CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XI.

I must here interrupt the thread of my narrative, in order to give a few particulars respecting my host and his family, which may serve as samples of the olden time of India.

The general was the youngest of the ten sons of Sir Gerald Capsicum, a fire-eating baronet of a “rare ould ancient Irish family,” and was sent to India about anno 1750, with little more than his sword, his brogue, and the family love of fighting wherewith to assist him on in the world. The general’s career had been varied, and he had gone through all the adventures, public and domestic, which usually happened to those whose lot, in respect to time and place, had been similarly cast.

I have said the general was an Irishman; it follows as a natural consequence, that he was extremely susceptible of the tenderest of passions; and as in his early days there were few white dames in the land, like many others he e’en put up with a black one—attached himself toSung Sittara Begum (the “Queen of Stars”), one of the gazelle-eyed daughters of Hind.

This union, though not cemented by the forms of marriage, was, on the whole, more harmonious and enduring than many that are. I say on the whole; for if tradition may be depended on, the Queen of Stars was wont, now and then, to exhibit traits of vivacity, which were rather of astrikingthan of a pleasing nature. With these trifling breaks, the union long harmoniously subsisted, and was not finally dissolved till the angel of death, one fine day, summoned the Begum to the seventh heaven.

By the Begum, the general had Major John Capsicum, an officer in the service, and commanding the forces of his highness Ram Row Bhow Punt, the Jam of Ghurrumnugger, a Mahratta potentate of small note, whose territories it might be difficult to discover in the map; secondly, Augustus, an indigo planter in the district of Jessore, commonly called by the general’s native servants (who, like all the rest of the fraternity, were notau faitat European names) “Disgustus Sahib;” and Mrs. Colonel Yellowly, a lady of high and indomitable spirit, who died some years before the period to which I am referring, and of whom I could learn little more from record or tradition than that she was rather celebrated for the manufacture of Chutnee and Dopiajah curry, talked a good deal of a certainterra incognitacalled “home,” and ultimately went off rather suddenly,—as some affirm, from chagrin in consequence of having a point of precedence decided against her, arising out of a dispute with Lady Jiggs at a presidency party as to whode jureshould first come in or go out.

The stickling for precedency, by the way, is a disorder very prevalent in colonial dependencies; and like gravitation, which increases with the squares of the distance, its intensity seems to be governed by a somewhat similar law, and to exist in an inverse ratio to the apparent cause for it.

Long after the general had passed his fiftieth year, he married the mother of the amiable widow (a nonpareil grafted on a crab), by all accounts a charming person, who, yielding to importunity, took old Capsicum to gratify the ambition of worldly parents, in whose opinion wealth and rank are all that are essential to connubial happiness.

Poor thing! she gave her hand, but her heart was another’s. The worm-i’-the-bud was there, and soon did the business. Opportunity offered—nature was too powerful for the colder suggestions of duty—she eloped with the man she loved; but even love cannot flourish in an atmosphere of scorn. Mankind are intensely gregarious. Shunned—deserted by her own sex, who, like birds (though from more obvious cause), peck their wounded fellows to death—she died in a lone outpost, and the winds of the jungles pipe over her solitary grave.

“C’est bien difficile d’être fidèleA de certains maris, faits d’an certain modelle,Et qui donne à sa fille un homme qu’elle haït.Est responsable au Ciel pour le mal qu’elle fait.”

“C’est bien difficile d’être fidèleA de certains maris, faits d’an certain modelle,Et qui donne à sa fille un homme qu’elle haït.Est responsable au Ciel pour le mal qu’elle fait.”

“C’est bien difficile d’être fidèleA de certains maris, faits d’an certain modelle,Et qui donne à sa fille un homme qu’elle haït.Est responsable au Ciel pour le mal qu’elle fait.”

“C’est bien difficile d’être fidèle

A de certains maris, faits d’an certain modelle,

Et qui donne à sa fille un homme qu’elle haït.

Est responsable au Ciel pour le mal qu’elle fait.”

Admirable Molière! you never penned a more striking truth. Parents, ponder it well.

The general, after the lapse of some years, with the characteristic valour of the Capsicums, boldly ventured, a short time before I knew him, on a second marriage; but here he caught a Tartar. Mrs. Capsicum the second was an Irish lady (woman I should perhaps say), who came out to India avowedly on spec., with the full determination of marrying a good establishment, with comfortable reversionary prospects, however they might happen to be encumbered. She made play at the general, sang “Erin mavourneen” and “Cathleen O’More,” talked of the Callaghans and Brallaghans, revived the general’s boyish reminiscences of the green hills of Sligo, and ultimately led him, or rather had him carried, to the hymeneal altar! Of love—the propercement of the marriage-union—there was none, on her side at least.

