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.
