The Charmed Life | Page 5

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 asked, with something of a challenge in his accents which were getting more and more unsteady, " that's the Colootallah Section--cha--charming little bunch of real estate--worst in the world, not even excepting Aden, Naples and all the wickedness and crimes of Port Said. Only two men are safe there, and they aren't quite safe," he laughed, and to my quickly interjected question, he replied, "Why, a fakir--holy man, you know--and a member of the filthy