet childish fellows and it was evident that some other European 271had already yielded to the temptation. But my astonishment at the treatment of the exiled family had by no means subsided.

“Will some of you chaps tell me,” I interrupted, “why the guard ordered those other natives out of here, and then let you in?”

The drummers glared at me a moment in silence, looked at each other, and turned to stare out of the windows. Most grossly, evidently, had I insulted them. But even an insult cannot keep an Oriental long silent. The travelers fidgeted in their seats, nudged each other, and focused their stare once more upon me.

“Know you, sir,” said the most portly of the group, with severe countenance, “know you that those were base coolies, who are not allowed to ride in the same compartment with white gentlemen. We,” and the brass buttons of his embroidered jacket struggled to perform their office, “are high-caste Singhalese, sir. Therefore may we ride with sahibs.”