CONTAINING THE MEMOIRS OF A CAPTIVE.
_From Miss Sylvia Freyne to Miss Amelia Turnor._
Muxadavad, _End of October_, 1756.
Although I have finished the history of the misfortunes that brought
me to this place, I yet continue to write, more for the sake of
occupying my mind than from any hope that the letter will ever reach
my Amelia. It has taken me a whole month to complete my narrative, for
so weak was my hand in commencing that I could not manage above half a
page a day, though now I can with little weariness fill the best part
of one of the thick gilt-edged sheets of paper with which Meer Sinzaun
has furnished me. But why make such a business of it? my dear girl
will cry. Because, Amelia, I must find something to do, or I believe
that the sufferings I endured before coming here, and the
apprehensions natural to my present frightful situation, would drive
me mad. Meer Sinzaun was wiser than I thought him when he permitted
his prisoner to divert herself with pen and ink, for he don’t desire
(no more than Lovelace did) to find himself the gaoler of a wretch
whose intellects are disordered. Figure to yourself, Amelia, that for
near four months, which I have spent in this prison, I have seen no
one but Misery and the two or three women belonging to the house, and
now and then a gardener or other low-_cast_ person in the distance,
without it be that I get sometimes a stolen peep into the street
through a small barred window in the upper storey, but only when
Misery is absent, for she threatened me with having my one spy-hole
bricked up when once she catched me indulging myself with a glimpse of
the world. Shamefully though this wicked old woman abused me in the
matter of bringing me here, I can’t say but she is civil and
respectful enough at most times, making her chief exception when she
chances to find me praying. This she appears unable to endure, and
makes a point of interrupting me, or of fidgeting about so as to
disturb my thoughts. It seems to me that Sinzaun must have threatened
her very severely in case I contrived to escape, and that she fears
some miracle being wrought by Heaven to assist me. If the poor
creature knew how often I have prayed in vain that I might die, sure
she would experience no further alarm at the sight of my prayers; but,
indeed, she is right enough in imagining that if I should ever effect
an escape from this house it must be by means of a miracle.
Do you remember, Amelia, that day when the Rector’s brother came to
pay his respects to the gentlewomen at Holly-tree House, and
discovered us all sitting round in tears, our needlework neglected,
while Mrs Eustacia read aloud to us from the pages of ‘Clarissa’? The
good bluff gentleman, you’ll recollect, sat for a while listening,
with a snort or a “Pshaw!” at intervals, as though determined not to
be moved, but at last, taking advantage of the moment when Mrs
Eustacia herself had been forced to remove her spectacles, in order to
wipe away the moisture that was gathered on ’em, he cleared his
throat, and looking round very fiercely upon us, demanded what the
mischief Clarissa meant by secluding herself in an obscure lodging at
Hampstead, and thereby increasing the perils of her dangerous
situation, instead of seeking out a magistrate at once and throwing
herself upon his protection? You’ll remember how we all cried out that
the delicacy of her sentiments, her respect for the punctilio of her
family, the fear of directing public attention to her own equivocal
position, and a dread of finding herself repulsed, would all prevent a
female of elegant feelings from taking so bold and resolved a step.
“Then I hope for your own sakes, my pretty Misses,” says the good
gentleman, “that you’ll none of you ever find yourselves in that poor
girl’s situation, or your delicate sentiments will land you in a worse
trouble than mere public notice,” and he stumped away with a
prodigious determination.
But if he were here now, I think that good man would confess that I
have not even Clarissa’s chance of escape allowed me. My dear girl
won’t do me the injustice to suppose that I have sat down tamely to
submit to any fate my captor may destine for me. No, I have made the
circuit of the garden and the roofs which surround it times without
number, seeking to discover some unguarded window or door, some
outside staircase, or even some broken place that might afford me the
means of getting outside my boundaries, but to show you with what lack
of success I need only say that Misery don’t even take the pains to
follow me, now that she’s satisfied I shan’t throw myself over. She
wraps her head in her cloth and falls asleep, taking occasion when she
awakes to ask me, in the humblest style in the world, whether I have
yet succeeded in finding a cranny to squeeze myself through? But even
if I could elude her vigilance and that of the rest, and let myself
down over the wall by any means, in what sort of situation should I
find myself on the outside, in a country where women of quality never
stir out of their own grounds but in a suitable conveyance and
surrounded with armed servants? Without friends or money, knowing the
language but imperfectly, what could your poor Sylvia do? Sinzaun was
right when he said that she might well find herself in a worse
captivity than this.
In fine, my dear Miss Turnor, I can’t see the smallest hope of my
escaping unless I can obtain some dye with which to stain my skin, and
a trustworthy guide who would undertake to procure me the dress of a
low-_cast_ female, and convey me to one of the European factories near
Cossimbuzar. But how hopeless does it appear to seek for such a person
in a city where we Britons are now not only hated, but despised!
