The Siege of Krishnapur - J. G. Farrell [37]
“Mr Hopkins, I know nothing of your personal life.” This was almost true, but not quite. A short time earlier McNab had happened upon the Collector’s children in a velvet brood being escorted by their ayah along one of the Residency corridors. And he had remembered hearing that it was by the Collector’s order that these children continued to wear velvet, flannel and wool, while the other children in the cantonment were dressed in cotton or muslin for the hot weather. Even as children, it seemed, they had a position to keep up in the community. Only perhaps in the hottest period, when he chanced to notice how red-faced his offspring had become, might the Collector permit a change to summer clothing.
“I can assure you, Dr McNab, that I am as much loved by my children as any father was ever loved,” said the Collector, as if reading his mind.
McNab shook his head soothingly, implying that it would never have occurred to him to think otherwise, but the Collector paid no attention to him; instead, he snatched up a leather-bound volume from the table and flourished it. “You see, my daughters bring me their diaries to read so that I may exercise supervision over their lives...I require them to do so, as any right-thinking father would. Every Sunday evening I read a sermon to them and to my other children, by Arnold or Kingsley, just as any father would. Why, I even prepared my manservant, Vokins, for confirmation by hearing his catechism! I think that you can hardly accuse me of neglecting my duty towards my household...”
“It would never occur to me to accuse you of this or anything else,” said the Doctor quietly.
“What? What are you saying? No, of course you wouldn’t accuse me of such things. Why should you? But tell me, d’you believe in God, McNab?”
“Aye, of course, Mr Hopkins.”
“I wondered because I noticed that you do not attend the Sacrament. No, please don’t think that I mean to pry into your beliefs. I was merely curious because I have here a book of my wife’s...I found it the other evening...I suppose she left it purposely by my bedside. It’s Keble’s The Christian Year, a series of poems on religious themes, perhaps you know it...? Here, let me read you some lines...Let me see, this will do:
‘Lo, at Thy feet I fainting lie,
Mine eyes upon They wounds are bent,
Upon Thy streaming wounds my weary eyes
Wait like the parchèd earth on April skies.”’
He paused and stared interrogatively at McNab, who yet again made no reply. Nor had he any idea what it was that he was supposed to reply to.
“I have always considered myself to believe in God,” pursued the Collector after a moment, his dark-ringed eyes searching McNab’s face “but I find such enthusiasm offends me. Evidently there are those who believe in Him in a way quite different from mine. And yet, perhaps they are right?”
“It’s only possible for a man to believe in his own way, Mr Hopkins. Surely nothing more can be asked of him. So it seems to me, at any rate.”
“Splendid, McNab. What a fine philosopher you are, to be sure. ‘In his own way’, you say. Precisely. And now I shall let you return to your duties.” And while he escorted McNab towards the door he laughed as if he were in the best of spirits.
At the door, however, there was a moment of confusion for as McNab approached it, it opened to admit the very brood of children whom he had seen earlier. Now scrubbed and combed, these children had been marshalled by their ayah in the corridor outside to be presented to their father while he took his tea. The Collector reached out his arms to the youngest of them, Henrietta, aged five, but she shrank back into the ayah’s skirts. As he took his leave, McNab had to pretend not to have noticed this small incident.
Everything had remained quiet in Krishnapur as the news of Meerut had spread, but there had been a number of small signs of unrest, nevertheless. While the Collector was discussing with the Magistrate whether the ladies should be brought into the safety of the Residency a message from Captainganj arrived to say that General