TWO ORIENTAL nations have come powerfully under the influence of Western ideas and felt the impact of European civilization during the nineteenth century, India and Japan. The results have been very different. The smaller nation has become one of the mightiest Powers in the modern world, the larger in spite of far greater potential strength, a more original culture, a more ancient and splendid past and a far higher mission in the world, remains a weak, distracted, subject and famine-stricken people, politically, economically, morally and intellectually dependent on the foreigner and unable to realise its great possibilities. It is commonly said that this is because Japan has assimilated Western Science and organization and even in many respects excelled its teachers; India has failed in this all-important task of assimilation. If we go a step farther back and insist on asking why this is so, we shall be told it is because Japan has "reformed" herself and got rid of ideas and institutions unsuited to modern times; while India clings obstinately to so much that is outworn and effete. Even if we waive aside the question whether the old Indian ideals are unfit to survive or whether all our institutions are really bad in themselves or unadaptable to modern conditions, still the explanation itself has to be explained. Why has Japan so admirably transformed herself? Why has the attempt at transformation in India been a failure? The solution of problems of this kind has to be sought not in abstractions, not in machinery, but in men. It is the spirit in man which moulds his fate; it is the spirit of a nation which determines its history.
Describe the type of human character which prevails in a nation during a given period of its life under given conditions, and it is possible to predict in outline what the general history of the nation must be during that period. In Japan the dominant Japanese type had been moulded by the shaping processes of an admirable culture and when the Western impact came, Japan remained faithful to her ancient spirit; she merely took over certain forms of European
social and political organization necessary to complete her culture under modern conditions and poured into these forms the old potent dynamic spirit of Japan, the spirit of the Samurai. It is the Samurai type which has been dominant in that country during the nineteenth century. In India the mass of the nation has remained dormant; European culture has had upon it a powerful disintegrating and destructive influence, but has been powerless to reconstruct or revivify. But in the upper strata a new type has been evolved to serve the necessities and interests of the foreign rulers, a type which is not Indian, but foreign — and in almost all our social, political, educational, literary and religious activities the spirit of this new and foreign graft has predominated and determined the extent and quality of our progress. This type is the bourgeois. In India, the bourgeois, in Japan, the Samurai; in this single difference is comprised the whole contrasted histories of the two nations during the nineteenth century.
What is the bourgeois? For the word is unknown in India, though the thing is so prominent. The bourgeois is the average contented middle class citizen who is in all countries much the same in his fundamental character and habits of thought, in spite of pronounced racial differences in temperament and self-expression. He is a man of facile sentiments and skin-deep personality; generally "enlightened" but not inconveniently illuminated. In love with his life, his ease and above all things his comforts, he prescribes the secure maintenance of these precious possessions as the first indispensable condition of all action in politics and society; whatever tends to disturb or destroy them, he condemns as foolish, harebrained, dangerous or fanatical, according to the degree of its intensity and is ready to repress by any means in his power. In the conduct of public movements he has an exaggerated worship for external order, moderation and decorum and hates over-earnestness and over-strenuousness. Not that he objects to plenty of mild and innocuous excitement; but it must be innocuous and calculated not to have a disturbing effect on the things he most cherishes. He has ideals and likes to talk of justice, liberty, reform, enlightenment and all similar abstractions; he likes too to see them reigning and progressing around him decorously and with their proper limitations. He wishes to have
them maintained, if they already exist, but in moderation and with moderation; if they do not exist, the craving for them should be, in his opinion, a lively but still well-regulated fire, not permitted to interfere with the safety, comfort and decorum of life; the means adopted towards acquiring them should be also moderate and decorous and, as far as may be, safe and comfortable. An occasional sacrifice of money, leisure and other precious things for their sake, he is always ready to meet; he has a keen zest for the reputation such sacrifices bring him and still more for the comfortable sense of personal righteousness which they foster. The bourgeois is the man of good sense and enlightenment, the man of moderation, the man of peace and orderliness, the man in every way "respectable", who is the mainstay of all well-ordered societies. As a private man he is respectable; that is to say, his character is generally good, and when his character is not, his reputation is; he is all decorous in his virtues, decent in the indulgence of his vices or at least in their concealment, often absolutely honest, almost always as honest as an enlightened self-interest will permit. His purse is well filled or at any rate not indecently empty; he is a good earner, a conscientious worker, a thoroughly safe and reliable citizen. Of course there are exceptions, instances of successful and respected blackguardism, but these are the small minority. But this admirable creature has his defects and limitations. For great adventures, tremendous enterprises, lofty achievements, the storm and stress of mighty and eventful periods in national activity, he is unfit. These things are for the heroes, the martyrs, the criminals, the enthusiasts, the degenerates, geniuses, the men of exaggerated virtue, exaggerated ability, exaggerated ideas. He enjoys the fruit of their work when it is done, but while it is doing, he opposes and hinders more often than helps. For he looks on great ideals as dreams and on vehement enthusiasms as harebrained folly; he distrusts everything new and disturbing, everything that has not been done before or is not sanctioned by success and the accomplished fact: revolt is to him a madness and revolution a nightmare. Fiery self-annihilating enthusiasm, noble fanaticism, relentless and heroic pursuit of an object, the original brain that brings what is distant and ungrasped into the boundaries of reality, the dynamic Will and genius which makes the impossible possible; these things he understands as matters of history and honours them
in the famous dead or in those who have succeeded; but in living and yet striving men they inspire him with distrust and repulsion. He will tell you that these things are not to be found in the present generation; but if confronted with the living originator, he will condemn him as a learned idiot; face to face with the living hero, he will decry him as a dangerous madman, — unless and until he sees on the head of either the crown of success and assured reputation.
Such a type may give stability to a society; it cannot reform or revolutionize it. Such a type may make the politics of a nation safe, decorous and reputable. It cannot make that nation great or free.