Nevertheless, in the faint expectation of lighting upon some such
charitable soul, I have sought to enter into conversation upon
indifferent topics with each of the women of the house at various
times, intending to broach my subject by degrees, but they all feign
not to understand anything I say. Their stupidity must be assumed,
Amelia, for if I spoke Moors as badly as they pretend, how could I
make Misery understand me, which she does without the smallest
difficulty? The truth is, my dear, that it’s useless to seek to work
upon people of this sort without you have money to offer ’em, and that
I have not, and they know it. Had I command of sufficient sums, I
believe I might be able to buy over even Misery herself, for I have
seen her eyes sparkle with avarice when I hinted at the quantity of
rupees my friends would pay were I restored to them. But alas! I have
not so much as an _anna_ to give her as the earnest of a reward, and
Misery is a prudent soul, preferring not to do business save for money
down.
But how then do I occupy myself, my Amelia will ask, in a place where
there’s no visitors, no diversions, no walking nor riding abroad, and
no books? Indeed, my dear, I make the fruitless journeys I have
described round the circuit of my prison, I observe the growth of the
flowers and sometimes pluck a few, I write to my dear distant friend,
and I work with my needle. Perhaps I have no right to say _my_ needle,
for you don’t know the odd rules that these people have, all the
sewing and embroidering being done, as a general rule, by men. To show
you the difficulty I found to obtain this natural and necessary weapon
of our sex, I must tell you something about my clothes. When I was
first able to leave my bed, Misery had the assurance to bring a
complete Persian dress for me to put on. You would have laughed,
Amelia, if you had not been in my situation, to picture me wearing
first a vest of thin silk, then a little velvet waistcoat ornamented
with goldsmith’s work, and a silk petticoat of red and green
stripes--the stripes going _round_ the garment, fancy, my dear!--and
over all a cloth or veil of silk five or six yards long. Turning away
in much displeasure, I bade Misery fetch me my own clothes, which she
did with a good deal of grumbling. But alas! though they had been
washed while I lay sick, they were so ragged and stained and shrunk
that ’twas impossible to put them on.
“You are a Moorwoman now, Beebee,” says the presumptuous Misery, “and
of course you’ll wear the Moorish dress.”
“I en’t a Moorwoman, and I won’t wear a Moorish dress,” said I, upon
which the old woman had the insolence to mutter that since Meer
Sinzaun furnished the clothes I might as well wear what he sent.
“On the contrary,” said I, “I’ll have ’em as unlike as possible to
those he sent, that so I may forget the humiliation sooner. How dare
you, woman, bring me these shocking gaudy colours, when you know I’m
lamenting the loss of the most tender and deeply honoured of parents?
Fetch me some decent black stuff, and a tailor to make a gown
according to my taste, for I won’t wear these things.”
Finding me so angry, Misery became vastly submissive, as is her way
when I assert my will, and entreated with tears that I would pardon my
slave, for there was no such thing as a black stuff to be had in all
Muxadavad, since none of the Indians wear this mournful hue, and that
to send to any of the foreign factories for it would cause suspicion
that ’twas a European desired so unusual a fabric.
“Very well,” I said, “I en’t unreasonable. You may bring me white or
gray or purple, and I’ll wear it, provided the tailor knows his
business.”
But at this Misery fell down at my feet again, and struck her head
against the floor, lamenting that ’twas impossible to employ a tailor.
He would demand a muster,[16.01] she said, and when he had my old
gown given him, there would be no concealing that ’twas part of a
European dress. This was true enough, and I resigned with some regret
the notion of the tailor, for these men are extraordinary ingenious in
copying any pattern given to ’em, and produce wonderful pieces of work
with their rusty needles and scissors that scarce hang together at the
rivet. “Come,” I said to Misery, “you and the other maid-servants
shall do the sewing, and I’ll tell you what I wish done.” But to hear
the cry she raised, you would think she had never touched a needle in
all her life, which I can hardly credit. Then, imagining that she had
vanquished me, she sat up upon her heels with a smile of assurance to
see me put on the Persian clothes. But this I was resolved not to do,
for the dress would have been the very livery of slavery, implying
that I laid down willingly the privileges of our own free and
enlightened land to take up the wretched degraded existence of the
Indian women. “Not at all, Misery,” I said; “see that the stuff is
got, and I’ll do the sewing myself.” At this there was another shriek
of protest, but this time I was firm, and when next the steward came
to the curtain to enquire my wishes, I demanded stuff and needles and
thread. (My own needles were gone out of my hussy. I fear Misery knows
more about them than she feigned to do.) The steward appeared to
consider my request in the highest degree extraordinary, more
especially when Misery had spoke to him for some time in the
Persic[16.02] language, which I don’t understand, but upon my
recalling to him sharply his master’s orders, he besought my pardon
humbly for his hesitation and promised obedience. More, he asked me
whether I was content with my woman, or if I found her saucy, and
would prefer another, but to this I answered that she was well enough,
and I desired no change. You perceive, my dear, I know that Misery is
false to me, but with another I might be in doubt whether she was to
be trusted or no, and so perhaps be led into rash confidences. My
forbearance gained me much credit with Misery, who came to me
afterwards and placed my foot upon her head, thanking me, in her usual
insinuating, deceitful style, for my goodness in passing over her pert
behaviour.
