Mahatma Gandhi, page 14
Mohandas would not yield to the persuasions of others. Of course, what they say may be true, especially as everyone seems to be saying it. And he would suddenly think of the austere, the trustful, and the sacred face of his mother. Tears would come to his eyes. God will help him. He would keep to his resolve.
God does help. This is what Mohandas’ experience tells him again and again. God’s hand helps those who have trust in Him. For, finally, the ship’s authorities gave Mohandas and his companion, another Indian and a vegetarian, a boy to cook vegetarian meals especially for them. And thus the very first test was won. You could still sit at table, tuck your napkins the right way, use the proper knives and forks, and withal become more knowledgeable in your ways. It’s just a question of observation, of practice. And soon Mohandas was able to behave more and more like the others. He was however still shy and could not talk English to his satisfaction. He had to formulate every sentence first in his mind, duly translated from the Gujarati, and then only would he pronounce his words. It was a difficult task but not an impossible one. Others besides him do it and do it so well. It’s all a question of time.
Meanwhile, the ship stops at Aden. You admire the Arab boys plunging into the water in the wake of your pennies, or later at Port Said be pestered by vendors: You want carpets, watches, walking sticks? You want carpets, watches, walking sticks? The first glimpse of Europe was at Brindisi, with its narrow streets, its cobbles, its dirt, and its high, aspiring houses, perched churches, and clothes hanging across the streets (so much like in India) and curs and dirt, and the ever present tricks of the procurer and pimp, ‘Girls of fourteen for you, Indian gentleman, plump, white, and pretty?’ The world is ever the same. But how beautiful the blue of the Mediterranean, the magnificence of the Santa Maggiore on the top of the Hill. Six hundred years old they say, that is about the time of the invasion of Mahmud of Ghazni to India. Old, yes, but not old enough. Yet how melodious the city was in the gentle Italian night.
The European was a kind man after all. He was neither so distant in his own country nor was he so immaculate. Therefore every European is not a ‘gentleman’. There’s something protective about such a realisation. One’s awkwardness somehow seems less awkward and one’s clothes (especially when one is hardly nineteen) shine the brighter. Thank the Italians for making us men again.
After Brindisi the weather became cooler, and the Mediterranean is enchanting. Malta, first, with the cathedral of St. Juan, the Armoury Hall, and the beautiful carriage of Napoleon Bonaparte. Then, Gibraltar. Gibraltar again is a sign of Britain’s might and high power, and after tossing on the Bay of Biscay, you feel you cannot bear it any longer. There’s such hunger in the stomach. Kind Englishmen—and they can be so kind—try to persuade you, once again, it is time you decided to eat meat. You might not smoke or take liquor but without meat you will starve to death, young man. Yet Mohandas would not be persuaded. Plymouth revealed the circular splendours of great England. There’s something divine about these strange embattlemented isles. God would not have given them this strength had they not been so worthy. Look at the whiteness of those ships, and the measured and comfortable architecture of those houses. People seemed so quiet and going about their business with simplicity and pride. They puff at their pipes and go their way. The proud Englishman was a noble creature to watch. Would Mohan be ever like him?
From Southampton he and his companion (another Indian) travelled to London. The landscapes, the houses, and the people, seemed just as the pictures in textbooks. When you see what you’ve imagined and it’s found true, you always have a secret sense of self-assurance. The world seems less uncertain, and a place of some hope.
The Victoria Hotel in London was a marvel.
‘I was quite dazzled,’ says Gandhiji, ‘by the splendour of the hotel. I had never seen in my life such a pomp . . . There was all over electric light. Then we were to go to the second floor by a lift. I did not know what it was. The boy at once touched something which I thought was the lock of the door. But as I afterwards came to know it was the bell, and he rang in order to tell the waiter to bring the lift. The doors were opened and I thought that it was a room. But to my great surprise we were brought to the second floor.’1
October can be beautiful in England. The autumn light can be magnificent, with more gold in it than any you ever see in India, and the way it colours up the whole perspective on church, bank and bridge. There’s a splendour about England that seems almost mythological. The barges, the Thames, the ships, the high buildings, the Palace of Westminster, the clean and quiet ways of a civilised land. Everything is so instructive to behold; the gentle but steady tread of men, the elegant and furry clothing of women in high carriages. And one’s own awkwardness seems the bigger in the midst of all this. Mohandas, thinking that white flannel was more becoming than serge or dark wool (he’d left these clothes behind to be shipped to his London address), found himself the only inelegant man about town. He was ashamed of himself for such ignorance. He could hardly walk about without realising his clothes attracted undue attention. And the Indians were not without telling him how very stupid it all looked.