(Such is the bourgeois and it was the bourgeois of the mildest and most inefficient type who reigned in India in the nineteenth century. It was the bourgeois which University education tended, perhaps sought to evolve; it was the bourgeois which the political and social conditions moulded and brought to the front. In India the bourgeois; in Japan the Samurai, that one enormous difference explains the difference in the histories of the two countries during the second half of the last century.)1
He values also the things of the mind in a leisurely comfortable way as adorning and setting off his enlightened ease and competence. A little art, a little poetry, a little religion, a little scholarship, a little philosophy, all these are excellent ingredients in life, and give an air of decorous refinement to his surroundings. They must not be carried too far or interfere with the great object of life which is to earn money, clothe and feed one's family, educate one's sons to the high pitch of the B.A. degree or the respectable eminence of the M.A., marry one's daughters decently, rank high in service or the professions, stand well in the eye of general opinion and live and die decorously, creditably and respectably. Anything disturbing to these high duties, anything exaggerated, intense, unusual is not palatable to the bourgeois. He shrugs his shoulders over it and brushes it aside with the one word "mad" or eccentric.
It is undoubtedly this type which has dominated us in the nineteenth century. Of course the really great names, those that will live in history as creators and originators are men who went
1 This paragraph is within parenthesis in the original manuscript.
beyond this type; either they belonged to, but exceeded it or they departed from it. But the average, the determining type was the bourgeois. In Senate and Syndicate, in Legislative Council and District Board or Municipal Corporation, in Congress and Conference, in the services and professions, even in literature and scholarship, even in religion he was everywhere with his well-regulated mind, his unambitious ideals, his snug little corner of culture, his "education" and "enlightenment", his comfortable patriotism, his comfortable enlightenment, his easy solution of the old problem how to serve both God and Mammon, yet offend neither, his self-satisfaction, his decorous honesty, his smug respectability. Society was made after his model, politics moulded in his image, education confined within his limits, literature and religion stamped with the seal of the bourgeois.
The bourgeois as a distinct and well-evolved entity is an entirely modern product in India, he is the creation of British policy, English education, Western civilization. Ancient India, mediaeval India were not a favourable soil for his growth. The spirit of ancient India was aristocratic; its thought and life moulded in the cast of a high and proud nobility, an extreme and lofty strenuousness. The very best in thought, the very best in action, the very best in character, the very best in literature and art, the very best in religion and all the world well lost if only this very best might be attained, such was the spirit of ancient India. The Brahmin who devoted himself to poverty and crushed down every desire in the wholehearted pursuit of knowledge and religious self-discipline; the Kshatriya who, hurling his life joyously into the shock of chivalrous battle, held life, wife, children, possessions, ease, happiness as mere dust in the balance compared with honour and the Kshatriya dharma, the preservation of self-respect, the protection of the weak, the noble fulfilment of princely duty; the Vaishya, who toiling all his life to amass riches, poured them out as soon as amassed in self-forgetting philanthropy, holding himself the mere steward and not the possessor of his wealth; the Shudra who gave himself up loyally to humble service, faithfully devoting his life to his dharma, however low, in preference to self-advancement and ambition; these were the social ideals of the age.
The imagination of the Indian tended as has been well said to the grand and enormous in thought and morals. The great formative
images of legend and literature to the likeness with which his childhood was encouraged to develop and which his manhood most cherished were of an extreme and lofty type. He saw Harischandra give up all that life held precious and dear rather than that his lips should utter a lie or his plighted word be broken. He saw Prahlada buried under mountains, whelmed in the seas, tortured by the poison of a thousand venomous serpents, yet calmly true to his faith. He saw Buddha give up his royal state, wealth, luxury, wife, child and parents so that mankind might be saved. He saw Shivi hew the flesh from his own limbs to save one small dove from the pursuing falcon, Kama tear his own body with a smile for the joy of making a gift, Duryodhan refuse to yield one inch of earth without noble resistance and warlike struggle. He saw Sita face exile, hardship, privation and danger in the eagerness of wifely love and duty, Savitri rescue by her devotion her husband back from the visible grip of death. These were the classical Indian types. These were the ideals into the mould of which the minds of men and women were trained to grow. The sense-conquering thought of the philosopher, the magnificent achievements of the hero, the stupendous renunciations of the Sannyasin, the unbounded liberality of the man of wealth, everything was exaggeration, extreme, filled with an epic inspiration, a world-defying enthusiasm. The bourgeois had no real chance of evolution, though he existed in the rough of course, as in all civilized societies he must exist: on such a height with so rare an atmosphere, he could not grow: where such tempests of self-devotion blew habitually, his warm comfortable personality could not expand.
The conditions of mediaeval India suited him little better, — the continual clash of arms, the unceasing stir and splendour and strenuousness of life, the fierceness of the struggle and the magnificence of the achievement, the ceaseless tearing down and building up which resulted from Mahomedan irruption and the action and reaction of foreign and indigenous forces, formed surroundings too restless and too flamboyant. Life under the Moguls was splendid, rich and luxurious, but it was not safe and comfortable. Magnificent possibilities were open to all men whatever their birth or station, but magnificent abilities and an unshaken nerve and courage were needed to grasp them or to keep what had been grasped. There
was no demand for the safe and easy virtues of the bourgeois. In the times of stress and anarchy which accompanied the disintegration of mediaeval India, the conditions were yet more unfavourable: character and morals shared in the general disintegration, but ability and courage were even more in demand than before and for the bourgeois there was no place vacant. (The men who figured in the revolutions in Bengal, the Deccan, the Punjab and the North were often, like their European allies and antagonists, men of evil character, self-seeking, unscrupulous and Machiavellian, but they were at least men.)1 It was not till mediaeval India breathed its last in the convulsions of 1857 that entirely new conditions reigned and an entirely new culture prevailed with an undisputed sway wholly favourable to the rapid development of the bourgeois type and wholly discouraging to the development of any other.