Well, Amelia, I had my stuffs fetched me at last, white muslin for
gowns, and a sort of dark purple satin, very rich and thick, for a
petticoat. You’ll smile to think of your Sylvia setting up as a
mantuamaker and milaner,[16.03] but I found the benefit of Mrs
Abigail’s instructions while at the school, and I don’t think my work
would disgrace me, even in England. But oh, my dear, the difficulties
of making a gown where there’s no such thing as lining or buttons or
hooks and eyes, or even lace or trimming! I wish I could show my
Amelia my wonderful devices of muslin frills, and ribbons made of
strips of satin, and gold clasps used for buttons. But at least I have
shown Misery which of us is mistress and which maid, and I have
refused to be turned into a Moorwoman to please the taste of my wicked
persecutor, who--
Oh, my dearest girl, I am in such a tremble I can’t go on writing.
Misery is just come to tell me that Meer Sinzaun is returned to the
city with the Soubah after a wholly successful campaign against the
Purranea Nabob, and that he’ll do himself the honour to wait on me
this evening. I think I had almost forgot the wretch; at least I never
believed he would return so soon. What shall I do? what can I do?
_Nov. ye_ 10_th._
I have delayed, Amelia, to write you the history of my interview with
Sinzaun, because day after day, whenever I thought of the wretch, I
was seized with such a shuddering that I could not put pen to paper.
But to-day I am resolved to do my utmost to conquer this weakness,
since if the mere thought of Sinzaun in his absence make me tremble,
in what condition shall I be the next time he chooses to force his
presence upon me?
As soon as I could collect my thoughts after receiving Misery’s
announcement, I came to the desperate resolution to behave towards my
captor in as easy and cheerful a style as I could assume, affecting to
regard him merely as a charitable person that had saved me from the
Nabob with the object of restoring me to my friends, and ignoring as
the creations of a mind diseased all my terrors respecting him in the
beginning of my fever. If I could play my part discreetly enough, this
expedient might, I thought, procure me some short respite, and perhaps
give time for help to reach me,--for surely, unless Britons were
prepared to sit down tamely under the most shocking oppression and
ill-usage, some attempt must soon be made from Madrass to redress our
wrongs. With this in my mind, I prepared to receive Meer Sinzaun.
Misery, seeing me, as she believed, resigned to my situation, fell in
joyfully with my imagined compliance, and was so presumptuous as to
weave in with my hair, as she dressed it, some flowers she had plucked
from the garden. This bold device I quickly discovered, and punished
the woman by compelling her to take out the flowers and comb my hair
up tightly under my cap. At least the odious wretch should have no
occasion to fancy that I had dressed myself fine to meet him.
Seated, at the appointed time, in the outer room of the garden-house,
which I have taken for my saloon, I awaited the approach of my enemy.
Presently I saw him crossing the garden, muffled very ingeniously in
the robes of a Moorman of quality, which were drawn up about his face,
but of these he disencumbered himself with great agility upon the
varanda, and on Misery announcing him, entered my presence in a
European habit of great magnificence, bowing in the most submissive
manner. I rose and made him my best curtsey. “Your servant, sir,” said
I. (You must remember, Amelia, that all our intercourse was in French,
since Meer Sinzaun don’t speak English; and indeed I have reason to be
grateful for the pains our good Mrs Abigail and Mrs Eustacia took to
make us speak their own language with fluency and correctness.)
“Nay, madam, behold your slave at your feet,” he replied, offering his
hand to conduct me to the settee. His touch sent a shudder through my
frame, but I did my best to conceal the repulsion with which he
inspired me.
“Pray be seated, sir,” I said, as he still stood before me in a humble
attitude.
“Madam, your commands can’t but be obeyed,” he said, and seated
himself opposite to me. For the instant I imagined--so complaisant was
his tone--that my fears might after all be unnecessary, but stealing a
glance at his countenance I perceived that here was still the old
Sinzaun, the man that had got me into his power and meant to keep me
there. To hide the despair that seized me, I made shift to speak.
“You are returned from your campaign, sir?”
“Yes, madam, and not only in safety but in triumph,--thanks, as I
can’t doubt, to your kind prayers on my behalf.” Oh, Amelia, if you
could have seen the horrid smile on the wretch’s lips as he said this!
“Or rather, permit me to say, ’twas the beneficent influence of my
goddess herself that accompanied me in the fight, and preserved me
from harm. Clarissa will deign to accept my poor thanks?”
I was almost choked by the wretch’s assurance, but struggled on.
“You found the time pass agreeably, sir, I trust?”
“Agreeably enough, madam, but prodigious slowly. The charmer who knows
where I had left my heart won’t ask me why the days seemed so long.