There was, for example, the great Dr. Mehta who had become a gentleman. Many years in the British Isles had given him this rare privilege and accomplishment. Morning coat and top hat and an affected but impeccable way of English speech had given him (or he had given himself) elegance and authority. Mohandas had sent him a telegram from Southampton.
‘My dear fellow, how nice to see you,’ he said as he entered the Victoria Hotel where Mohan had taken a room. Mohandas was pleased to see a man so expert in dealing with this bewildering world and was willing to be his pupil, his protégé. Mohan, however, seeing the extreme softness of the top hat, took it in his hand and tried to feel its texture. The Indian gentleman was shocked.
‘Mr. Gandhi,’ he said in a high and imperious tone, ‘do not touch other people’s things.’ Mohandas instead of being offended was ashamed and apologetic. ‘Do not talk loudly.’
‘I am so sorry I do not know English etiquette.’
‘In this country etiquette is morality,’ he pronounced. ‘What you do does not matter. How you do it does matter.’
‘I am deeply sorry for my inadvertence. I will never do it again.’
‘My dear fellow,’ continued Dr. Mehta, ‘this is a prohibitively expensive hotel.’
‘I did not know,’ replied Mohandas. ‘My companions from India came here. And I followed them.’
‘I know a better place,’ remarked Dr. Mehta with much assurance. ‘I will fix you up at a cheaper place soon. Besides, you must learn the English language. And for that you must stay with an English family. In this country, language shows your class. In England,’ he added, trying to educate his fellow-countryman, ‘in this country there is no caste, but there is class, and class distinctions are worse than caste distinctions. And the class of a gentleman is known by his language. You must learn English well,’ he admonished and took his friend on a stroll through London streets. It was an education in itself. The way you cross a street or hail a cab, all this is to be learnt. You never brush past a lady, and if you entered a restaurant and met a lady at the door, you always lift your hat in recognition of her gentility. And this is England.
And once in a restaurant you wait for the waiter to come. He gives you the menu card. Mohan examines it carefully. He sees nothing to indicate there what is vegetarian and what non-vegetarian. Besides, many of the dishes have French names. When the waiter comes to take an order, Mohan whispers, ‘Have you anything vegetarian for me? I am a vegetarian.’
The waiter does not understand. The London Indian, angry and humiliated, explains to the waiter the needs of this young man from India. Of course, there are cabbages and potatoes, cheese and bread.
‘What about that?’
‘Thank you very much.’ Yes, Mohan could eat. And when the waiter goes away with the orders, the London Indian’s ire was all upon his young companion.
‘My dear fellow, this is England and not Kathiawar. You should be ashamed of yourself. Why, you mean you have never eaten meat?’
‘No, I have. Some years ago I and my brother wanted to experiment on eating meat. We did it. But I hated to tell a lie to my parents. So I gave it up. In fact,’ confessed Mohan, ‘I rather liked it.’
‘If you ate it in India, what’s wrong eating it here?’ laughed the London Indian.
‘Nothing wrong. Only I have taken a vow never, never, to touch meat. It was done to satisfy my mother.’
‘Your mother, my dear young man, knows nothing of England. And a vow taken to please an illiterate woman is no promise at all. I tell you as a man with a wide experience. Life in England is impossible without the eating of meat.’
‘Then I had better go back.’
‘Have you ever read Bentham? If you have read his Theory of Utility you will never argue this way.’
‘But, sir, a vow is a vow.’
What a dunce, the London Indian must have thought to himself. The young fellow has come here and to study. His family has spent so much money to send him here. When shall we ever get civilised?
‘Well, please yourself,’ said the London Indian and never tried to change his companion again.