The first essential condition of his development was secured him by the Pax Britannica; a fairly perfect security for his person, property and pursuits guaranteed him by the efforts of others and for which he himself has no responsibility, is to the bourgeois type as the moisture and warmth of the hothouse is to the orchid.2 Ease, comfort and security are the very breath of his nostrils. But for that ease, comfort and security he must not have to struggle, to stand on the alert or to train himself to fight for its safety if threatened, its recovery if lost. For if any such call is made on him, he is obliged to develop the virtues and defects of the Kshatriya, the soldier and ruler, and the purity of his own type suffers. The second condition for his full growth was secured to him in a society in which his peculiar qualities were honoured and prized above all other qualities and received the highest substantial rewards of life, social respect, government honours, pecuniary prosperity, titles, place, distinction. Indian society under British rule has been the most favourable of all soils
1 This sentence is within parentheses in the original.
2 The three paragraphs below seem to he largely a revision of the two paragraphs of text beginning with this sentence.
This emergence and domination of the bourgeois was a rapid transformation, not unparallelled in history, for something of the same kind seems to have happened in the provinces of the Roman Empire under the Caesars, but astonishing in a people whose past history and temperament had been so supremely unPhilistine. That a society which had only a few decades ago prostrated itself before the naked
for forcing the growth of the bourgeois. The British rule had no call for and would not indeed tolerate the statesman and the soldier; the qualities of fearless courage, robust manhood, splendid daring, large initiative, great aspiration, comprehensive foresight, the princely spirit, the eagle mood, the lion's heart which, whatever else might fail and perish, remained always alive in India since first the Aryan set foot on Indian soil thousands of years ago were no longer needed; they were suppressed as a danger to the new state of things or died a natural death for sheer want of light, room and air. And if there was no room at all for the Kshatriya, there was hardly any for the man of pure learning, the sage, the Sannyasin. British rule had no need for scholars, it wanted clerks; the new dispensation of Providence asked not for thinkers who would teach the people to pierce through shows to the truth, to embrace great principles and live and die for them, but men who would be satisfied with fine and shallow surfaces and live and die content with personal ease and prosperity; English education taught our society to look on self-denial and renunciation as idleness, hypocrisy or insanity and pointed it to the successful trader or professional man as the crown of humanity. The Mahabharata and Ramayana were forgotten and replaced by Smiles" Self Help. Neither was there much call for the highest type of the Vaishya. British interests in the country did not require us to produce captains of industry but small shopkeepers and big middlemen who would help British trade to conquer and keep India. Thus all the great types which are nurtured on war, politics, thought, spirituality, activity and enterprise, the outgrowths of a vigorous and healthy national existence, the high fruits of humanity who are the very
ascetic and the penniless Brahmin, should now wear the monied man and the official as the tilak on its forehead, was indeed a marvellous revolution. But given the new conditions, nothing else could have happened. British rule necessitated the growth of the bourgeois, British policy fostered it and the plant grew so swiftly because a forcing-house had been created for his rapid cultivation and the soil was kept suitably shallow and the air made warm and humid for his needs. It was as in the ancient world when the nations accepted peace, civilisation and a common language at the cost of national decay, the death of their manhood and final extinction or age-long slavery. The Pax Britannica was his parent and an easy servitude nursed him into maturity.
energy of life to a community, were discouraged and tended to disappear and in their place there was an enormous demand for the bourgeois qualities. The safe, respectable man, satisfied with ease and not ambitions of command, content with contemporary repute and not hankering after immortality, the superficial man who. unable to think profoundly, could yet pose among his peers as intellectual, who had no real culture, but wore a specious appearance of education, who, guiltless of a single true sacrifice for his country, yet bulked large as a patriot, found an undisputed field open to him. The rewards of life now depended on certain outward signs of merit which were purely conventional. An University degree, knowledge of English, possession of a post in Government service or a professional diploma, a Government title, European clothes or a sleek dress and appearance, a big house full of English furniture, these were the badges by which Society recognized its chosen. These signs were all purely conventional. The degree did not necessarily denote a good education nor the knowledge of English a wide culture or successful living into new ideas, nor the Government post administrative capacity, nor the diploma special fitness for the profession, nor the title any merit in the holder, nor the big house or fine dress a mastery of the art of social life, nor the English clothes, European grit, science and enterprise. They were merely counters borrowed from Europe, but universally taken, as they are not usually taken in Europe or any living nation, as a sufficient substitute for the reality. Wealth, success, and certain outward signs of a facile respectability had become to our new civilized, dispossessed1 society the supreme tests of the man.
All these were conditions unusually favourable to a rank
For the first need of the bourgeois is a guaranteed and perfect security for his person, property and pursuits. Peace, comfort and safety are the very breath of his nostrils. But he gravitates to a peace for whose preservation he is not called on to wear armour and wield the sword, a comfort he has not to purchase by the discomfort of standing sentinel over his liberties or a safety his own alertness and courage must protect from the resurgence of old dangers. The bourgeois in arms is not the true animal; the purity of his breed is sullied by something of the virtues and defects of the soldier. He must enjoy the fruits of peace and security he has not earned, without responsibility for their maintenance or fear of their loss. Such
1 Doubtful reading.
luxuriance of the bourgeois type, which thrives upon superficiality and lives by convention. The soil was suitably shallow, the atmosphere sufficiently warm and humid. The circumstances of our national life and the unique character of our education hastened and perfected the growth. Both were characterized by the false appearance of breadth covering an almost miraculous superficiality. Our old Indian life was secluded, but lofty and intense, like a pine-tree on the mountain-tops, like a tropical island in unvisited seas; our new life parted with the loftiness and intensity along with the [...]1 isolation, but it boasted in vain of an added breadth, for it was really more provincial and narrow than the old, which had at least given room for the development of all our human faculties. The news of the world's life poured in on us through the foreign telegrams and papers, we read English books, we talked about economics and politics, science and history, enlightenment and education, Rousseau, Mill, Bentham, Burke, and used the language of a life that was not ours, in the vain belief that so we would become cosmopolitans and men of enlightenment. Yet all the time India was as much and more outside the great life of the world than it was in the days of Mahomad Tughlak or Bahadur Shah. The number of men in educated India who had any vital conception or any real understanding and mastery of the great currents of life, thought and motive which sway the vast world outside, was always wonderfully small. It could not be otherwise; for the life of that world was not our life, nor was our life any part of the world's, any more than the days of a prisoner in a gaol or reformatory are part of the free activity of society. The thunder of great wars, the grand collision and struggle of world-moving ideas and mighty interests, the swift and strong
conditions he found in almost unparallelled perfection in British India. He was asked to stand as the head of a disarmed and dependent society, secured from external disturbance and tied down to a rigid internal tranquillity by the deprivation of all functions except those of breadwinner and taxpayer and to vouch himself to the world by a respectable but not remarkable education and achievement as the visible proof of England's civilising mission in India. Such conditions were to the bourgeois as the moisture and warmth of the hothouse to the orchid. He grew in them, rank and luxurious.