And now may I put the same question to Clarissa? Whatever answer she
may please to make will content me, for though she be cruel enough to
find the time of her adorer’s absence pass quickly, yet she will but
be recognising his devices for her entertainment.”
“The time is always long, sir, when one is parted from one’s friends.”
I said this with great seriousness, designing him to receive it as a
rebuke for detaining me from my friends so long, but what was my
horror and disgust when he bowed with his hand on his heart, crying--
“Oh, madam, you overwhelm me! A thousand thanks for your charming
condescension! That Clarissa should miss her slave is indeed the
height of bliss for him.”
I clasped my throat with my hand, my dear, or I should have cried out,
to see this wretch sitting there complacently to torment me. But I
felt assured that he was endeavouring to drive me to some hysterical
outburst that might display his power over me, and I resolved to
disappoint him if I died for it. While he continued romancing for a
moment or two, uttering all the extravagancies he could think of to
rob me of my self-command, I recovered myself a little.
“You was so obliging as to furnish me with writing implements, sir,
before you left,” I said when he ceased, “and I must be permitted to
show you that I have made no use of ’em such as you would disapprove.
There were thirty sheets of paper in all, I believe. Here’s the thirty
still, though in part used,” and I counted ’em over to him.
“Oh, sweet innocence!” he cried, “that combines the sprightly
simplicity of Pamela with the majesty of the divine Clarissa! Sure my
charmer never thought so meanly of her Sinzaun as to imagine he would
call her to account for the indulgences he was allowed to furnish her?
Thirty sheets that have been touched by Clarissa’s fingers! Fifteen or
so that bear the impress of her hand! Give me, madam, at least those
blank sheets, that I may wear ’em next the heart where your image
dwells. I would ask for one of those that are wrote on, but that I
know they’re too precious to be parted with, and I would not put my
Clarissa’s tender heart to the pain of refusing her adorer. But the
blank sheets I must have.”
“Oh, sir, would you deprive me of my sole diversion?” I cried.
“Deprive you, madam? Oh, this carping mercantile spirit don’t become
my Clarissa! You shall have two fresh sheets for each one that I
take--will that lift the storm-clouds from my charmer’s brow? How is
it my star among women will so seldom permit her worshipper to bask in
the light of her smiles? He don’t deserve the indulgence, that he
knows, but for the sake of Clarissa’s reputation for clemency were it
not well that she should show herself more complaisant?”
I gazed at him wildly while he uttered these words in a tone of tender
reproach, gathering up the blank sheets the while. “Like Pamela’s Mr
B.,” he continued, in a meditative style that checked the sobs which
would otherwise have burst from me, “I can’t find it in my heart to
deprive my charmer of the pleasure she takes in writing, even though
she use it to revile myself. To be sure, I can’t read what she writes,
and so improve my disposition, but then, no more can the thrice-happy
being to whom it’s addressed. How could I rob Clarissa of a diversion
that pleases her, and can injure no one, even myself?”
I think the wicked man looked to see me fly into a passion and demand
how he knew that I had wrote anything against him, but I reflected
that he could scarce imagine I should deal with his name in my letters
with any great tenderness, and that he had but made a guess at what
they contained, and I said no more than--
“Sure you must be very well acquainted with Mr Richardson’s works,
sir?”
“Madam,” he replied, “they are the study of my life. In the French
translations, they are my greatest treasures, and I admire them
continually more and more. I think I may say that there en’t a
virtuous sentiment, nor a neat touch of humour, that I could not give
you chapter and verse for on the instant, in the whole three novels.”
Is it not extraordinary, Amelia, that a person like this can actually
take pleasure in such works as Mr Richardson’s, whose whole course and
tenor must be a standing rebuke to him? They say that the devil can
quote Scripture, as indeed is proved by the Gospels, and this shows
that evil beings will read good books without being improved by their
study.
“And more,” he continued, “’tis to the good Mr Richardson that I owe
the honour of meeting the lady whose portrait he had surely drawn by
anticipation in his ‘Clarissa.’ When, in the dress of our great
sovereign, I penetrated unknown into the Masquerade at Calcutta, drawn
by the fame of a certain lady’s beauty that had reached me, I found
myself attracted by one who seemed to me to be none other than
Clarissa herself. ‘Here, Sinzaun,’ I said to myself, ‘is a
fellow-student of the books you reverence, one who has perceived what
is the crowning-point of Clarissa’s history, and has ventured to
outshine all other beauties by the simplicity of her attire and the
piteousness of her aspect!’ Judge, madam, what were my feelings when I
discovered my Clarissa to be the very being at whose shrine I was come
to worship!”
“Alas, sir!” was all I could say.
“Yes, madam,” he went on, “I have learned much from Mr Richardson. You
won’t find me falling into the error of Lovelace, and making use of
barbarous force to constrain my charmer, while her mind and heart
remain unsubdued. It is Clarissa’s favour that I desire to gain; she
must become mine by her own free consent. I can wait until she choose
to oblige me, for I know she’ll make me happy at last.”
