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And then, one day, quite suddenly, he had disappeared. Evidently he had decided to leave Calcutta to its ignorance and had returned to Krishnapur to take up his duties. For a time nothing more was heard of him.
The cemetery where Fleury’s mother was buried is still to be seen in Calcutta, in Park Street, a short distance from the maidan. Nowadays it is an astonishing and lonely place, untended and overgrown. Many of the more ambitious Victorian tombs tilt unevenly, others have collapsed or have been deliberately smashed. Very often, too, the lead letters have been picked out of the inscriptions, a small tax imposed by the living on the dead. Near the gate a couple of destitute families huddle uneasily in huts they have built of sticks and rags; no wonder they are so ill at ease, for even to a Christian the atmosphere here is ominous.
In Fleury’s day, however, the grass was cut and the graves well cared for. Besides, as you might expect, he was fond of graveyards; he enjoyed brooding in them and letting his heart respond to the abbreviated biographies he found engraved in their stones … so eloquent, so succinct! All the same, once he had spent an hour or two pondering by his mother’s grave he decided to call it a day because, after all, one does not want to overdo the lurking in graveyards.
This decision was not a very sudden one. From the age of sixteen when he had first become interested in books, much to the distress of his father, he had paid little heed to physical and sporting matters. He had been of a melancholy and listless cast of mind, the victim of the beauty and sadness of the universe. In the course of the last two or three years, however, he had noticed that his sombre and tubercular ma
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For a day or two Fleury became quite active. He had his book about the advance of civilization in India to consider and this was one reason why he had taken an interest in the behaviour of the Collector. He asked a great number of questions and even bought a notebook to record pertinent information.
“Why, if the Indian people are happier under our rule,” he asked a Treasury official, “do they not emigrate from those native states like Hyderabad which are so dreadfully misgoverned and come and live in British India?”
“The apathy of the native is well known,” replied the official stiffly. “He is not enterprising.” Fleury wrote down “apathy” in a flowery hand and then, after a moment’s hesitation, added “not enterprising”. Unfortunately, this burst of energy did not survive the leaden facts which he was given to illustrate the Company’s beneficial effect. When told of the spectacular increases in Customs, Opium and Salt revenues he fell into a stupor and not long after was to be seen stretched listlessly on a sofa once more, deep in a book of poems.
Dr Dunstaple had been prevailed upon by Louise and by Mrs Dunstaple to let them delay their departure for Krishnapur until the last ball of the cold season had been held. Louise could then be bridesmaid at the wedding of a friend that very same evening in St Paul’s Cathedral. The Doctor sighed. Another few lucky pigs had escaped his spear. He was not fond of dancing.
In the town hall the temperature was well over ninety degrees, the high windows stood open, and punkahs flapped like wounded birds above the dancers. Although Fleury could not imagine how one could dance in such a heat Louise had filled her card in no time at all; by the time he came to make an application to his dismay there remained nothing but the galloppe. He passed the back of his hand across his brow and it came away glistening, as if brushed with olive oil. Nor could the ladies look cool; no amount of rice powder could dull the glint of their features, no amount of padding could prevent damp stains from spreading at their armpits.
Pointing out one marvel after another, the musicians, the magnificently livened servants, the delightful buffet amid the flowers and chandeliers and potted palms, the Doctor strongly recommended Fleury not to ignore this elegant scene when it came to choosing examples of civilized behaviour for his book. This was civilization of a sort, it was true, agreed Fleury, but somehow he believed that what was required was a completely different aspect of it … its spiritual, its mystical side, the side of the heart! “Civilization as it is now denatures man. Think of the mills and the furnaces … Besides, Doctor, everyone I talk to in Calcutta about my book tells me to look at this or that … a canal that has been dug, or some cruel practice like infanticide or suttee which has been stopped… And these are certainly improvements of course, but they are only symptoms, as it were, of what should be a great, beneficial disease… The trouble is, you see, that although the symptoms are there, the disease itself is missing!”
“A beneficial disease!” thought the Doctor, glancing with dismay at Fleury’s flushed countenance.
“Hm, that’s all very well but … Here, have one of these.” The Doctor proffered Fleury his cigar-case, adding, by way of a subtle compliment: “I’m afraid they’re not as good as Lord Ca
Perplexed by this reference to Lord Ca
The Doctor had taken Fleury by the elbow and was guiding him towards the buffet. And where was Mrs Lang this evening? Fleury explained that Miriam had refused to come with him, not because she was still in mourning but because she considered it too hot to dance. Miriam had a mind of her own, he grumbled.
“What a sensible young woman!” cried the Doctor enviously, wishing that his own ladies had minds of their own which told them when it was too hot to dance.