1 One or two illegible words.
currents of scientific discovery and discussion, the intellectual change and stir, the huge and feverish pulsation of commercial competition from China to Peru, all this was to us as the scenes in the street to a man watching from his prison bars. We might take a deep and excited interest, we might almost persuade ourselves by the vividness of our interest that we were part of the scene, but if a voice within cried to us, "Out, out, you too into the battle and the struggle and the joy and stir of this great world's life," the cold iron of the window-bars and the hard stone of the prison walls stood between. The jailer might not jingle his keys obtrusively, nor the warder flourish his baton, but we knew well they were there. And we really believed in the bland promise that if we conducted ourselves well, we should some day get tickets of leave. We read and thought but did not live what we read and thought. So our existence grew ever more artificial and unreal, the fighter and the thinker in us dwindled and the bourgeois flourished and grew. Contentment with an artificial existence, the habit of playing with counters as if they were true coin of life, made the old rich flood of vitality, strong character, noble aspiration, excellent achievement run ever shallower and thinner in our veins. So we accepted and made the best of an ignoble ease.
Our education too had just the same pride in a false show of breadth and the same confined and narrow scope. In our schools and colleges we were set to remember many things, but learned nothing. We had no real mastery of English literature, though we read Milton and Burke and quoted Byron and Shelley, nor of history though we talked about Magna Charta and Runnymede. nor of philosophy though we could mispronounce the names of most of
Then again, for his perfection and dominance, the society he lives in must honour his peculiar qualities above all others and the substantial rewards and covetable distinctions of life [be] reserved for them chiefly or for them alone. The British rule gave him this honour, showered on him these rewards and distinctions, and Indian society, more and more moulded by British ideas, followed as a society almost inevitably follows the lead of the rulers. Under the new dispensation of Providence there was no call for the high qualities of old. the Aryan or noble virtues which, whatever else failed or perished, had persisted in Indian character for thousands of years, since first the chariots rolled on the hitherside of the Indus. What need for the Rajpoot's courage, the robust manhood, the noble pride of the
the German philosophers, nor science though we used its name daily, nor even of our own thought and civilization though its discussion filled columns of our periodicals. We knew little and knew it badly. And even we could not profit by the little we knew for advance, for origination; even those who struggled to a wider knowledge proved barren soil. The springs of originality were fast growing atrophied by our unnatural existence. The great men among us who strove to originate were the spiritual children of an older time who still drew sap from the roots of our ancient culture and had the energy of the Mogul times in their blood. But their success was not commensurate with their genius and with each generation these grew rarer and rarer. The sap soon began to run dry, the energy to dwindle away. Worse than the narrowness and inefficiency, was the unreality of our culture. Our brains were as full of liberty as our lives were empty of it. We read and talked so much of political rights that we never so much as realized that we had none to call our own. The very sights and sounds, the description of which formed the staple of our daily reading, were such as most of us would at no time see or hear. We learned science without observation of the objects of science, words and not the things which they symbolised, literature by rote, philosophy as a lesson to be got by heart, not as a guide to truth or a light shed on existence. We read of and believed in English economy, while we lived under Indian conditions, and worshipped the free trade which was starving us to death as a nation. We professed notions of equality, and separated ourselves from the people, of democracy, and were the servants of absolutism. We pattered off speeches and essays about social reform, yet had no idea of the nature of a society. We looked to sources of strength and inspiration
Kshatriya, when heroic and unselfish England claimed the right of shedding her blood for the safety of the land? What room for the gifts of large initiative, comprehensive foresight, wise aspiration which make the statesman, when a Bentinck or a Mayo, a Dufferin or a Curzon were ready and eager to take, and keep, the heavy burdens of Government out of the hands of the children of the soil? The princely spirit, the eagle's vision, the lion's heart, these were things that might be buried away with the memories of the great Indian rulers of the past. Happy India, civilised and cared for by human seraphs from over the sea, had no farther need for them. So from sheer inanition, from want of light, room and air, the
we could not reach and left those untapped which were ours by possession and inheritance. We knew so little of life that we expected others who lived on our service to prepare our freedom, so little of history that we thought reform could precede liberty, so little of science that we believed an organism could be reshaped from outside. We were ruled by shopkeepers and consented enthusiastically to think of them as angels. We affected virtues we were given no opportunity of assimilating and lost those our fathers had handed down to us. All this in perfect good faith, in the full belief that we were Europeanising ourselves and moving rapidly toward political, social, economical, moral, intellectual progress. The consummation of our political progress was a Congress which yearly passed resolutions it had no power to put in practice, statesmen whose highest function was to ask questions which need not even be answered, councillors who would have been surprised if they had been consulted, politicians who did not even know that a Right never lives until it has a Might to support it. Socially we have initiated by a few petty mechanical changes a feeble attempt to revivify the very basis of our society, which [ . . . ] be equal to so high [ . . . ] a task:1 a spiritual renovation was hardly even attempted; economically, we attained great success in destroying our industries and enslaving ourselves to the British trader; morally, we successfully compassed the disintegration of the old moral ideas and habits and substituted for them a superficial respectability; intellectually, we prided ourselves [on] the tricking out of our minds in a few leavings, scraps and strays of European thought at the sacrifice of an immense and eternal heritage. Never was an education more remote from all that education truly denotes; instead of giving the keys to the vast
Kshatriya died out of the soil which had first produced him and the bourgeois took his place. But if room was none for the soldier and the statesman, little could be found for the Brahmin, the sage or the Sannyasin. British rule had no need for scholars, it wanted clerks; British policy welcomed the pedant but feared, even when it honoured, the thinker, for the strong mind might pierce through shows to the truth and the deep thought teach the people to embrace great ideals and live and die for them; British education flung contempt on the Sannyasin as an idler and charlatan, and pointed with admiration to the strenuous seeker for worldly