He spoke with so much confidence and security that I began to feel as
they say birds do when a serpent approaches ’em, powerless to withdraw
from the noxious influence, however heartily I hated it, wondering
almost whether this man could force me in spite of myself to consent
to become his. I broke the spell with a vast effort by asking him the
day of the month, which he told me, and shortly afterwards took his
departure, leaving me to spend the night in sobs and tears, and urgent
prayers to Heaven to save me or let me die.
_December ye_ 15_th._
Since my last writing, Amelia, I have endured three interviews with
Sinzaun. Such is the horrible cunning of this wicked man, that he
don’t present himself at regular intervals, nor inform me of his
intended visit until a short time before he appears, so that I spend
my whole time with the dread hanging over me of being suddenly
confronted with him. This garden seems to be haunted with his image;
the slightest footstep--even a shadow falling on the path--drives me
into an agony of fear, and the wretch can’t help perceiving, when he
comes, the condition my terror throws me into. This alone would prove
his cruel nature, that with all the respect and admiration he
professes for me, until I’m sick of hearing it, he continues to force
himself upon me with the sole purpose of tormenting the being he
feigns to love. Indeed, he goes so far as to rally me upon my
apprehensions, telling me once that my lofty courage recalled to him
some personage of one of the French poets who declared that he feared
God and had no other fear,--“a sentiment,” says Sinzaun, “that I’ll
venture to commend to my Clarissa, since it describes so exactly her
own absence of alarm.” Oh, my dear, is it come to this, that my
timidity is bringing a reproach upon the religion I humbly profess?
And yet, who could avoid fearing this man? Sure to feel at ease in his
presence would come near to sharing his evil deeds.
My dear girl will scarce credit it, but I am convinced that my
persecutor entertains himself during his absences with devising fresh
miseries for me. He comes to the house muffled in various disguises,
and is at huge pains to explain to me that he runs an incredible
risque of being tracked by spies, and that he can’t set out to pay me
a visit save when he has seen the Nabob engrossed in some new and
delightful plan of wickedness. “Then,” says he, “I fly on the wings of
love to my charmer, confident that one short hour in her presence will
stimulate my invention even to the point of devising fresh pleasures
for Saradjot Dollah, such as may gain me a further audience of her.”
“Indeed, sir,” I said, “I can’t but think it a pity that you don’t
attempt to lead the Nabob into the paths of virtue. In so novel a
pursuit the Prince--and perhaps Meer Sinzaun also--would find a
freshness and singularity far more agreeable than the dulness of the
evenings you are so obliging as to sacrifice to the poor prisoner
here.”
“Dulness! sacrifice!” he cried, brushing away my suggestion lightly;
“sure Clarissa must be seeking for compliments. I’m hugely grateful,
madam, for your obliging thought, but I’ll assure you that I amuse
myself infinitely during these visits. I can’t recall any occasion of
my life on which I have been better entertained.”
I can well believe it, Amelia. I never look at him if I can help it,
for so great is the loathing with which the man inspires me that I
can’t bear to meet his eye, but when through inadvertence I have done
so, I perceive in it a sort of sombre ferocity united with delight in
my sufferings that makes me tremble. Can my dear Miss Turnor figure to
herself the being forced to enter a tyger’s cage for the purpose of
diverting the tyger? Which would be the worse, does she think, this,
or that the tyger should be so obliging as to exert himself to
entertain you? I think she’ll say that one is as bad as the other, and
this is my case with Sinzaun. I suffer equally when he compels me to
speak and when he speaks himself, for the man, my dear, is an atheist.
I would not write this terrible charge, lest my indignation against
him should have caused me to judge him harshly, if I had not heard it
from his own lips, but he has assured me more than once that the one
deity in which he believes is gain, and the one incentive that moves
men is advantage. “I believe in my Clarissa,” was the utmost I could
get from him when I pressed him strongly on the point, and he added
that his life had taught him there was no Providence, either to punish
the evil or protect the good, but only a blind fate, out of whose
unsteady dispositions the wise man must shape his own road to success.
En’t this cruelty indeed, to seek to deprive a poor creature of her
faith in God just when she needs it most? But sure Meer Sinzaun has
overreached himself in this, for I need not go far to learn of the
existence of the devil, and to disbelieve in God on the devil’s word
would questionless be the extremest folly in the world. But having
thus unfolded to me what he called the wise man’s creed, which he said
he had gathered both from European philosophers and from the sages of
the East, Sinzaun went on to show its practical application, desiring
to prove that there was no truth nor honour nor virtue in the world,
any more than Divine justice nor providence, and proceeded to turn
into ridicule the very books he had been praising to me a month
before. I can but be grateful he don’t know his Bible as well as he
does Mr Richardson’s works, for sure ’twas only ignorance, and not
good will, made him stop short of attacking that. He cited instance
after instance to prove that there was no virtue in goodness, and no
reward for’t if there were, and no shame in sin, nor punishment
neither, and I could not hope to contend with him. You know, Amelia, I
was always the one to be worsted in an argument. How I wished that my
dear Mrs Hurstwood were present, with her ready tongue, to give the
assailant as good as he brought, and to silence, if she could not
convince him, whereas I could but sit quiet, or protest without hope
of moving him, while he attacked everything in which the Christian
believes. At last he took his leave, and summoning my courage, I said
as I curtseyed to him--
“Permit me to say, sir, that I’m entirely at variance with the
opinions you have chose to utter this evening.”