But to return to my narrative.

The widow and I had not been long engaged in conversation (which, as I before hinted, was becoming rather interesting), when we heard the scrape of a violin outside in the passage.

“Oh, here is my father,” said Mrs. Delaval, “coming from his room. Now remember my caution.”

I was about to reply, but she laid her finger on her lip expressively, as much as to say, “Another time; he’s here.”

The old general now entered, with a black velvet sort of nightcap stuck rakishly on his head, and playing rather jauntily “St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning,” to which he hummed an accompaniment—his voice displaying, as usual, all that vigour in its tones which, as I have before remarked, afforded so striking a contrast to his dried-up and time-worn frame: as he entered with his spindle shanks, huge frill, voluminous upper works, pigtail, and velvet cap, I thought I never saw a droller figure. Still the gallant bearing and nonchalance of the little old Irishman, who evidently was unconscious of anything at all out of the way in himself, rather neutralized any feeling of disrespect which his figure was at first calculated to excite.

On seeing me, he finished off the saint with a few galloping flourishes, pushed the fiddle on the table; transferred the stick to his left hand, and made a rapid advance, or rather toddle, towards me, with his right extended.

“Hah, sur, I’m glad to see you,” said he; “Mr. Gernon, I believe? Very happy indeed to have your company, sur; shall be glad to show you ivery attintion in ivery sense of the word, sur, for the sake of my old friend Sir Toby; and I doubt not,” he continued, with a low bow of the old school and a smile, “that I shall be able also to add, on your own.”

As he made this courteous speech and inclination,his eye lighted on a letter lying on the table, which quickly threw the irritable old fellow off his balance, and put the courtier to flight.

“Why,——mee heart, Cordalia,” he thundered out in a voice that startled me; “by all that’s good, that egragious ass, Ramdial, has gone without the letter. A man naid have the timper of an angel to dale with these fellows.”

Mrs. Delaval, to cut the affair short, rose immediately from her seat, and taking the letter, called a servant to the head of the stairs, and quickly rectified the omission.

“Thank ye, Cordalia, mee love,” said the old general as she returned; “thank ye, mee darling;” and taking her hand and drawing the graceful creature towards him, he imprinted a kiss on her cheek.

There’s no use mincing matters—I certainly envied him the privilege.

This little interruption over, I returned to a speech which, having previously worded and fashioned in rather a superior style, I thought it a pity should be lost.

I said, after a hem or two, that I felt deeply obliged for his cordial reception of me, that I should study to deserve his good opinion, and to realize the gratifying anticipations he had so obligingly expressed, &c. &c.

“Ye will, sur; ye will, sur,” said the general; “I’ve not the laste doubt of it; and, plase God, we’ll some day see you as accomplished a soldier as was your poor uncle, the colonel.”

“What! sir,” said I, pleased with the discovery, and with no fear thathewas about to come Chattermohun over me; “did you then know my uncle, Colonel Gernon?”

“Know him!” said the general, with energy and warmth—“I did, and right well too; we were in Goddard’s march together and the Rohilla campaign, and in many places besides. Yes,” he continued, warmingas he went on, “poor Pat Gernon and I have broiled under the same tint and fought under the same banner, ay, by G——, and mounted the same brache together; yes,” added he, clutching his fiddlestick, and looking as fierce as if he was bursting through the fire and carnage of an assault, “I think I now hear the shouts of the inimy, and see your brave uncle lading on his gallant Sapoys through fire and smoke, his beaver in one hand and his sword in the other. Ah,” he went on, touched and overcome, whilst his eye moistened, “them were the days: the thought of them—it is now long, long back—and of all my old companions gone, comes over me sometimes like a faint air or a summer’s drame. Know your uncle! Ay did I, and a braver soldier or a better man (though he had his faults, and who the divil has not?) never broke the bread of life.”

I felt a sensation of choking, whilst all the ancient blood of the Gernons mantled in my cheeks, as I listened to the veteran’s animated laudation of my deceased relative.

“Well, sur,” continued the general, suddenly changing the subject, and as if a little ashamed of the weakness and enthusiasm into which he had been betrayed, “and how did you lave my old friend, Sir Toby? Is he as fond of his bottle and his rubber as he used to be? I think he played the best hand at whist of any man I ever knew.”