1 A few words in this sentence are illegible.
mass of modern knowledge, as [...]1rich soil for the qualities that conquer circumstance and survive, they made the mind swallow a heterogeneous jumble of mainly useless information; trained a tame parrot to live in a cage and talk of the joys of the forest. British rule, Britain's civilizing mission in India has been the record success in history in the hypnosis of a nation. It persuaded us to live in a death of the will and its activities, taking a series of hallucinations for real things and creating in ourselves the condition of morbid weakness the hypnotist desired, until the Master of a mightier hypnosis laid His finger on India's eyes and cried, "Awake". Then only the spell was broken, the slumbering mind realised itself and the dead soul lived again.
But the education which was poison to all true elements of national strength and greatness, was meat and drink to the bourgeois. The bourgeois delights in convention, because truth is too hard a taskmaster and makes too severe a demand on character, energy and intellect. He craves superficiality, a shallow soil to grow in. For to attain depth requires time and energy which would have to be unprofitably diverted from his chief business of making his individual way in the world. He cannot give up his life to his country, but if she will be grateful for a few of his leisure hours, he will give in those limits ungrudging service and preen himself on his public virtues. Prodigal charity would be uncomfortable and unwise, but if he can earn applause by parting with a fraction of his superfluities, he is always ready for the sacrifice. Deep scholarship would unfit him for his part in life, but if figuring on learned societies or writing a few articles and essays, an occasional book guiltless of uncomfortable
goods and success as the finest work of the creator. So Vyasa and Valmekie were forgotten for weavers of idle tales and Smiles and Sir Arthur Helps took their place as an inspiration of youth, the gospel of Philistinism in its naked crudeness was beaten into the minds of our children when most malleable. Thus Ramdas was following Shivaji into the limbo of the unreturning past. And if God had not meant otherwise for our nation, the Sannyasin would have become an extinct type. Yoga been classed among dead superstitions with witchcraft and alchemy and Vedanta sent the way of Pythagoras and Plato. Nor was the old Vaisya type needed by the new dispensation. The Indian mechanician, engineer, architect, artist, craftsman
1 One illegible word.
originality, or a learned compilation prepared under his superintendence and issued in his name will make him a man of letters, he will court and prize that easily-earned reputation. The effort to remould society and rebuild the nation is too huge and perilous a task for a comfortable citizen, but he is quite prepared to condemn old and inconvenient institutions and superstitions and lend his hand to a few changes which will make social life more pleasant and comfortable. Superficiality, unreality of thought and deed thus became the stamp of all our activities.
Those who say that the new spirit in India which, before nascent and concealed, started to conscious life in the Swadeshi agitation and has taken Swadeshi. Swaraj and Self-help as its motto, is nothing new but a natural development of the old, are minds blinded by the habits of thought of the past century. The new Nationalism is the very antithesis, the complete and vehement negation of the old. The old movement sought to make a wider circle of activity, freer living-room and a more comfortable and eminent position for the bourgeois, to prolong the unnatural and evil conditions of which the subject nations died under the civilizing rule of Rome and which British rule has recreated for India; the new seeks to replace the bourgeois by the Samurai and to shatter the prison house which the nineteenth century made for our mother and build anew a palace for her glory, a garden for her pleasure, a free domain for her freedom and her pride. The old looked only to the power and interests of the educated, enlightened middle class, and shrank from the ignorant, the uneducated, the livers in the past, the outer unilluminated barbarian, drawing aside the hern of its robes lest it should touch impurity.
got notice of dismissal; for to develop the industrial life of the country was not part of England's business in India. As she had taken the functions of government and war into her own hands, so she would take that of production. Whatever India needed, beneficent England with her generous system of free trade would supply and the Indian might sit at ease under his palm tree or, gladly singing, till his fields, rejoicing that Heaven had sent him a ruling nation so greedy to do him good. What was wanted was not Indian artisans or Indian captains of industry, but plenty of small shopkeepers and big middlemen to help conquer and keep India as a milch cow for British trade and British capital.
The new overleaps every barrier; it calls to the clerk at his counter, the trader in his shop, the peasant at his plough; it summons the Brahmin from his temple and takes the hand of the Chandala in his degradation; it seeks out the student in his College, the schoolboy at his books, it touches the very child in its mother's arms; and the secluded zenana has thrilled to its voice; its eye searches the jungle for the Santal and travels the hills for the wild tribes of the mountains. It cares nothing for age or sex or caste or wealth or education or respectability; it mocks at the talk of a stake in the country; it spurns aside the demand for a property qualification or a certificate of literacy. It speaks to the illiterate or the man in the street in such rude vigorous language as he best understands, to youth and the enthusiast in accents of poetry, in language of fire, to the thinker in the terms of philosophy and logic, to the Hindu it repeats the name of Kali, to the Mahomedan it spurs to action for the glory of Islam. It cries to all to come forth, to help in God's work and remake a nation, each with what his creed or his culture, his strength, his manhood or his genius can give to the new nationality. The only qualification it asks for is a body made in the womb of an Indian mother, a heart that can feel for India, a brain that can think and plan for her greatness, a tongue that can adore her name or hands that can fight in her quarrel. The old shunned sacrifice and suffering, the new rushes to embrace it. The old gave a wide berth to the jail and the rods and scourges of Power; the new walks straight to meet them. The old shuddered at the idea of revolution; the new is ready to set the whole country in turmoil for the sake of an idea. The old bent the knee to Caesar and presented him a list of grievances; the new leaves his presence or, dragged back to it, stands erect and defies him in the midst of his legions.