“A thousand thanks for the assurance, madam!” was the wretch’s reply.
“My mind is inexpressibly relieved. I should be desolated if I thought
my Clarissa shared those opinions I have indicated as my own.”
As much as to say that he would prefer his mistress to remain a
believer in Christianity, because she would then be the better wife to
him! Oh, Amelia, how can anything that is said or done move such a
man? I dread and detest him more and more, and my only comfort is
based on his assurance that he would wait patiently until he had
gained my favour. If he can wait, so can I, if he don’t drive me mad
first.
_January ye_ 24_th_, 1757.
I have been favoured with several further visits from Meer Sinzaun,
but to describe these miseries at length would be as unprofitable to
my dearest friend as it would be painful to myself; yet of the last I
must say something, for the pitiless wretch told me he must take leave
of me for a season, since he was about to attend the Soubah into the
neighbourhood of Calcutta, there to destroy the last remnants of
British trade and enterprise in Bengal.
“Sure, sir, your prince has done more than enough for his honour
already in that line,” I cried, in an agony to see my countrymen still
further threatened.
“Why, indeed, madam,” he replied, “if there had been only your brave
Calcutta gentlemen, Mr Drak” (so he pronounced it), “and his two chief
friends, in the matter, we had been contented to leave them alone. The
persons who deserted their posts and connived at the destruction of
their factory in order to satisfy their enmity against their
unfortunate colleague, Mr Holwell, might well have been suffered to
remain at Fulta, subsisting on the charity of Omy Chund and the French
and Dutch factories, until they could be taken off and carried to
England by their ships arriving this season. But there was a certain
restless troublesome fellow named Clive, who may be known to you by
reputation, at Madrass when the news of the fall of Calcutta reached
there, and this pestilent wretch has proposed to himself to establish
the British again in Bengall. Sure the beginning of his enterprise
can’t have given him much hope for its ending; for, embarking with all
the forces he could command on board of the fleet lying at Madrass, he
set forth in the worst season of the year, with the result that the
whole of the ships was destroyed by storms, and but a few score of
men, with Mr Clive himself, escaped in boats and landed in the river.”
“Oh, sir, what is it you say?--all the fleet destroyed?” For you know,
Amelia, who is serving on board Admiral Watson’s fleet, if Sinzaun
don’t.
“All, madam, so far as my information serves. Whether the Admiral or
any of his officers and men are among those saved by the boats, I
can’t of course say. But I should judge by his actions that Mr Clive
is alone. What do you say, madam, to his being kindly received and
used by his Highness’s garrisons at Tanners and Buzbudgia, and taking
advantage of their hospitality to make an attack upon them by
surprise, inflicting some loss, though but a trifling one?”
“Why, sir, that if Colonel Clive acted so, he must first have
perceived treachery on the part of the Moguls.” But to myself I added,
“If this man can tell me a tale so manifestly false respecting Colonel
Clive, he may be deceiving me also with regard to the fleet.”
“If that’s so, madam,” replied Sinzaun, “I’m sorry for the poor
gentleman, for you must see that even a warrior of such renown can’t
be permitted to defy his Highness in this style in his own province,
and his Highness proposes to prove this to him shortly. But there’s
more trouble in store for poor Mr Clive, for he has committed the
grave military error of neglecting his base of operations. For this
adventure in Bengall he deprived Madrass of all its troops, ignorant
that Mons. Bussy was leagued with Salabatzing[16.04] against the
place, and that our new great fleet under Lally wasn’t far
off.[16.05] I fear Britain will lose more than Bengall by his
rashness.”
“Alas, alas!” I cried, with tears.
“I have the greatest respect, madam, I’ll assure you, for Mr Clive,
and it shall be my endeavour to see that his life is spared and
himself put safely on board of a ship bound for England. These Indians
will questionless desire to see him led in fetters and rags through
the streets of Muxadavad, as was done six months ago with Mr Holwell
and his companions, but he shall be saved this if I can compass it.”
“Oh, sir, is it true that good Mr Holwell was used in this barbarous
fashion, and exposed to the insults of the citizens, after enduring
the miseries of that terrible night?”
