The Funeral Pile
Last Monday at Étretat the death occurred of an Indian prince, Bapu Sahib Khanderao Ghatgay, a relative of His Highness the Maharajah Gaikwar, Prince of Baroda, in the Province of Gujarath, Bombay Presidency.
For about three weeks previously a group of about ten young Indians had been noticed in the streets, small, lithe young fellows, completely black, and dressed in grey suits, with broad-peaked cloth caps. They were distinguished potentates who had come to Europe to study the military institutions of the principal Western nations. The group consisted of three princes, a friend of high caste, an interpreter and three servants.
It was the head of this mission who had died, an old man of forty-two, the father-in-law of Sampatrao Kashivao Gaikwar, brother of His Highness the Gaikwar of Baroda. His son-in-law was with him. The others were Ganpatrao Shavanrao Gaikwar, cousin of His Highness Khasherao Gadhav; Vasudev Madhav Samarth, secretary and interpreter, and the servants, Ramchandra Bajaji, Ganu bin Pukaram Kokate, Rhambhaji bin Favji.
When the deceased gentleman was leaving his country he was overcome by sorrow, convinced that he would never return, and he wanted to abandon the trip, but he had to submit to the will of his noble relative, the Prince of Baroda, so he set out.
They came to spend the last weeks of summer at Étretat, and the curious used to watch them bathing every morning at the Roches Blanches baths.
Five or six days ago Bapu Sahib Khanderao Ghatgay began to suffer from pains in his gums, then the inflammation spread to his throat, which became ulcerated. Gangrene set in, and on Monday the doctors informed his young friend that he would not recover. He sank almost immediately after that, and when the unfortunate man seemed on the point of breathing his last, his friends caught him in their arms, lifted him out of bed, and placed him on the tiled floor, so that he might die in contact with Mother Earth, according to the laws of Brahma.
On the same day they requested the permission of the Mayor, Monsieur Boissaye, to burn the corpse, also in accordance with the rites of their religion. The Mayor hesitated, then telegraphed to the Prefecture for instructions, stating, however, that, in the absence of any reply to the contrary, he would give his consent. As no reply had been received by nine o’clock in the evening, it was decided that, in view of the infectious character of the disease of which the Indian had died, his body would be cremated that very night on the shore beneath the cliffs, as the tide receded.
At present no objection has been raised against this decision of the Mayor’s, who acted as a man of intelligence and resolution, with broad-minded ideas, and who was supported, moreover, by the advice of the three doctors who had followed the case and issued the certificate of death.
There was a dance that night at the Casino. It was a premature autumn evening, and rather cold. A strong wind was blowing in from the ocean, though the sea was not rough, and ragged, torn clouds scudded across the sky. They came up from the distant horizon, and as they approached the moon they became white, covered it rapidly, and obscured it for a second or two without actually hiding it. The tall cliffs which enclose the rounded seashore of Étretat, terminating in the two celebrated arcades known as “The Gates,” remained hidden in the shadows, forming two huge black spots on the landscape under the tender light of the moon.
It had been raining all day.
The Casino orchestra was playing waltzes, polkas and quadrilles. Suddenly a rumour spread through the crowd. People were saying that an Indian prince had just died at the Hôtel des Bains, and that the authorities had been approached for permission to burn the body. Nobody believed the story; or at least nobody thought it was likely to happen soon, it seemed so contrary to our customs, and as the night advanced everybody went home.
At midnight the lamplighter went from street to street extinguishing one after the other the yellow gas jets which lit up the sleeping houses, the mud and the puddles of water. He waited, watching for the moment when the little town would be empty and still.
Ever since midday a carpenter had been cutting wood, wondering in his amazement what was going to be done with all these boards sawn into little pieces, and why so much good material was being wasted. This wood was loaded on to a cart and taken off by side streets to the shore without arousing the suspicions of the few late pedestrians who met it. The cart went along the shingle to the very foot of the cliffs, and when its load had been emptied, the three Indian servants began to build up a funeral pile, which was longer than it was broad. They did all the work alone, for no profane hand could help them in this solemn task. It was one o’clock in the morning when the relatives of the dead man were informed that they could carry out their wishes.
The door of the little house which they occupied was opened, and in the narrow hall, dimly lighted, we saw the corpse lying on trestles, and wrapped in white silk. The form could be seen distinctly beneath its white covering, lying on its back. The Indians stood, motionless and very solemn, at his feet while one of them went through the prescribed ritual, murmuring in a monotonous whisper words we could not understand. He moved around the corpse, sometimes touching it, then, taking an urn which hung from three chains, he sprinkled it for a long time with the holy water of the Ganges, which Indians must always carry with them, wherever they may go.
Then the trestles were raised by four of them, who set out slowly. The moon had disappeared leaving the muddy, empty streets in darkness, but the corpse on the trestles seemed luminous, the silk was so dazzling. It was an impressive sight to see the bright form of this body passing through the night, carried by men whose skin was so dark that one could not distinguish between their faces and hands and their clothes, in the shadows. Three Indians followed behind the corpse, then came the tall figure of an Englishman in a light grey overcoat, who stood head and shoulders above them, a charming and distinguished man, their guide, counsellor and friend in Europe.
