CHAPTER XII.
My last chapter left us seated around the social board at Tiffin. A little incident occurred during this meal, which for a moment disturbed the harmony of the party, and, whilst strongly elucidating the character given by Mrs. Delaval of her father, showed that her caution to me, to be on my guard with the atrabilious old hero, was not bestowed without reason. The general’s temper truly was like a pistol with a hair-trigger (as I had afterwards further occasion to observe), going off at the slightest touch, and requiring infinite caution in the handling.
Like many old Indians of that day, and I may add, most old gentlemen, the general piqued himself on the quality of his wines. He had a history for every batch; generally ramifying into almost interminable anecdotes of the Dicks and Bobs, defunctbon vivansof other days, who in the course of half a century had partaken of his hospitality.
“What do you think of that claret, Mr. Gernon?” asked the old general, after I had duly engulphed abonum magnumof it. “I’ll engage you find that good.”
Now I must confess that, up to that period (sundryglasses of ginger and gooseberry inclusive), the aggregate quantity of vinous fluid consumed by me, and constituting the basis of my experience, could not have exceeded two or three dozen at the most. But I was flattered by the general’s appeal, and, as a military man, I felt that I ought not to appear ignorant and inexperienced on such a matter.
Many young Oxonians and Cantabs, whom I had known at home, little my seniors, had talked flingingly in my presence of “their wine,” and the quantity consumed by the “men” of their respective colleges; and why should not I, methought, assume the air of the “savoir vivre,” and appear at home in these things, who have already figured in print and buckled cold steel on my thigh? I had heard much, too, of light wines, and dry wines, wines that were full and strong-bodied, &c., and, though I attached no very clear and definite ideas to these terms, I had still a hazy conception of their meaning, and was determined, at all events, to sport one or two of them on the present occasion.
In reply to the general’s question, I filled a glass, and after taking an observation of the sun through it (just then darting his evening rays through the venetians) with my right eye, accompanied by a scientific screw of the facial muscles, pronounced it, with a smack, to be a fine full-bodied wine, adding, unhappily, that “I should have almost taken it for port.”
The general laid down his knife and fork. “Port! Why, sir, sure ye never drank a drop of good claret in your life, if you say so.”
“I beg pardon, sir!” said I (I saw I was getting into a scrape), “but I may perhaps be wrong in saying it resembles port. I meant to say—to imply—that is—that it is very strong claret.”
“Pooh, nonsense,” said the general pettishly, on whom my explanation was far from producing the desired effect. “Ye can know nothing about claret”(he was not very wide of the mark there). “Strong! like port, indeed!!”
“My dear father,” said Mrs. Delaval (the women are ever our good geniuses on these occasions), who marked, I have no doubt, the clouds gathering on my brow, “never mind; what does it signify? You know,” said she, laying her hand on the general’s shoulder, and looking at him with a sweet and beseeching expression, “you know, Mr. Gernon is quite young, and cannot have had much experience in wines.”
“Then let him take my advice, Cordalia, and not talk about what he does not understand. Strong! ha! ha! Port, indeed!”
I was thunderstruck, and thought verily I should have launched the bottle at the head of the testy old veteran, so deep a wound had my pride received. I could hardly believe it possible that one of evidently so fine a character in the main, could give way to such unbecoming conduct on so trifling a matter.
The fact is, the general had had his crosses and trials, and such often shatter the temper irretrievably, though the heart and principles may remain sound—much charity and discrimination are requisite to enable us to form a just judgment of others, to decide on the predominant hue of that mingled skein which constitutes individual character.
Augustus, worthy fellow that he was, saw my distress and redoubled his civility, whilst Mrs. Delaval, by that tact and kindness which women best know how to exhibit on such occasions, endeavoured to soften my sense of the indignity; even Mrs. Capsicum took up the cudgels in my behalf, and told the general roundly that he made himself quite ridiculous about his wine. But all would not do; the affront was too recent, and I was moody and glum, pondering within myself as to whether there were any well-established precedents on record, of ensigns of seventeen calling out and shooting generals of eighty.
General Capsicum’s irritability, however, soon subsided, and compunctious visitings arose; I could see this by his eye and the softened expression of his countenance, and that he was moreover anxious to make theamende honorable; at last he reached the bottle and filled himself a bumper and me another.