The initial condition of recovering our liberty meant a peril and a gigantic struggle from the very possibility of which we averted our eyes in a panic of bourgeois terror. It was safer and easier to cheat ourselves into believing in a contradiction and living a lie. Yet nothing could be more fatal, more insidiously destructive to the roots of manhood. It is far better to fall and bleed for ever in a hopeless but unremitting struggle than to drink of that draught of death and lethe. A people true to itself, a race that hopes to live.
will not comfort itself and sap its manhood by the opiate of empty formulas and specious falsehoods; it will prefer eternal suffering and disaster. For in truth, as our old thinkers used always to insist, the whole universe stands: truth is the root and condition of life and to believe a lie, to live in a lie, is to deliver oneself to disease and death. The belief that a subject nation can acquiesce in subjection and yet make true and vital progress, growing to strength in its chains, is a lie. The idea that mitigations of subjection constitute freedom or prepare a race for freedom or that anything but the exercise of liberty fits man for liberty, is another lie. The teaching that peace and security are more important and vital to man than liberty is a third lie. Yet all these lies and many others we believed in, hugged to our hearts and made the law of our thoughts throughout the nineteenth century. The result was stagnation, or a progress in weakness and disintegration.
The doctrine that social and commercial progress must precede or will of themselves bring about political strength and liberty, is a fourth and very dangerous lie; for a nation is no aggregate of separable functions, but a harmony of functions, of which government and political arrangement is the oldest, most central and most vital and determines the others.
Our only hope of resurgence was in some such great unsealing of the eyes to the Maya in which we existed and the discovery of some effective mantra, some strong spiritual impulse which should have the power to renovate us from within. For good or for evil the middle class now leads in India, and whatever saving impulse comes to the nation, must come from the middle class, whatever upward movement begins, it must initiate and lead. But for that to happen the middle class must by a miracle be transfigured and lifted above itself; the natural breeding ground of the bourgeois, it must become the breeding ground of the Samurai. It must cease in fact to be a middle class and turn itself into an aristocracy, an aristocracy not of birth or landed possessions, not of intellect, not of wealth and commercial enterprise, but of character and action. India must recover her faculty for self-sacrifice, courage and high aspiration. Such a transformation is the work which has been set before itself by the new Nationalism; this is at the back of all its
enthusiasm, audacity and turbulence and provides the explanation of all that has shocked and alarmed the wise men and the elders in the movement in Bengal. The new Nationalism is a creed, but it is more than a creed; it is a method, but more than a method. The new Nationalism is an attempt at a spiritual transformation of the nineteenth century Indian; it is a notice of dismissal or at least of suspension to the bourgeois and all his ideas and ways and works; a call for men who will dare and do impossibilities, the men of extremes, the men of faith, the prophets, the martyrs, the crusaders, the [...]1 and rebel, the desperate adventurers and reckless doers, the initiators of revolutions. It is the rebirth in India of the Kshatriya, the Samurai.
1 One illegible word.
KALIDASA does best in more complicated and grandiose metres where his majesty of sound and subtle power of harmony have most opportunity; his treatment of the Anustubh is massive and noble, but compares unfavourably with the inexhaustible flexibility of Valmekie and the nervous ease of Vyasa.
*
That accomplished scholar and litterateur Prof. Wilson, in introducing the Vikramorvasie to English readers, is at pains to inform them that in the "mad scene" of this play they must not expect the sublime madness of King Lear, but a much tamer affair conformable to the mild, domestic and featureless Hindu character and the feebler pitch of Hindu poetic genius. The good Professor might have spared himself the trouble. Beyond the fact that both Lear and Pururavus go about raving in a storm, there is no point of contact between the two dramas.
I have seized your soul, mighty Spirit of Time!
Now the sky veers around, iridescent in the cataract of sun-rays.
Creating the magic city of limpid Even-tide,
I wandered along river banks seeking to attune my heart-strings
To the murmur and music of life voiced by her rippling waves:
Night infinite descended with silent steps.
Casting the shadow of her coronet
Upon the wide sky, flinging the hem of her robe.
Laying down the soft darkness upon earth's expanse.
Her eyes lost in thought,
In this vast Night, plunged in the contemplation of the supreme Void.
The dark Mother of the world in her ascetic mood lies in utter trance:
She draws deep into her bosom all creatures stilled in peace.
She plays her role of goddess Sleep,
Comes and silences the Life's noise and its ceaseless play.
Now is the honeyed banquet of stillness,
The crowded stars like bees innumerable have flown out and gathered in the heavens:
To smear with the rays of light the hearts of creatures.
The luminous amphora of cooling ecstasy.
The Moon, floats up in the night bejewelled with stars.
In this darkness illumined by dream-moonlight
The little human soul of mine
I have drowned into this infinite Life
And have heard the music of Silence.
THE ORIGIN
THE origin of the Sanskrit drama, like the origin of all Hindu arts and sciences, is lost in the silence of antiquity; and there one might be content to leave it. But European scholarship abhors a vacuum, even where Nature allows it; confronted with a void in its knowledge, it is always ready to fill it up with a conjecture and this habit of mind, while it has led to many interesting discoveries, has also fostered a spirit of fantasy and dogmatism in fantasy, which is prejudicial to sane and sober thinking. Especially in the field of Sanskrit learning this spirit has found an exceptionally favourable arena for the exercise of its ingenuity; for here there is no great body of general culture and well-informed lay opinion to check the extravagances to which a specialised knowledge is always prone. Undaunted therefore by the utter silence of history on the question. European scholars have set about filling up the void with theories which we are asked or rather bidden to accept not as ingenious scholastic playthings, but as serious solutions based upon logical and scientific deduction from convincing internal evidence. It is necessary for reasons I shall presently touch on to cast a cursory glance at the most important of these attempts.