But Dr. Mehta, true to his promise, fixed up a place for Mohandas to stay. It was with an English family in Richmond. Mohan spent a miserable month there. He had to eat only bread and cheese and porridge, and for the rest he slipped into English restaurants to feed himself. Winter was coming on, and the cold gave him greater hunger. Lord, help the hungry in cold climates. Mohandas now moved to a private apartment. It cost less and one could cook one’s breakfast and tea, and for dinner one went out. One could live on about ten shillings a week thus, and with room-rent, it was not ruinous. Yet how long would 666 English pounds last? Would they last three years? He paid a pound and joined the Inns of Court. The Inner Temple was the most distinguished one—or so they said—and he would get there the best education. His mother and family had sacrificed themselves greatly for his sake. He would be worthy of them.
Meanwhile, his vegetarian experiments continued. Once an Indian, Mr. Shukla, invited him to dinner. He wanted to trick him into a decent English meal. So they went to an expensive restaurant. After that they were going to the theatre. It was all a part of being a man about town. This is the way to live if you want to live a civilised life. They entered the Holborn Restaurant. It was grand and so very gay. They sat at a table and the menu was brought. Mohandas did not know what to choose, so he whispered to the waiter once again.
‘I am a vegetarian. Can you tell me what I can eat here?’
Mr. Shukla got very angry. ‘Mohandas Gandhi, if you cannot eat like a civilised man, get out, eat where you like, and we’ll meet at the door of the theatre at the fixed hour.’
Mohandas was not hurt. He was sorry to have put his friend to so embarrassing a situation. Mohan now went out, but it was dark and cold. Friendly, and a gentleman, he waited at the door of the theatre, unable to have his meal. It had been too late. His friend never knew of it. The ways of God are strange. ‘I could see and appreciate the love by which all my friend’s efforts were actuated and my respect for him was all the greater on account of our differences of thought and action. I decided . . . I should assure him that I would be clumsy no more but try to become polished by cultivating other accomplishments which fitted one for polite society.’
But the process of becoming a gentleman was not so simple. You had to have the right clothes. So he chose for himself a nice suit on Bond Street. Nothing could be more elegant. And a bow tie—this was the appropriate thing. And someone said one must learn French to be a gentleman. So he paid some money and started learning French. And dancing, too. If, when you go to a party, and most parties have dancing in the evenings, and you say you cannot dance, it would be so awkward. Therefore he had to take dancing lessons. But the measures of the Indian musical scales were different from the English ones. Mohandas could never follow the steps—he just could not, and so gave up ballroom dancing. He would learn violin instead, to understand European music. Thus he bought himself a violin. Further, the wise among the Indians in England had told him he must speak English with the correct upper class accent. He must therefore learn elocution. Now he went to a teacher to learn elocution. The Standard Elocutionist was the book he had to follow. After some time he gave that up too. He also gave up the violin lessons: ‘The violin was to cultivate the ear. It only cultivated disappointment.’
Meanwhile, a very significant event took place. Going along the road one day, suddenly he saw a vegetarian restaurant: the Central Restaurant, on Farrington Street. ‘The sight of it filled me with the same joy that a child feels on getting a thing after its own heart.’ For the first time since he arrived in England, he ate a real meal. He also bought for himself at the restaurant A Plea for Vegetarianism by Henry Salt. He now had arguments to prove his case. Vegetarianism was no more a barbaric practice. It was the most civilised way of eating, and also the most scientific one.
And he began to read newspapers. What was happening in the world around was fascinating. There was that big problem of Ireland. And the English seemed to be in such a confusion. And the Irish too. Look at Parnell and the scandal against him. It won’t do to fight against an enemy if you’re not morally his superior. The way of Harishchandra is the only way to live in a world filled with contradictions and corruptions. Somehow one knows truth always wins.
The readings of the English papers also taught him to understand the English language a little better. Could he not aim at a higher degree now that his English had improved? What degree? Oxford and Cambridge were too far away (in terms of the time needed)—and too expensive. Why not take the London Matriculation? Mohandas went therefore to a tutorial school and learned Latin to pass his exams. ‘It was an almost impossible task for me. But the aspirant after being an English gentleman chose to convert himself into a serious student.’
