WILLIAM DAVEY
We should not disturb the gentleman,” I said, gesturing to the patient.
“Of course not,” Noboo said. “But the sahibs really never paid attention to such things before.” He looked pointedly at Wood, who met him with a level gaze. “But you have come far to find me, Davey Sahib. I must show you Bengali courtesy. You—and your companions, including Shackleford Memsahib,” he said, nodding to her as if her presence were no surprise.
He beckoned us out of the sickroom and along the corridor to a verandah, where we sat in chairs.
“I have heard about your inquiries for me,” he said. “I am no more than a doctor now: I seek to take care of the people in this valley, who have so few to attend them.”
“That is very noble,” I said.
“I was told at Hooghly that my services were no longer needed,” he answered. “A foolish choice. Your people claim to have come to India to help us—you even set up universities to teach us! They graduate artists, poets who can paint and draw and write like Europeans. One in fifteen, one in twenty is an engineer or a doctor.
“And then the bureaucrats of the Viceroy call us a stupid and backward people. As if they were not wearing bearskins and fighting wars with clubs when Lord Shiva and Lord Rama walked the earth.”
He sounded angry, despondent—but resigned to the categories into which British overlords had placed the native peoples.
“I am not here to debate the fine points of Imperial politics with you, Doctor,” I answered. “Even if I could effect change—and I cannot—it is not my place to do so.”
“Then what does bring you here?”
“I suspect you know that as well.”
Noboo looked at me, then at Lieutenant Wood again.
“Lieutenant,” I said, “I wonder if you might excuse us for a few minutes.” I made a strong dismissing gesture and stood up, as if to show respect for his station, but in reality, to strengthen the mesmeric command. Though Wood claimed to have been trained by the son of one of the most capable mesmerists of the previous generation, he complied at once, muttering something about a smoke, and walked off the verandah, offering a polite bow to Noboo.
“Does he—” Georgiana began.
“He might realize later,” I interrupted, resuming my seat. “But in the meanwhile, we can speak privately.”
“I suspect that I know what you desire,” Noboo said. “You must be prepared for disappointment.”
“Be as glib as you like, Doctor. I am adamant, and will brook neither obstruction nor delay.”
“I think an explanation is therefore in order.”
MAHENDRA NOBOO
Twenty years ago, Reverend Davey Sahib, India was a very different place. There was no viceroy; there were really two Indias—one part was a land of petty states and princedoms, the other the islands of British settlement, bastions of your Western culture. In my India, the native land, where the rajahs, and kings and other noblemen feared for their independence, if there was no heir to a prince’s realm, that the Governor-General Sahib would declare the title lapsed and assume the government. Satara, the Punjab, Jhansi, Nagpur—all of them fell to the Company by the Doctrine of Lapse. Of all the things that enraged the sepoys when they rose in rebellion, that might have been the greatest.
The other part, the British part, was full of reformers—forgive me, Mrs. Shackleford Memsahib: you had beneficent and noble aims, but what you wanted, what all of you wanted, was for us to become you; except not quite as good as you. Calcutta is not London, Bombay is not Manchester, and never will be. India is India.
At university, I took a prize in Latin; I studied the history of Europe. I even learned to laugh at jokes about the babus who try so hard to be English. When I took my medical degree, I realized that my best chance to do good—or at least to do no harm—was to find a place in your India. Thus, I found myself at Hooghly, working with the excellent Doctor Sahib, James Esdaile.
He was already there when I arrived—he had come a few years earlier. His second wife had just died and he was therefore completely focused on his work with the patients at the jail hospital. There was a particular affliction called a hydrocele: a sort of large tumor—ah, you know of it, Reverend. Then I will not describe it further. Removing these hydroceles was exceptionally painful: we had no ether, nor indeed much in the way of medicines at all other than native remedies—and the chemists at the hospital dismissed most of those, since they had only been in use for a few thousand years, but in a primitive country, of course.
On a particular day in April of 1845—one I will likely never forget—the Doctor Sahib was facing a difficult problem. Mádhab Kaurá: you will remember him, Memsahib Shackleford, and his wife Kajari. Mádhab had been admitted with a double hydrocele in a most painful place. The Doctor Sahib told me that he was going to try a different procedure.
That is correct, Reverend Davey Sahib. He attempted to induce a mesmeric trance on the patient. It was difficult; he had only a few descriptions of the process, and did not think he had done it correctly. I stood by, with no role in the procedure, and after some time he looked up at me and said, “I am making no progress, Noboo. I am afraid it is a failure.”