The first thought that would naturally suggest itself to an average European mind in search of an origin for Hindu drama is a Greek parentage. The one great body of original drama prior to the Hindu is the Greek; from Greece Europe derives the beginnings of her civilization in almost all its parts; and especially in poetry, art and philosophy. And there was the alluring fact that Alexander of Macedon had entered India and the Bactrians established a kingdom on the banks of the Indus before the time of the earliest extant Hindu play. To the European mind the temptation to weave this coincidence into a theory was irresistible, more especially as it has always been incurably loath to believe that the Asiatic genius can be original or vigorously creative outside the sphere of religion.
Incomplete
(Written during the progress of the Boer War.)
O Boers, you have dared much and much endured
For freedom, your strong simple hearts inured
To danger and privation nor so made
As by death's daily grasp to be dismayed,
Nor numbers nor disasters in the field.
Nor to o'erwhelming multitudes to yield.
It was no secondary power you faced,
But she who has the whole wide world embraced,
England whose name is as the thunder, she
Whose navies are the despots of the sea,
Napoleon's conqueror whose fair dreadful face
Great nations loathe and fear and choose disgrace
Rather than meet in wild and dangerous war,
Victors of Waterloo and Trafalgar.
But you, a band of armed herdsmen small,
Feared not her strength, her pride imperial,
Nor all the union of her empire huge,
Nor all her barking cannon, her deluge
Of bullets, nor her horsehooves, nor her lance,
Her boundless wealth, her bayonets aglance.
You met her on her hills and overthrew,
You crossed her by her streams and smote and slew.
But soon in anger like the Ocean foiled
For fiercer swift invasion she recoiled
And multiplied her force until her troops
Tenfold outnumbering your warlike groups
Resurging rolled you back and seized your towns
And spread like locusts over fields and downs.
Not even then were you dismayed, not then
Would tamely yield, but with a proud disdain
Rejected proffered servitude and base.
Therefore are you participants in praise
With Armin and Viriathus; you stand
The last of Freedom's children and your land
Her latest foothold upon earth; nor can
Your rugged pastoral mood disguise the man
Identical at Salamis who waged
Unequal battle and in salt floods assuaged
The Persian's lust of rule. Miltiades
Is grown your brother; the strong Tyrolese
Hold out their hands to you across the grave.
From Rouen's burning pile one watches; brave
Hofer from sad Verona; in eastern skies
Mewar's unconquerable Rajpoots rise.
They too preferred strong liberty and rude
To a splendid ignominy of servitude.
For liberty they gave to alien hands
Their faery city and their fertile lands,
Themselves to death, their women to the flame.
And in wild woods and mountains harbouring came
Often like sudden fire upon the foe:
So for long decades fought, exile and woe
Accepting, till the equal hand of God
Restored to their hereditary abode.
You too have greatly dared, and but that Fate
For her remoter objects obdurate
Averted her unmoved and marble gaze,
No human force had power to erase
From Earth's free peoples. Not the armed pride
Of England but decrees supreme o'erride
This stubborn nation. Farm and smiling field
Plundered and burned no more your sustenance yield.
Your chiefs are taken one by one, your bands
Wasted with battle, your great war-weary hands
Avail no longer and your women die
In England's camps by famine miserably.
Disease and famine, hunger's squalid brood.
The smiling babes who should prolong your blood.
Pale victims flit, to death's unbottomed maw
Devoted by the conqueror's cynic law.
And must you perish from earth's record then.
O nation of indomitable men?
Look not towards Europe! Europe's heart is dead.
Hard atheisms, selfish lusts instead
Usurp her bosom; not honest blood but gold
Runs liquid in her veins: for she has sold
Her soul to commerce. Mammon is her creed.
The ledger lined her Bible, and Christ must bleed
In plundered nations that the modern Jew
May prosper. This is not Europe that you knew
When from the clash of mighty States you went
Into harsh sultry deserts well-content.
For all her swift and sovran moods of old
Are changed into a reckoning spirit cold
And a hysteric wrath that dare not strike
The strong man armed to meet the blow. She, like
A trembling woman who puts o'er her shift
Hard armour, wears the sword she dare not lift,
Covering her coward heart with splendid arms:
Clothed as in adamant shakes with pale alarms.
Armed as with hell-fire fronts not answering shells.
Blusters and trembles, menaces and pales.
Therefore her navies case in triple steel.
Therefore her legions grow apace; her heel
Of iron breaks the weak ones of the world.
But not against the strong her flags unfurled
Shall flaunt the tempest, nor her hissing flail
Of bullets thresh familiar hills and hail
Of shells in Ocean sibilant be drowned
While navies rend and sink her coasts around.
Easier the naked African to quell
Or on the ill-armed Mongolian shot and shell
To lavish and with coward murder chase
Or with strong lust invade a virtuous race.
Meanwhile her prating conferences increase
And gild her terrors with the name of peace.
All these high nations who with paeans loud
Acclaimed your victories, the bitter crowd
And the loose tongues who spat their venom base
In England's evil hour on England's face
Avenging thus decades of craven fear,
Not one shall dare to speak high words with her
For your sake, none shall raise his armed hand
Against the inheritors of sea and land.
Nor shall the American's pale feverish face
Be lifted from his heaps of gold and trays
Of silver. Deal not with such things as these,
You who are men, not gibbering shades. Increase
Strength rather, of yourselves and Heaven be sure;
Firm make your hearts, magnanimous to endure
More than loud ruin. Though at last you yield.
Yet nowise vain your firmness in the field.
Daring and all the bitter sweat of blood.
Boers, you have sown the veldt with greatness, stood
Irrigating from your own veins farmstead
And kopje and with the bodies of your dead
Manured them: women and young children gave
Their lives to help the seed time of the brave.
Shall harvest fail you? No, the Power is just
That veils Himself behind the world, not thrust
From puissance by the maxim's brutal roar
Nor to the shrapnel gives His sceptre o'er.
The harvest that you sowed, your sons shall reap,
Stern liberty; nor the example sleep
Imprisoned in the Afric seas, but hurled
Reverberate through the upstarting world.