“Come,” said he, good-humouredly, “let us try another glass, and d——n the port. Here’s your very good health, and success to your first day’s hog-hunting with Augustus.”
I returned the salutation rather stiffly, for, though of a placable nature, I had not digested the affront; however, the tide of my anger was turned, and by dinnertime the general and I were as good friends as if nothing had happened.
We lingered for an hour or two at the tiffin table, Augustus Sahib entertaining me with some details of snipe-shooting, and arranging a programme of our future sporting operations, the general drowsily smoking his hookah and nodding in his chair, with an occasional start and muttered commentary on our conversation, indicative, I once or twice thought, of some fresh explosion.
At length, on the approach of evening, the servants, as is usual in India, unbolted and threw open the long venetian doors, to admit the cool air, and out we sauntered on the lawn, to join the ladies (to whose number some addition had been made), and who had preceded us, and were admiring the moving scene on the river.
The sun had just gone down, and all nature seemed to be with one accord putting forth a rejoicing shout, an excess of that luminary producing all the torpid effects which arise from a deficiency of his beams elsewhere. The kite whistled querulously from the house-top, the maynas and squirrels chattered joyfully in the trees, ring-doves cooed, and the bright yellow mango birds and the dark coel (loved of Indian maids) shot through the cool groves and glades of cocoa-nut and bananas (plantains), uttering their clear and shrilly notes.
Mr. Augustus joined the stately Mrs. Capsicum and the newly-arrived spinster, whilst I paired off with the widow, towards whom I felt myself drawn by an irresistible power of attraction. I felt great delight certainly in the society and conversation of this lady; though then too young to analyze the sources of my admiration, reflection has since shown me what they were, having passed them through the prism of my mind, and separated those pencils of moral light which, united, produced the sum of her excellence. I cannot here resist drawing a little portrait of her.
To a full, yet graceful, person Mrs. Delaval united a countenance, which, if not regularly beautiful, still beamed with goodness and intelligence—sensible, lively, yet modest and discreet, she was all that man should desire, and woman wish to be. Above the common littlenesses of the world, her heart was deeply fraught with feeling and sensibility—though, unlike her sex in general, she could direct and restrain them both by the powers of a clear and masculine understanding. Her Irish paternity had given her impulses; her Saxon blood had furnished their regulating power. She played, sang, drew, and, in a word, was mistress of all those lighter accomplishments which serve to attract lovers, but which alone rarely suffice to keep them; to these she added a mind of an original turn, improved by reading and reflection. Much good advice did she impart, the nature of which the reader may readily imagine, and which it will therefore be unnecessary to repeat. It is from the lips of such Mentors, that “truth” indeed “prevails with double sway”—one smile from them goes further towards convincing than a dozen syllogisms.
Many years have now passed since I took that stroll on the banks of the “dark rolling Hooghly;” many a hand I then clasped has since become cold; and many a voice I loved to listen to, mute for ever; but the scene remains pictured in my mind in strong and ineffaceable colours.
I think I now behold the group we formed, the white dresses of the ladies, making them to look like spirits walking in a garden, and honest Augustus, with hissolah topee,[14]looking down on his shoes, and saying agreeable things, the shadows of evening closing around us; the huge fox bats sailing heavily overhead; the river spreading its broad surface before us, suffused with the crimson flush of departing day; the boats moving across it afar, their oars dabbling as it were in quicksilver; the mists rising slowly from neighbouring groves stealing over the scene, and then the stilly, tranquil hour, broken only by the plash of passing oars, the sound of a distant gong, or the far-off music of a marriage ceremony, or the hum and drumming of the bazaar—those drowsy sounds of an Indian eve. It was a bit of still life to be ever remembered.
The guests for theburra khananow began to arrive. Gigs, carriages, and palankeens, flambeaux, dancing lights, and the musical groans of thecahars, or bearers, as they hurried along the winding road, made the general’s domain, a few moments before buried in repose, a scene of life and animation.