“But, Doctor Sahib,” I answered, “look. The man is much more quiet and does not grimace quite so much.”
And indeed it was true: Kaurá had become tranquil and still, his eyes fluttering.
“Are you still in pain, Mádhab?” the Doctor Sahib asked him, and when he said that he was, he was instructed to open his eyes and tell us what he could see. “Something like smoke,” he said. He could see nothing, and he felt cold and sleepy. Then he fell into an even deeper sleep, one from which the Doctor Sahib could not awaken him—even by touching the afflicted area, or pricking him with a pin.
The doctor had never done this before, in my memory. He was surprised: more than that, he was shocked. Mádhab had not only become insensible, he had arched backward until the nape of his neck rested on the back of the chair and his breeches rested on the front edge, his arms crossed over his chest.
I asked, “What is happening?” and the Doctor Sahib said that he did not know—he called it a state of opisthotonos—extreme rigidity. He was not sure what it meant, or what he had done.
“You will remain here with the patient,” he said. “I am going over to the Kutcherry to fetch Mr. Russell and Mr. Money to witness this singular event.”
He left me alone there to watch Mádhab Kaurá. Except I was not quite alone—a powerful presence was nearby. I thought it might be Lord Shiva, or perhaps even Lord Ganesh. I was no mesmerist at the time, but it was clear that something was there. Only somewhat later I learned that the something was in the statue, which was always present when the Doctor Sahib performed his mesmeric work.
The Doctor Sahib tired easily: he was never well, always complaining about one or another affliction, though he was in far better spirits than he had been since before the death of his wife. Some of the mesmeric work became my responsibility, and he taught me what he had learned.
No, Davey Sahib, he did not fear the process—not at first. I did not know where he had learned the technique of mesmerizing: I assumed that it was from some medical journal. It seemed almost foreign to European medical practice; I learned later that it was much discussed in alternative circles, but that most doctors dismissed it as trickery or worse. But it was not trickery: it worked, reliably and repeatably. We had hundreds of cases in which we used the treatment.
I acknowledge your impatience, Davey Sahib. But you have asked me to tell you what I know, and I wish for you to understand the situation as completely as possible.
I served with the Doctor Sahib until the spring of 1851. Sometime in the summer of 1849 he began to curtail his use of the treatment, claiming fatigue and difficulty concentrating. The statue was no longer in evidence in his surgery.
He favored me on one occasion with an invitation to his house, and I noted that he had placed the statue in his study, on the mantelpiece. I remarked upon it and he indicated that he felt that it no longer belonged at the hospital—just that, those words.
It was during a lull in the conversation that I thought I heard it speak to me. It was a woman’s voice, very pleasant, I thought.
It did not know me by name—it asked me: Mahendra, I said in my mind, and it replied, “Very good—most courageous’’: a good name for you!” for that is the meaning of my name in Bengali.
It then asked me how it could help me, how it might assist in the mesmeric treatments. It was with this sudden realization that I knew that the Doctor Sahib’s success with mesmerism had been due to the statue’s assistance. I told the voice that I would consider how it might be able to help. I pleaded indigestion and took my leave of the Doctor Sahib, but the experience left me much shaken. Whenever I visited his house, I would hear its voice again, but there was something about it that troubled me.
When the Doctor Sahib left India in 1851, after marrying Weatherhead Memsahib, he left the object in my custody. “Do not give this to anyone, Noboo,” he told me. “Keep it safe for me.”
I promised that I would. And I promised myself that whatever I heard it say, whatever it offered, I should not listen. After a time, I heard nothing. My suspicion is that the being within found the Doctor Sahib unsuitable, and then found me unsuitable, and would have been happy to contact some other person whom it could assist.
The Rebellion caused me to lose my position at Hooghly, despite the protestations of a number of colleagues, English and Indian, as to my skill and my loyalty. In the summer of 1858, I went to live with my brother’s family in Allahabad; I took my possessions with me, including the statue, concealed in the bottom of a box of medical books. Not long after, I received a letter from the Doctor Sahib, sent to Hooghly and forwarded to me by an English friend who still worked there.
I have retained the letter, Davey Sahib, for I knew that some day, you—or someone from Britain, since the Doctor Sahib told me he had many enemies there—would come looking for me.
WILLIAM DAVEY
Noboo, with us following close behind, quit the house and went to his cart. He climbed up inside and returned presently with a wooden letter box. He took a small key from his watch chain and unlocked it, then reached within and withdrew a letter that bore familiar handwriting.