“I believe, sir,” said I, “that Sir Toby’s habits are unchanged in those respects; though I am unable to speak much of him from personal knowledge, having obtained the letter of introduction which I have had the honour to deliver to you through the kindness of a mutual friend.”

“Well, never mind how ye got it, so that ye did get it. I am extramely happy that it has been the manes of introducing to my acquaintance the nephew of my old companion in arms, to whom, by the way, you bear a strong resemblance: so now,” he continued, “talk to mydaughter, or amuse yourself in any way ye plase till tiffin, and I’ll do the same; this is liberty hall, where every man does as he plases. Cordalia, my love, where is your mother?”

“I have not seen Mrs. Capsicum, sir, this morning since breakfast,” replied Mrs. Delaval; “but I believe she has gone out to pay some visits.”

“Has she?” said the general dryly; “well, now, I thought I noticed a remarkable stillness over the house.”

This was said in a manner, I thought, which smacked of what may be termed a bitter mirth.

This conversation had scarcely terminated, when we heard a loud and angry voice on the stairs or landing; and next moment, in sailed Mrs. Capsicum Secunda, with a face that would have made a fine study for a Hecate, a Gorgon, a Fury, or any other of those celebrated characters, in whose countenances the ancients were wont to depict all the wildest play of the passions. Mrs. Delaval turned pale, the old general looked dismayed, and I, for my part, groped for my hat, thinking I might doubtless bede tropand better out of the way before the family breeze sprung up, and of which there were such alarming indications.

Mrs. Capsicum seated herself majestically—her lip quivered with rage, and an unhappy poodle, who came to be caressed, and received a sweeping blow from her foot, which caused him to throw a ludicrous somerset. Now, thought I, “look out for squalls.”

General Capsicum knew, probably from experience, that his spouse would generally have the last word, but on the present occasion he was determined (or deemed it politic) to have the first.

“Mrs. Capsicum, mee dear,” said he, in a deprecating tone, “you don’t appear to persave our young friend here, Mr. Gernon” (wishing clearly to throw me out as a tub to the whale). The lady measured me with a momentary glance, and made the stiffest conceivableinclination, accompanied by a look of the concentrated essence of vinegar and brimstone; it was positively annihilating.

After certain premonitory symptoms of Mrs. Capsicum’s passion, out it came:—

“Ginrel Capsicum,” said she, “aither I lave your house, or that rascal Khoda Buccas, coachmaun, laves your service.”

She then proceeded to detail some neglect of which the unfortunate Jehu had been guilty. The general tried to mollify her, but without success, and Khoda Buccas was summoned to the “presence” to answer for his misdeeds: in he came, with a low salaam, and trembling from head to foot.

The general was about to open the charges when Khoda Buccas, who knew all about it beforehand, broke in upon him, and, with the full energy of alarm and great volubility, entered clamorously on his defence.

“Mera kooch kussor nuheen Kodabund(No fault of mine, servant of the Lord, and protector of the poor), butBijlee Goorah(the horse Lightning), was sick (sick maun Hogeya),[12]and then the roan had lost her hind shoes,Gureebpurwar. Here and there, all over the bazaar, your slave hunted for the blacksmith, and could not find him. At last your slave found him, and said, ‘Come quick and shoeSummon Goorah(the roan horse), for the lady will want the carriage, and her disposition is a little warm (misaj tora gurrum), and your slave will be beat and get into trouble;’ and so he said to me ‘Brother,’ said he, &c., &c., and so I was late.”

This and a good deal more, as explained to me by Mrs. Delaval, was the rambling defence of Khoda Buccas, coachmaun. The old gentleman seemed disposed to admit its sufficiency; but madame peremptorily ordered off the unhappy charioteer, with the comfortableassurance that he should be flogged and dismissed.

Oh, tyranny, thou propensity of ungenerous souls! like Othello’s love, thou growest with indulgence; till, like to every other evil, thou at last evokest the spirit that lays thee low!

Well, the storm at last having fairly subsided, the general hobbled to the couch, and took up a paper, as if glad for a season to retreat within himself. Mrs. Delaval and I carried on a conversation in an under-tone, whilst Mrs. Capsicum in silence digested her choler.

The silence was interrupted by the entrance of a native servant, who, with closed hands, and in a manner profoundly respectful, said something in an under-tone to the beebee sahib.

“Ginrel Capsicum,” said Mrs. C., as the servant withdrew, “here is your son Augustus arrived.”