And the dead nations in the East shall rise
And they that slumber in the West; with eyes
Dismayed the elder Empires overgrown
Shall feel a sudden spirit breathe, a tone
Of challenge hearkening know, at last awake,
Earth was not wide for one sole nation's sake.
For this He fashioned you Who built the stars.
For this He sifted you with searching wars.
Upon the Frisian waters bleak and isles
Where the cold northern Ocean steel-like smiles,
Savage and wide and bare, a nation sparse
Bleak-fishing under the chill midnight stars,
From the wild piercing blast your fathers drew
The breath that loves the desert. To them grew
The Saxon dour and the hard German rude.
And of that stubborn ore unbrittle, crude,
God hammered Him a sword with giant strokes
Upon the anvil of the Ocean rocks;
His fiercest furnace piled the ore to try;
Often He tempered it, often laid by
Unknown of all to harden and anneal.
He made it not of the fine Damasc steel
Comely to see or polished dazzling bright,
A dancing splendour and a pitiless light.
Nor as in Jaipur worked with genial art,
But sheer and stark to rive the adamant heart.
With this He smote the Iberian and the Gaul;
This from his scabbard leaps whene'er o'er all
His earth of various use in various lands
One domination spreads out selfish hands.
Not for its own sake is the falchion keen,
Not for self-greatness was it forged, through skin.
Flesh, heart and bone of giant power to cleave.
Its flash is as the lightning on the eve
Of the stupendous storm that shall uproot
Some oak of empire. When Heaven grows a clot
Of darkness, then God's dagger rips the sky.
Small is the blade and narrow to the eye
The rift; but through it seas of light shall pour
And through it the world-shaking thunders roar
And from the storm the sweet fresh day have birth.
When Spain was mighty and cruel and all earth
Darkened by her huge shadow, your fathers first
Defied her puissance; — they the chains accursed
Asunder rent and braved the bigot's flame
And braved the unvanquished terrors of her name.
Then England grew, then France arose. The one
Repulsed her from the sea's dominion,
Making the narrow floods an empire's tomb
When the shot-ridden galleons through the gloom
Of heaven and the wrath of spuming seas
Fled through grey Ocean and the Hebrides,
God's anger swift behind. Then was her hand
Loosened from France's throat; the smiling land
Healed her deep wounds and from her masculine strife
Of mighty spirits forged united life
Now first; so, her high natural vigour found,
Hurled the wide-sprawling Titan to the ground.
But 'twas stern Holland shore his feet of clay
Opening to these the splendours of their day.
Next when great Louis' grandiose mind and high
O'ervaulted all the West like God's own sky,
Your fathers first opposed their petty strength
To his huge destinies; nor defeat, nor length
Of weary struggle could out-tire nor break
Their spirit obstinate for freedom's sake,
When Nassau led them. He was such a man
As you love best to set in your stern van.
Wordless and lonely, stubborn as the hills.
With nature strong to brook tremendous ills
In silence, dowered with vigilant brain and nerve
That never from the goal consent to swerve
But tame down fiercest Fate as men may school
Some dangerous lion to constraining rule.
He sowed the seed; strong England reaped the fruit.
Bringing down showers with the loud cannon's bruit.
Then did she grow indeed. Iberia proud
Being humbled she upon the Ocean loud
Her dwarfish stature launched, but now she trod
Both hemispheres, now giantlike bestrode
The Atlantic and her crest was in the skies,
Earth but a market for her merchandise.
The double Indies all their wealth disgorged
To swell her and her thunders iron-forged
Possessed the hither and the farther seas:
She strewed their waters with her enemies.
Ever she grew and as when Rome was great,
No limit seemed of her supreme estate.
Frore Canada to the Austral heats she joins
And peoples Earth from her exhaustless loins.
Asia and the equator were her spoil.
Her footstool, or a workshop for her toil.
Nor sole she walked, but Europe emulous
Where she had trampled followed orgulous
Like dwarfs behind a giant, gleaning wide
Footholds too small for her gigantic stride.
They too grow great, they too are sons of God
Who meant, they say, all earth for their abode
And increase; others the Almighty made
Their menial peoples, stamped with yellow shade
Or dark, savage of heart, of reason weak.
Nay, but their lords shall make them wise and meek!
Inferior races, let them serve and crouch
Obedient, with the kennel for their couch,
Too happy if but spared the knout and rod.
Yet shall the proud blasphemers know that God
For nobler uses to immortal man
This body's garb designed when He began
To build the planets. His foreseeing eyes
Of ease and its corroding puissance wise,
Reserving to more memorable blows.
From you His chosen stock your sternest chose
And hardest in the grain and drove them forth
From their too populous and prosperous North
Over to torrid regions burning far
Under a fierier sun and brighter star.
There had He worked His Amazulu hordes
To His great purpose 'neath their savage lords,
Chaka the brain of war and Dingaan; — there
Your steel was once again in the red flare
Of that strong furnance tested and annealed.
And that its hard rough temper glints might yield
Of fire, into its molten ore He sank
The Celt's swift force and genius of the Frank:
Nor in the wave-washed regions of the south
Allowed your home, but to the higher drouth
Scourged northward half the iron-minded brood
In the high hills and the veldt's solitude
'Twixt Vaal and the Limpopo. There you stand
Fighting for liberty and fatherland,
O little people of a mighty birth,
The huge colossus who bestrides the earth.
Therefore let not defeat your hearts dismay,
For He that made you, knows His hour, — today
Or after Time grows old, the Spirit high
Prepares His mighty ends unwaveringly.
Not by the fluent tongue is Freedom earned.
Nor lightly, but when her spirit long has burned
In the strong bosom fronting giant fears
And wrestling with defeat and hostile years,
Antagonist of its opposing fate, —
Such hearts earn mighty Freedom for their mate.
Such hearts are yours and will not falter. Firm
Your destiny stands assured its strenuous term
In God's great keeping who His deathless trust
Keeps for the race when your strong hearts are dust, —
Freedom that blooms not but upon the grave
Where they who loved her sleep, her slaughtered brave.