22 August 1858
Sydenham
My dear friend:
The news of the terrible events in India has greatly troubled me, for I am certain that the particular burden I left in your charge has contributed to them. I am certain that it is due to no fault in your conduct, but rather to the insidious nature of the item itself.
I should have realized from the outset that I was dealing with something far beyond normal ken, and that its goals were always malign. But I have obtained a solution to the problem that will remove the item from India, while not placing it in the hands of irresponsible men who would bring about even worse evil than we have heretofore witnessed.
Please pack the item carefully and arrange for it to be shipped to the address I have hereunder enclosed. Do not speak of this to anyone, and do not refer to it in any correspondence with me: I am unable to satisfy myself that any such intercourse would remain secret. It is of utmost importance that you strictly follow these instructions.
Your service to me during our time together, and your attendance to this important matter, confirm the high regard which I have, and always have had, for you.
With best personal and professional regards,
James Esdaile
I held the letter in my hands for several moments, rereading it and examining the address Esdaile had provided.
“Fergusson,” I said at last. “You sent the statue to Fergusson.”
“I did as the Doctor Sahib instructed,” Noboo said. “It removed the item from India, which was a most satisfactory result. But it is unclear to me what that person would have done with it. Nonetheless, it arrived safely: I have a short note from Mr. Fergusson Sahib acknowledging its receipt.”
My mind raced. I had visited Fergusson not long after Esdaile’s death. He seemed impervious to mesmerism, but surely something as powerful as this statue could not be hidden—it was not in his office near the British Museum, but it might be in his house, or in a bank vault, or in some other safe location. It might be sitting on a shelf on display with pieces of statuary or shards of pottery.
It was obvious why Esdaile had not had it sent to Sydenham—Eliza, or rather Fi, would have known it was there. To Fergusson, it was no doubt one more artifact, even if it did not match anything in his collection.
“He lied to me,” I said to no one in particular. “He was a part of all of this, and he lied to me. When he visited Sydenham late in 1858, he must have already had the statue—or known it was on its way.”
“Where is it now?” Georgiana asked.
“It’s not in India,” I said. “Unless you, too, are lying to me,” I added to Noboo, waving the letter at him. “I can satisfy myself on that account, and—”
Georgiana touched my sleeve.
“William.”
“I am in India, Georgiana. I have traveled all the way to India for this object, if only to secure it somewhere so that the Glass Door is not opened. And now I learn—” I let my arm drop to my side. “I learn that it was sent back to England two years ago! I will make sure this time—”
“William,” she repeated. “Why would Doctor Noboo lie to you?”
“Fergusson would lie to me because he perceived me as an enemy. Because he would think that I wanted to use the statue. The same could be applied to you,” I said to Noboo.
“You will have to judge that for yourself, Davey Sahib,” he said to me.
I turned to Georgiana. “Where is Lieutenant Wood?”
“Watching the proceedings,” Wood said. He had been standing twenty or thirty feet away, leaning against a porch pillar. He walked slowly to the cart. “You need my help, Davey?”
“Your revolver.”
Wood looked at me curiously, and unholstered his service revolver and handed it to me. It was a beautifully made Webley, in perfect condition. I hefted it, noted that it was loaded, and lifted it slowly, aiming it at Noboo.
“William, what are you—”
“Davey,” Wood said.
“I confess that I am not as accurate a shot as Lieutenant Wood. He has established the truth of things more often than I have—I am accustomed to subtler and more pacific means.
“But I assume that this weapon, at this range, would cause a considerable amount of damage to your person.”
Mahendra Noboo met my gaze levelly, showing the courage for which he was named. Georgiana did not speak, but wore a look of horror. Wood appeared unwilling to interfere in this procedure, or perhaps he was fascinated at the sight of a civilian being so bloody-minded.
“I think that your assessment of its firepower is correct, Davey Sahib. I would prefer that you not demonstrate it, but as you hold the pistol and I do not, the matter is entirely in your control.”
“Did you send the statue to Fergusson?”
“I did as the Doctor Sahib asked,” Noboo answered.
“So it is no longer in India.”
“That is correct, Davey Sahib. You have traveled all the way here in vain. Now,” he said, still looking directly at me, “if you are not planning to cause that considerable damage of which you speak, I have other patients to attend to.”
“Give me the revolver, Davey,” Wood said quietly. He did not reach for it, nor make any sudden move.
After a moment, I lowered the pistol and handed it to Wood, handle first, without looking at him.
“I believe I have done what I needed to do here,” I said, and walked slowly away.