“Is he?” said the old general, jumping up and throwing down the paper; “faith, then, I’m glad of it, and ye haven’t told me a pleasanter thing for a long time, my deer.”

These words were scarcely uttered, when a dark black-whiskered man, of a frank and ingenuous countenance, with a hunting-cap on his head, and a whip in his hand, entered the room, and running up to the old general and seizing his extended hand in both his own, in a manner which bespoke genuine warmth and affection, exclaimed:

“How are you, sir? quite recovered, I hope, from your last attack?”

“Well, my boy, well!” said the general, his eyes sparkling with pleasure as he measured his stalwart dark offspring from head to foot, as if in some doubt as to whether he could really be the sire of such a brawny chiel. “Well! and right glad to see you here; how did you come?”

“Why, I left the factory early this morning, sir,” said “Disgustus;” “came on as far as the Budlamporeghaut in the pinnace; from that I drove the buggy down to the Thannah, and there I found Golaub in waiting; I rode him in here at a rattling pace—confounded hot work it was, though; and I expect I’ve rather taken the shine out of the Arab.”

“That’s well,” said the general, “and now be sated. Augustus, my young friend, Mr. Gernon; Mr. Gernon, my son, Mr. Augustus Capsicum.”

I bowed with English formality, but the hearty man of blue did not appear to understand that sort of thing, but came up and shook me by the hand; asked me if I was lately arrived, and said he was glad to see me. This was a pleasing trait, and showed me the frankness of his disposition.

After some little conversation with his mother-in-law, with whom it was easy to perceive he was no particular favourite, and a lively chat with his lovely and generous-minded sister, who it was equally obvious loved her dark brother, in spite of the bend sinister in his escutcheon,[13]General Capsicum again addressed his son:

“Well, Augustus,” said he, “what are the prospects of indigo this year? how does the blue look?”

“Oh! fair, sir, very fair. If we have no further rise of the river, and get a few light showers, and the rain does not fall too long to wash the colour out of the plant, and this wind continues, we shall do very well this year. The price is well up, Rs. 300 a maund for the best, and I think we shall make 600. The plant looks beautiful on the Chuckergolly churs—at least it did till the Bobberygunge Talookdar’s cows and buffaloes got into it. However, after all, I think we shall, on the whole, have a capital season.”

“That’s well,” said the general. “Egad, I think we’ll see you go home with your plum, Augustus, yet.”

“Home, sir!” said Augustus; “I know of no home but India. Here I was born, and here, please God, I will die, however singular the determination.”

Tiffin was now announced, and we descended to the dining-room. Tiffin, or lunch, is in Bengal a delightful meal, suitable in its character to the climate, which renders the supererogatory one of dinner, particularly in the hot season, with its hecatombs of smoking meat and general superfluity of viands, often very much the reverse.

The tiffin on the whole passed off very agreeably. Mrs. Delaval described society as it exists in the Madras presidency, and much she had seen and heard there. Augustus told us of a recent battle-royal, a sort of Bengalee Chevy Chase, which had been fought between his followers and those of a neighbouring Zumeendar, by way of settling the right to some disputed beegahs of indigo; in which many crowns were cracked, and astonishing feats of chivalry displayed on both sides.

But the parts of his conversation which most delighted me, were the accounts he gave of sundry wild hog and buffalo hunts, which after deducting about 50 per cent. on account of embellishments—for sportsmen, like poets, must be allowed some considerable latitude in that way—were really very exciting. In fact, I told him I was dying to have a touch at the hogs and buffaloes myself, and that I hoped it would not be long before I fleshed my maiden spear on a few of the former.

This looked rather like a fish for an invitation to the Junglesoor Factory, and I won’t swear that I was wholly without design on the worthy indigo planter’s hospitality in making the remark; whether he, viewed it in this light, or not, I cannot say, but he promptly said he should be happy to gratify my longing in that line, if I would go and spend a fortnight with him at his factory.

I replied, “I should be delighted to accompany him, if I could obtain leave.”

“Oh!” said he, “that difficulty can easily be overcome;my father, I dare say, will give you a note to a friend of his in the adjutant-general’s office, who’ll procure you leave at once.”

“I shall have a grate dale of pleasure in so doing,” said the general; “but Augustus, now, I entrate you, lade the young man into no scrapes: and don’t let us hear of his being gored by a buffalo, or ate up by a tiger, or killed by some of them brutes of horses of yours.”

“Oh! no,” said Augustus, laughing and winking at me; “well take care of all that, sir.”

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