The Charmed Life | Page 5

and force
it to disgorge. Take a chance--say to yourself that nothing can happen
to you!"
"Pretty little theory," I interrupted.
"Theory--the devil!" he cried. "It's the truth! Don't take me as an
example if you don't want to. Take people who have done real things.
Take you own adored George Washington--take the Duke of
Wellington, take Moltke, Ghengiz Khan, U. S. Grant, Attila, Tamerlane,
Joffre, or Theodore Roosevelt! They lived through to the end until they
had achieved what they wanted to achieve. They made their own fate.
The bullet was not run, the sword was not forged which could kill
these-- for they had willed to live, willed to succeed! They--" a little
superstitious hush came into his voice, "they bore the charmed life--"
He poured himself another stiff drink, gulped it down, and pointed
through the open window, out at the streets of Calcutta, which lay at
our feet, bathed in moonlight.
I looked, and the sight of it, the scent of it, the strange, inexpressible
feel of it crept through me--yes, that's it--it crept through me. You
know this town--this Calcutta--this melting pot of all India--and
remember, that brick-faced reprobate of a Roos-Keppel had been
telling me tales of it--grim, fantastic, true tales--and here they were at
my feet, the witnesses and actors, the heroes and villains in his
tales--hurrying along the street in a never-ending procession--a vast
panorama of Asia's uncounted races. There were men from Bengal,
black, ungainly, slightly Hebraic shuffling along on their eternal,
sissified patent leather pumps. There were men some bearded
Rajputs--weaponless, that being the law of Calcutta, but carrying about
them somehow the scent of naked steel--and next to them their blood
enemies--fur-capped, wide shouldered, sneering Afghans, with
screaming voices, brushing through the crowds like the bullies they

are--doubtless dreaming of loot and rapine and murder. There were
furtive Madrases--"monkey men" we call them here--and a few
red-faced duffle-clad hillmen from the North--thin, stunted desertmen
from Bikaneer, with their lean jaws bandaged after the manner of the
land, and Sikhs and Chinamen and Eurasians and what-not.
And, directly below our window, there was a Brahman priest, a slow,
fanatic fire in his eyes-- the light from out room caught in them--a caste
mark of diagonal stripes of white and black on his forehead, chanting in
Sanskrit the praises of the hero and demi-god Gandharbasena--
". . . and thus did the great hero persuade the
king of Dhara to give to him in marriage his
daughter. Ho! Let all men listen to the Jataka for
he was the son of Indra...."
Roos-Keppel's thick, alcoholic voice sounded at my elbow. "India," he
hiccuped, "and the horror, the beauty, the wonder, the cruelty, the mad
color and scent which is India!" He clutched my arm. "My game's
played down to the last rubber, Denton, and my score is nearly settled--
but you--why. you've got a stack of chips--you are strong and
young--your eyes are clear-- and--Gad, I wish I had your chance! I'd
take this town by the throat--I'd jump into its damned mazes, regardless
of consequences. Heavens, man, can't you feel it beckon and wink and
smile--and leer? Listen--" momentarily he was silent, and, from the
street came a confused mass of sounds--voices in many languages,
rising, then decreasing, the shouts of the street-vendors, the
tinkle-tinkle of a woman's glass bracelet--the sounds leaped up like gay
fragments of some mocking tunes, again like the tragic chorus of some
world--old, world--sad rune. "India!" he continued, "can you resist the
call of it?"
It was a psychological moment. Yes--it was that often misquoted,
decidedly overworked psychological moment--the brandy and
champagne fumes were working in my brain-- and something tugged at

my soul--if I had wings to fly from the window, to launch myself
across the purple haze of the town, to alight on the flat roofs and look
into the houses, the lives, the gaieties, the mysteries, the sorrows of this
colorful, turbaned throng. And then everything I was--racially,
traditionally, you understand--the Back Bay of Boston; the old lawyer,
my preordained place on the bench, the antimacassars, Phi Beta Kappa,
and all the rest of it, made a last rally in my defense.
"But," I said and I guess my voice was thin, apologetic--just as if
Roos-Keppel was the driving master of my destinies, "this is said to be
a dangerous place--away from the beaten paths-- so what is the use
of--"
"The use? The use?" he cut in, with a bellow of laughter, and then,
suddenly, his voice was low and quiet "Why, just because it's
dangerous, that; why you should try your chance--and your life." He
pointed again through the window, east, where, on the horizon, a
deep-gray smudge lay across the bent of glimmer and glitter. "See that
patch of darkness?" he