Kim

an English guide would have talked of the Mutiny.

'Now we will go to the school,' said Kim at last. The great old school

of St Xavier's in Partibus, block on block of low white buildings,

stands in vast grounds over against the Gumti River, at some distance

from the city.

'What like of folk are they within?' said Kim.

'Young Sahibs--all devils. But to speak truth, and I drive many of

them to and fro from the railway station, I have never seen one that

had in him the making of a more perfect devil than thou--this young

Sahib whom I am now driving.'

Naturally, for he was never trained to consider them in any way

improper, Kim had passed the time of day with one or two frivolous

ladies at upper windows in a certain street, and naturally, in the

exchange of compliments, had acquitted himself well. He was about to

acknowledge the driver's last insolence, when his eye--it was growing

dusk--caught a figure sitting by one of the white plaster gate-pillars

in the long sweep of wall.

'Stop!' he cried. 'Stay here. I do not go to the school at once.'

'But what is to pay me for this coming and re-coming?' said the driver

petulantly. 'Is the boy mad? Last time it was a dancing-girl. This

time it is a priest.'

Kim was in the road headlong, patting the dusty feet beneath the dirty

yellow robe.

'I have waited here a day and a half,' the lama's level voice began.

'Nay, I had a disciple with me. He that was my friend at the Temple of

the Tirthankars gave me a guide for this journey. I came from Benares

in the te-rain, when thy letter was given me. Yes, I am well fed. I

need nothing.'

'But why didst thou not stay with the Kulu woman, O Holy One? In what

way didst thou get to Benares? My heart has been heavy since we

parted.'

'The woman wearied me by constant flux of talk and requiring charms for

children. I separated myself from that company, permitting her to

acquire merit by gifts. She is at least a woman of open hands, and I

made a promise to return to her house if need arose. Then, perceiving

myself alone in this great and terrible world, I bethought me of the

te-rain to Benares, where I knew one abode in the Tirthankars' Temple

who was a Seeker, even as I.'

'Ah! Thy River,' said Kim. 'I had forgotten the River.'

'So soon, my chela? I have never forgotten it. But when I had left

thee it seemed better that I should go to the Temple and take counsel,

for, look you, India is very large, and it may be that wise men before

us, some two or three, have left a record of the place of our River.

There is debate in the Temple of the Tirthankars on this matter; some

saying one thing, and some another. They are courteous folk.'

'So be it; but what dost thou do now?'

'I acquire merit in that I help thee, my chela, to wisdom. The priest

of that body of men who serve the Red Bull wrote me that all should be

as I desired for thee. I sent the money to suffice for one year, and

then I came, as thou seest me, to watch for thee going up into the

Gates of Learning. A day and a half have I waited, not because I was

led by any affection towards thee--that is no part of the Way--but, as

they said at the Tirthankars' Temple, because, money having been paid

for learning, it was right that I should oversee the end of the matter.

They resolved my doubts most clearly. I had a fear that, perhaps, I

came because I wished to see thee--misguided by the Red Mist of

affection. It is not so ... Moreover, I am troubled by a dream.'

'But surely, Holy One, thou hast not forgotten the Road and all that

befell on it. Surely it was a little to see me that thou didst come?'

'The horses are cold, and it is past their feeding-time,' whined the

driver.

'Go to Jehannum and abide there with thy reputationless aunt!' Kim

snarled over his shoulder. 'I am all alone in this land; I know not

where I go nor what shall befall me. My heart was in that letter I

sent thee. Except for Mahbub Ali, and he is a Pathan, I have no friend

save thee, Holy One. Do not altogether go away.'

'I have considered that also,' the lama replied, in a shaking voice.

'It is manifest that from time to time I shall acquire merit if before

that I have not found my River--by assuring myself that thy feet are

set on wisdom. What they will teach thee I do not know, but the priest

wrote me that no son of a Sahib in all India will be better taught than

thou. So from time to time, therefore, I will come again. Maybe thou

wilt be such a Sahib as he who gave me these spectacles'--the lama

wiped them elaborately--'in the Wonder House at Lahore. That is my

hope, for he was a Fountain of Wisdom--wiser than many abbots ....

Again, maybe thou wilt forget me and our meetings.'

'If I eat thy bread,' cried Kim passionately, 'how shall I ever forget

thee?'

'No--no.' He put the boy aside. 'I must go back to Benares. From

time to time, now that I know the customs of letter-writers in this

land, I will send thee a letter, and from time to time I will come and

see thee.'

'But whither shall I send my letters?' wailed Kim, clutching at the

robe, all forgetful that he was a Sahib.

'To the Temple of the Tirthankars at Benares. That is the place I have

chosen till I find my River. Do not weep; for, look you, all Desire is

Illusion and a new binding upon the Wheel. Go up to the Gates of

Learning. Let me see thee go ... Dost thou love me? Then go, or my

heart cracks ... I will come again. Surely I will come again.

The lama watched the ticca-gharri rumble into the compound, and strode

off, snuffing between each long stride.

'The Gates of Learning' shut with a clang.

The country born and bred boy has his own manners and customs, which do

not resemble those of any other land; and his teachers approach him by

roads which an English master would not understand. Therefore, you

would scarcely be interested in Kim's experiences as a St Xavier's boy

among two or three hundred precocious youths, most of whom had never

seen the sea. He suffered the usual penalties for breaking out of

bounds when there was cholera in the city. This was before he had

learned to write fair English, and so was obliged to find a bazar

letter-writer. He was, of course, indicted for smoking and for the use

of abuse more full-flavoured than even St Xavier's had ever heard. He

learned to wash himself with the Levitical scrupulosity of the

native-born, who in his heart considers the Englishman rather dirty.

He played the usual tricks on the patient coolies pulling the punkahs

in the sleeping-rooms where the boys threshed through the hot nights

telling tales till the dawn; and quietly he measured himself against

his self-reliant mates.

They were sons of subordinate officials in the Railway, Telegraph, and

Canal Services; of warrant-officers, sometimes retired and sometimes

acting as commanders-in-chief to a feudatory Rajah's army; of captains

of the Indian Marine Government pensioners, planters, Presidency

shopkeepers, and missionaries. A few were cadets of the old Eurasian

houses that have taken strong root in Dhurrumtollah--Pereiras, De

Souzas, and D'Silvas. Their parents could well have educated them in

England, but they loved the school that had served their own youth, and

generation followed sallow-hued generation at St Xavier's. Their homes

ranged from Howrah of the railway people to abandoned cantonments like

Monghyr and Chunar; lost tea-gardens Shillong-way; villages where their