“Why, yes, madam. Poor Mr Holwell was hardly used indeed, being
sacrificed first to the pique of his colleagues, and then to the
resentment of Omy Chund, whom he had left in prison when he took
command of Fort William. You may chance to have heard it said that Omy
Chund never forgives, and he had old grudges also to avenge, and so
the four gentlemen found it who were sent here after the fall of
Calcutta. There’s a gay young spark belonging to your Cossimbuzar
factory that would say the same, I think. Being permitted to refuge
with the Dutch, Mr Hastings thought fit to abuse his Highness’s
clemency by stirring up his subjects to revolt against him; but a
whisper from Omy Chund,[16.06] to whom he had opened his designs,
warned Saradjot Dollah, and sent the young intriguer flying to join
his friends at Fulta. A most useful worthy fellow is Omy Chund, and I
myself have good cause to be grateful to him. But this brings me to
the object of my troubling my charmer with a visit to-night. Will
Clarissa permit me to make preparations for our union when I return
from Allynagore?”
“Our union, sir?” I stammered.
“Why, yes, madam, that delightful event which has shone like a beacon
before your adorer throughout these long months. What! did Clarissa
wrong her Sinzaun by imagining that he purposed to keep her immured
within these walls, remote alike from the society and the enjoyments
of her sex? No, madam; permit me to seek a priest at Chandernagore,
and bring him with me on my return (you see my care for your
punctilio--I offer you no Moorish marriage), and Clarissa shall
discover what delights can be offered for her acceptance by the man
she has so infinitely obliged. A palace instead of this rustic abode,
such clothing and jewels as no queen in Europe could show, a place and
credit second only to that of Ally Verdy Cawn Begum herself, and the
eternal adoring devotion of her attached Sinzaun.”
Now why was it, Amelia, that I could not refuse this proposition at
once? “Oh, sir, you overwhelm me----” I faltered, with my eyes on the
ground.
“Nay,” replied my suitor, “Clarissa has certainly misjudged me. Did
she imagine that I destroyed Calcutta merely that I might keep her a
prisoner?”
“You destroyed Calcutta, sir?”
“Why, yes, madam, though I would have spared it had you deigned to
listen to my vows, as I expressed in the first chitt I writ you.” I
remembered the billet I had read aloud to my dear papa and Captain
Colquhoun, and shuddered. “Had Clarissa yielded to my entreaties,
could I have done less than spare her countrymen for her sake? My
influence thrown on the side of clemency, instead of into the opposite
scale, would have turned his Highness from his purpose, or at the
least I could have delayed the march by some accident to the
artillery, and so given time for the rains to begin, which would have
saved Calcutta. But since Clarissa remained obdurate, I could do no
less than destroy the place whose capture meant that I should obtain
possession of her.”
“But, sir, you could not--oh, I don’t know what I am saying--my head
is in a whirl--’twas the merest chance----”
“There was no chance at all, madam. My plans were all concerted with
Omy Chund. Who prevented you from going on board the ships with
t’other women? Omy Chund, through his servant. Who raised the panic
that drove Mr Drak to fly before the time he had intended? This same
servant. Who was prepared to protect you against his Highness’s
soldiers by asserting my authority? The fellow again. Who suffered you
to slip through his fingers that night, but redeemed his fault nobly
the next day by sending an agent of his with you as your attendant?
Omy Chund himself. Sure Clarissa can’t talk of chance now, any more
than she can pretend to mistake my design in thus making myself master
of the being I adored.”
Was ever such a cruel coil of deceit and trickery wound about a poor
creature, Amelia? If you could know the horrid feeling of helplessness
that seized me in face of this man’s plottings! Oh, my dear, your
Sylvia is a sad coward. She durst not look the perfidious wretch in
the face, and declare her hatred at once of his proposition and
himself. Instead, she had recourse to a miserable equivocation that
darted into her mind.
“Sir, you can’t but be aware that ’tis only seven months since I lost
the best of fathers. What have you seen in Sylvia Freyne to make you
think so meanly of her as that she would outrage all the laws of
decorum and filial piety by listening to a proposal of marriage in
such circumstances?”
For one instant, my dear, the man was taken aback. “I declare, madam,
you’re cleverer than I thought you!” was in his eye, and the unhappy
fool before him rejoiced. Then he said, “I accept the rebuke, madam,
and Clarissa shan’t be troubled again with my ill-timed importunities
for the present, unless there’s any reason for infringing her pious
punctilio in her own interest.”
He left me soon after, and for three days I have been in a continual
terror lest his departure should only be a pretended one, meant to
throw me off my guard. But I have seen and heard nothing of him, and
the steward assuring me to-day that the Soubah had left Muxadavad with
his army, I begin to feel that I may look forward to a short period of
peace.
_February ye_ 21_st._
Sinzaun is returned, Amelia, bringing such tidings as have reduced
your unhappy Sylvia to the lowest depths of despair. Immediately upon
entering the saloon he acquainted me that Colonel Clive, after a
gallant resistance, in which he was nobly supported by his troops, had
been forced to surrender, and was now in captivity until some Dutch or
other European ship could be found to convey him to England, while the
last traces of British influence in Bengall were now destroyed. As if
this grievous news, putting an end to any extravagant hopes that might
have crept into my mind, were not enough, my persecutor must needs add
a keener edge to my suffering by saying--
“Will it please the amiable Clarissa to learn that she had some hand
in this overthrow? I was told by one of the captive British officers
that ’twas the knowledge of Miss Freyne’s carrying-off by the Moors
that had played a principal part in inducing her generous countrymen
to attempt this rash expedition in the vain hope of rescuing her.”