Beneath the cold, foggy skies of this little Northern watering-place I felt as if I were witnessing a symbolical spectacle. It seemed to me as though the conquered genius of India were being borne in front of me, while in its wake, as in a funeral procession, followed the victorious genius of England, dressed in a grey ulster.
The four bearers stopped a moment on the rolling shingle to get their breath, then they went on, walking very slowly now, and staggering beneath their burden. At last they reached the funeral pile, which had been built in a cave at the very foot of the cliffs, which rose to a height of some three hundred feet, all white, but looking sombre in the night. The pile was about three feet high. The corpse was laid upon it, and one of the Indians asked in what direction lay the North Star. It was pointed out to him, and the dead Rajah was stretched out with his feet turned towards his native land. Twelve bottles of petroleum were then poured over him, and he was completely covered with fir planks. For another hour the relatives and servants kept adding to the pile, which looked like those heaps of wood which carpenters keep in their lofts. Then twenty bottles of oil were emptied on to the edifice, and right on the top a sack of shavings. A few feet away a light flickered in a little bronze spirit-lamp, which had been burning since the corpse arrived.
The moment had come. The relatives went to set a flame to the pile. As the lamp was not burning well they poured some oil into it, and suddenly the flame shot up, lighting the great wall of rocks from top to bottom. An Indian who was stooping over the lamp stood up, with his two hands raised and his elbows folded, and a colossal black shadow was suddenly thrown upon the immense white cliffs, the shadow of Buddha, in his traditional pose. The little pointed cap which the man was wearing suggested the god’s headdress. The effect was so striking and unexpected that I felt my heart beating as if some supernatural apparition had loomed up in front of me. It was indeed the ancient and sacred image, come from the heart of the Orient to this other end of Europe to watch over its child who was being burnt there.
The shadow disappeared. They approached with the lamp. The shavings at the top caught fire, then the flames spread to the wood, and a powerful light illuminated the shore, the shingle, and the foaming waves that broke on the sand. It grew larger every moment, till it lit up the dancing crests of the waves on the distant sea. The wind from the ocean blew in gusts, increasing the flames, which died down, twisted and shot up again, throwing out thousands of sparks. They ran along the cliffs with lightning speed, and were lost in the sky, where they mingled with the stars and added to the number. Some sea birds were aroused and uttered their plaintive cries, as they flew in wide curves, passing with outstretched wings through the brilliant light, and disappearing again into the darkness.
Very soon the funeral pile was one mass of burning wood, not red, but yellow, a dazzling yellow, a furnace lashed by the wind. Suddenly it shook beneath a gust stronger than the others, collapsed in part, falling towards the sea. The corpse was uncovered and was quite visible, a dark patch on a bed of fire, burning with long blue flames. When the pile collapsed on the right hand side the corpse turned like a man in his bed. It was at once covered up with fresh wood, and the flames roared more furiously than before.
Seated in a semicircle on the shingle the Indians looked on with sad and serious faces. The rest of us, as it was cold, came close enough to the fire to feel the sparks and the smoke on our faces. There was no smell but that of pine and petroleum.
Hours passed and dawn appeared. Towards five o’clock nothing remained but a heap of ashes. The relatives picked them up, threw some into the air, some into the sea, and kept a little in a brass jar to be taken back to India. Then they withdrew to weep for the dead at home. In this fashion these young princes and their servants, with only the most elementary material, succeeded in cremating their relative with singular skill and remarkable dignity. Everything was accomplished in accordance with the rites and laws of their religion. The dead man rests in peace.
The following day there was great excitement in Étretat. Some pretended that a man had been burnt alive, others that it was an attempt to conceal a crime. It was said that the Mayor would be imprisoned; while certain people asserted that the Indian prince had succumbed to an attack of cholera. The men were amazed and the women indignant. All day a crowd lingered at the site of the funeral pile, looking for pieces of bone amongst the still warm shingle. Enough bones were picked up to make ten whole skeletons, for the farmers of the neighborhood often throw their dead sheep into the sea. The gamblers carefully placed these different fragments in their purses. But not one of them has a genuine piece of the Indian prince.
That evening a representative of the government came to hold an inquiry. He seemed, however, to view this strange case like a man of reason and intelligence. But what will he say in his report? The Indians declared that if they had been prevented from cremating their dead in France, they would have taken the corpse to a freer country, where they could conform to their own customs.
So I have seen a man burned on a funeral pile, and it has given me a desire to end in the same fashion. Everything is over at once. The slow work of nature is thus hastened by man, rather than retarded by a hideous coffin in which decomposition goes on for months. The body is dead and the spirit has departed. The purifying fire scatters in a few hours what was a human being, casting it to the winds, turning to air and ashes, instead of unspeakable putrefaction.
That is a clean and healthy method. Under the clay, in that closed box in which the body becomes pulp, a black stinking pulp, the process of putrefaction becomes something repugnant and atrocious. The coffin which descends into a muddy hole makes the heart ache, but the funeral pile flaming up to heaven has an element of greatness, beauty and solemnity.