London towards the end of the nineteenth century had become not only the financial metropolis of the world, but its political megalopolis as well. The Good Queen’s rule had laid the foundation of an empire that stretched from end to end of the world, and as goods went and gold came, ideas came as well. The wisdom of China and of India mingled with the ideologies of the philosophers (the French Revolution was not so far away, it seemed, because of Carlyle) and prophetic concepts came to be born. Indeed, refugees from Germany and Russia, from Italy and even from far-off China, sought new and revolutionary solutions to world’s problems. Meanwhile, the English themselves were not yet basking in the splendour of their own glory. The poets had stated their utopian ideals, Wordsworth, Shelley and Blake, and the philosophers followed them. Bentham and Mill had searched for universal values, and their discoveries had changed the whole perspective of English political life. Bentham had in fact sat at the table of some of the directors of the East India Company and had forced them to think of more humanitarian ways of dealing with their vast domains, while Mill’s liberalism and the hope of human dignity seemed to go so well with economic prosperity. Further, Spencer’s new sociology had aired the stuffy precincts of established English institutions, and thus change seemed inevitable. But the man who had started it all was Darwin. Darwin having removed the theological contexture of man’s being, and man becoming duly freed, the politician abandoned his double standards—the one practical, the other religious—thus the practical became philosophical, and finally the philosophical practical. The mess the Continent was in—look at the France of 1848, and of Germany, of Prussian expansionism, and the revolts of the Russian subhumans and their turmoils, and of Italy’s elegant protests—it all spelled of something grave. In England it will not be thus, for England, is, after all, England. The English can solve all problems with a shy smile and a puff of common sense. The British were a practical people (unlike the French who always quarrelled over ideas and left the reality to be looked after by dictators and emperors) and Britain was going to enter the modern industrial age, a nation that believed in and practised freedom both in trade and politics. When the whole world was British what restrictions could one have? A gunboat here, a few soldiers there—some diplomatic move, now here, now there—and the world not only went the English way but indeed was grateful to England. Britannia ruled the waves, and the Good Queen as head of the red, round world?
At the frontier of this great confidence lived the revolutionaries—the aliens. Marx had fled from a backward Germany to seek political and intellectual refuge in England and he, his aristocratic wife and his friends and his friends’ friends, evolved long continental philosophies that seemed to have little relation to facts. And these arguments came out in big tomes or in arrogant pamphlets. How could one have chains—leave alone break them—when boats ploughed through the Thames with such natural self-assurance and the ships that came and docked at the British harbours pouring out such variegated and hopeful humanity? What did they lack? Freedom? No, of course not. When Marx did not sound ridiculous he sounded Utopian. True, there is misery among the working classes but as everybody gets rich there will be no poor man left in the realm of England. The hard English pound with the heavy round Queen’s effigy on it carried such absolute concreteness. One must be mad thinking on revolutions. To use Darwin—so English—to the un-English thinkings of the European revolutionary was to forget the real point; whatever you may say about the universe, there is an order, and that order is unearthly. We must bow to it as the primitive peoples (and their religions were being studied by the new scientists, the anthropologists) bow to the sun. However, Mazzini had other ideas. He accepted the Superior Power, God, but wondered why Austrian humans and others leagued with them, behave as they do towards Italy. The Italian working classes were as good as any—in fact, more humane and more cultured than any in Europe for they had Jesus Christ and Dante. It was Mazzini’s ambition to unite the revolutionary fervour of Marx (without Marx’s abusive language, his free morals, and his intellectual haughtiness) with some form of divine guidance. God (and so Christ) was to be made the revolutionary. It was, if you remember, an old dream of Savonarola. To be one with God was to be a revolutionary, and to be a true revolutionary one had to be a good Christian—not necessarily Papal (for the Vatican was corrupt as everybody knew) but Catholic. Kropotkin, on the other hand, had come a long way from backward Russia—he had paternalism in his blood, and so he wanted all mankind to be free, like himself. The abstract man was the Father, and all was noble when he was in true authoritiless authority. Eat, mate, come and go, and do what you like for the world was a happy place with everything in plenty, and purity and nobility in the hearts of man—all was well except a few tyrants and tyrants are easy to get rid of. You can shoot a few of them dead, and when thrones fall, freedom comes. Then there is peace and plenty for all mankind. Man will thus reign supreme.