We returned to the mansion. The reception room was fast filling. Generals, colonels, judges, barristers of the Supreme Court, merchants, agents, writers, with their ladies, theéliteof Calcutta fashionable society, was, now, for the first time, submitted to my observation. White jackets, and still whiter faces, were the predominating features of the group (except where relieved by English blood and up-country brickdust), whose manners on the whole struck me as being more frank and open than those of people in England, although that freedom occasionally bordered, I thought in many, on a rough, familiar, horse-play sort of manner, which then, at least, was too common in India, where the causes which predispose to a disregard of courtesy are unfortunately too rife.
Some of the party discussed politics, horse-racing, the latest news from up the country, the promotions and appointments, and so forth, in groups; whilst others, four or five abreast, stumped up and down the broad verandah, talking and laughing energetically; their spirits evidently enlivened by the rapid locomotion in which they were indulging.
General Capsicum was very pleasant with theburra beebee, a fine stately old dame, with a turban of bird of paradise plumes, and with whom, I afterwards learned he had actually walked a minuet in the year of grace 1770. Mrs. Capsicum, surrounded by a group of military men and young writers, was endeavouring to reduce her large mouth to the smallest possible dimensions—mincing the kings English, and “talking conversation” “mighty illigant” to the whole ring, in whose countenances a certain mock gravity indicated pretty evidently what they thought of her.
At last, thekhansaman-jee, or chief butler, a very important and respectable personage, with an aldermanic expansion of the abdominal region, a huge black beard, and a napkin hanging from hiskummerbund, or girdle, with hands respectfully closed, head on one side, and an air most profoundly deferential, announced to the general that the dinner was served “Tiar hyn?”
“Dinner ready, did ye say?” said the general, who was a little deaf, and turning up his best ear to catch the reply.
“Han khodabund” (“yes, slave of the Lord),” repeated thekhansaman-jee.
“Come, gintlemen; come, leedies—those who have any mind to ate may follow me.”
Thus saying, the general, with greatgaité de cœur, presented his arm to the old lady of the bird of paradise plume, and hobbled off with her, chattering and laughing, and followed by the whole company. I, thelankygriffin, brought up the rear, looking, on the whole rather “small.”
Thecoup d’œilof a grand dinner party in Calcutta, given by a rich merchant or high official, is a very splendid affair, and perhaps eclipses anything to be seen in the mansions of persons of the same rank in England.
The generals presented a brilliant sample of oriental style: a long and lofty room in a blaze of lustre, from a row of wall lights; a table, covered with a profusion of plate and glass, occupied nearly the whole length of the apartment; the hugepunkahs, suspended from the ceiling, with their long fringes, waved to and fro, gently agitating the air in the room, which would otherwise have been hardly endurable from the crowd it contained.
There was much lively conversation, taking wine, and clashing of knives and plates; altogether far less quiet, I thought, than at a dinner in England. The peculiar feature, however, of the scene, and that which marked most strongly its eastern character, was the multitude of servants in attendance on the guests; behind each chair, on an average, stood twokhidmut-gars, or footmen, with black beards and mustachios, and attired in the various gay liveries of their masters, adapted to the turban and Indian costume; most of them were the domestics of great people, and exhibited in their looks a good deal of that pampered, self-satisfied importance, so often observable in our metropolitan servants here at home—the vulgar reflection of their masters’ consequence. Many stood, their arms folded, with Roman dignity, gazing consequentially about them, and mentally making their observations on their fellow-servants and the guests. Dinner over and the ladies withdrawn, the gentlemen closed up, and the conversation became more general.
The Calcutta dinner parties are not usually scenes of uproarious conviviality; yet, as this was the anniversary of some great event in the history of the general, he seemed determined on its being celebrated with something approaching to a “jollification.” “Fill your glasses, gintlemen,” said he, as we closed up after theusual loyal toasts, “and I’ll give ye a sentiment that I remember was a favourite of my father’s.”
There was a profound silence—the little veteran arose, and valorously grasping his glass, and stretching out his arm, delivered the following, with a rich brogue and a most determined emphasis:—
“May hemp bind the man that honour can’t, and the devil ride rough-shod over the rascally part of the community.”
The sentiment was drunk with much glee, and many a hearty response, followed by songs and speeches.
It was late when, taking leave of the general’s family, I returned to my room in the barracks.