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, defunct _bon vivans_ of 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 a _bonum magnum_ of it. “I’ll engage you find
that good.”
Now I must confess that, up to that period (sundry glasses 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 the _amende 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 his _solah 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 the _burra khana_ now began to arrive. Gigs, carriages,
and palankeens, flambeaux, dancing lights, and the musical groans of the
_cahars_, 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, the _élite_ of 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 the _burra 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, the _khansaman-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 his _kummerbund_,
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 the
_khansaman-jee_.
“Come, gintlemen; come, leedies—those who have any mind to ate may
follow me.”
Thus saying, the general, with great _gaité 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, the
_lanky_ griffin, brought up the rear, looking, on the whole rather
“small.”
The _coup d’œil_ of 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 huge _punkahs_, 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 two _khidmut-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 the usual 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.