Was not this an excess of cruelty, Amelia? Not content with bringing
about the destruction of Calcutta, I must involve in my misfortunes
the forces of Madrass and our great, our only commander on Indian
soil. Blame me, my dear, if you will, but I think you’ll scarce wonder
that the impulse seized me to unite my unhappy fate with that of the
sneering wretch seated opposite me, and draw down upon him some of
those calamities which seem to follow every one with whom I have to
do. Almost as the thought crossed my mind, Sinzaun remarked, with
great deliberation,--
“If I cursed the unfortunate Mr Clive a month ago for tearing me from
the side of my charmer, I have some hopes of finding reason before
long to bless him. The Soubah has been pleased to appoint me a mission
to visit Mons. Bussy, who is advancing hither from the Carnatic, and
welcome him in his triumphal course. Now in this agreeable jaunt I
shall be accompanied with my own tried troops, and no one can question
my actions. I see that Clarissa’s health is suffering from her close
confinement within these walls, and perhaps she may find the prospect
pleasing of a journey that would carry her through the most charming
region of Bengall, in the company of a man that would spare no pains
to make it enjoyable to her. The past can’t be undone, but if Clarissa
will relax her prohibition, and suffer her adorer to seek the priest
he spoke of, it may be that she’ll find it easier to banish from her
mind the sad images which can’t but cloud at present the spirits of a
creature of so much sensibility.”
Sure it must have been that Providence in which he affects to
disbelieve that directed Sinzaun’s tongue to the mention of the past
at that instant, thus recalling my mind from the shocking scheme of
vengeance that had presented itself to me to a frightful question
which I had been led to ask myself during his absence.
“Before I answer you, sir,” I said, “permit me to ask you a question.
You have acknowledged making use of Omy Chund’s servant to keep me in
the Fort at the time the rest of the European females escaped. You
know by what means he effected your purpose--by bringing word to me of
his finding my father wounded to death in one of our outposts, when
the gentlemen who had last seen him declared that he was well and
unhurt. Was this, sir, a part of your plan? Did you bring about the
murder of my father in order that you might carry into execution your
designs against his unhappy daughter?”
I stood up and regarded him, and his eyes fell before mine, but he
sought to speak with his usual lightness of tone. “If Clarissa seeks
to hold me responsible for all the deeds done by my agents, I fear the
record will be but a black one,” he said. “Can she imagine that her
adorer would desire to raise his hand against one dear to her? The
Gentoo fellow had his orders given him to carry out, but the means of
doing so were left to himself.”
“Enough, sir!” I said. “Hitherto I have thought you might not be
guilty of this crowning infamy, but now I am persuaded that you
suggested if you did not order it. And in return for the murder of the
father you seek to obtain the hand of the daughter! The reward may be
but a poor one, but it’s beyond your reach. I will never become your
wife, sir--never, never, never!”
“I think you will, madam. This display of heroics don’t displease me,
even without the entertainment it affords. One can allow some degree
of passion to the last female of your nation in India.”
“The last female of my nation in India, sir?”
“Why, yes, madam, the last. You en’t aware that when Mr Clive had
forsook Madrass, Mons. Bussy swooped down upon the place by land, and
Count Lally by sea, finding it an easy prey. Bombay was already fallen
into our hands, and the smaller factories were dealt with by a
detached squadron. The few English that survived these misfortunes
have been embarked in their vessels and despatched to their own
island. Britain don’t own a foot of Indian soil to-day--save for a
huge quantity of graves. And is this the moment for Clarissa to use
these bitter reproaches to her adorer, whose faults are all to be set
down to the excess of his passion for herself? She’ll deign him a
gracious answer?”
“The same answer, sir, as if she were the last female of her nation in
the world--never--a thousand times never!”
“We shall see, madam. I think you en’t yet fully acquainted with
Sinzaun’s disposition. Don’t consider it presumptuous if he tell you
that when he returns from his journey you’ll plead to be allowed the
favour he now offers you;” and he departed, leaving me more dead than
alive.
The last female of our nation in India, Amelia! Is there any use in
leaving these records of her fate, when there’s no one can read them
or convey them home? Perhaps some future age may bring them to light,
and I won’t destroy them. Do you remember my name in your prayers
daily, my dear friend, as I do yours, and as we promised to do when we
parted? If you knew at this moment that your Sylvia’s earnest prayer
was for death, would you have the humanity to join your petitions with
hers? If you truly loved your poor girl you would, for death is now
her only hope. Clarissa died, you’ll remember, but I am so frightfully
strong, and--I am the only female of our nation left in India.