CHAPTER IV.
SHOWING HOW MISS FREYNE BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH HER SURROUNDINGS.
CALCUTTA, September ye 14th.
I looked round with great eagerness when Captain Colquhoun handed me out of the palanqueen, but discovered nothing in my home that was different from other houses in East India. It is of two storeys, with a flat roof, and surrounded with a varanda, which is a sort of penthouse shelter supported on poles, and all closed in with long checks, like what we call Venetian blinds. There is a handsome flight of stone steps leading to the front door, but the house itself is built of pucca, which is a sort of cement made of dust and lime mixed with molasses and chopped-up hemp. A whole parcel of servants came gliding from all quarters as we mounted the steps, and the Captain addressed them in English.
“Where’s the Beebee?”[01] he said.
One of the servants, who seemed the chief, made some answer in his own language, which I understood to signify that the Beebee was out.
“What’s the meaning of this?” cried the Captain, very angry. “Here’s the chuta Beebee” (this means young lady, Amelia), “your master’s daughter, just arrived off her journey, and no one to receive her! What’s that you say?” for the servant had proposed something in a very humble style. “Yes, send for her iya[02] by all means.”
I knew that iya meant maid-servant, and I looked on with great curiosity as the servant brought back with him a yellow-faced woman in gay clothes.
“Here, Bowanny,” said Captain Colquhoun, but stopped suddenly. “Sure you en’t the woman that was to come to wait on Miss Freyne with my Lady Russell’s good word?”
“No, sir,” says the woman, and I observed that she did not say saeb,[03] like the other servants. “Me Madam’s servant before, but when she see Bowanny, she choose her, and set me to wait on Missy.”
“And what do you call yourself?”
“Me Marianna da Souza, sir—good Portugal blood.”
“Indeed!” says the Captain, somewhat rudely, as I thought. “Well, madam,” turning to me, “this person is your attendant, you’ll perceive. I trust you’ll find her obliging and obedient. For your comfort I may say that Mrs Freyne has always been counted the best dressed woman in Calcutta. And now, unless I can serve you further, I’ll take my leave. Your cabin trunks will arrive shortly. I placed ’em in charge of a couple of cooleys.”
“Oh, pray, sir,” said I, “permit me to express the deep obligation you have laid me under by your kindness——” but he was departing.
“I am promised to sup with Mr Freyne to-night, madam,” he said on the steps, “and I’ll hope to find you recovered from your fatigues.”
Indeed, my Amelia, I felt ready to drop as I followed the woman into the house, which seemed dark and hot instead of bright and hot like the air outside. Marianna desired to show me the chamber where I should lie, and to bring me a dish of tea there, and you may guess I did not refuse it. The chamber to which she led me was large enough, and would have been airy had there been any air moving. There was but little furniture, and that of Chinese make, in quaint and pleasing shapes fashioned out of the bamboo. But the bed—ah, there was a disappointment for me! To understand my feelings, you must know that during all these weary months on shipboard I have comforted myself perpetually for the bare and narrow shelves of the cabin with the prospect of finding at my papa’s house such a bed as we should consider good in England. And, indeed, the bedstead was sufficiently genteel, the posts elegantly carved and inlaid with ivory, but instead of the feather-bed and pillows I had pictured to myself, there was only a meagre mattress and cushion such as we had used on board ship. And the curtains! no substantial woollen stuff—such as those within whose ample shade my Amelia and I have often exchanged confidences far into the night, holding our breath while Mrs Abigail prowled about outside, lest she should discover our wakefulness and peer in upon us with, “Pray, young ladies, are you asleep?” (Do you remember, Amelia, that once I innocently answered, “Oh yes, indeed, madam, we are”?)—the curtains, I say, were not of this sort, but a flimsy kind of muslin or fine netting, apt enough to keep out the musketoes, but admitting freely every current of air. I was the more disturbed to observe this, since the windows were defended only by screens of woven reeds, and not by glass.
“Sure,” I said to Marianna, “it must be vastly dangerous to the health to admit the night air so freely?”
“If Missy not have air in Bengall, Missy die,” was her answer, and this in as smiling and complaisant a tone as if she had uttered the most charming prophecy imaginable.
“With what cheerfulness and philosophy do these poor people contemplate death!” I reflected, somewhat ashamed to have exhibited my apprehensions before her, as she went to fetch my tea, but since I did not choose that my first night at Bengall should also be my last, I resigned myself to this outlandish style of sleeping. Before I had drunk my dish of tea my trunks arrived, and I was able to change my clothes and put on a silk nightgown instead of my travelling-suit, which was a huge refreshment. And after that I am ashamed to say that I dozed on my couch, while Marianna unpacked my clothes, moving about the chamber with the lightest tread in the world, until I was awakened by the noise of palanqueens’ setting down in the courtyard, and presently a message came that Mrs Freyne desired me to attend her in the saloon. My dearest Miss Turnor will be at no loss to imagine my apprehension as I followed Marianna, and will guess that my heart was in my mouth when I stepped into the saloon, where three ladies were seated enjoying an elegant collation of fruits and sweetmeats. I divined at once which was Mrs Freyne, and at the first glance I determined that my stepmother was a very beautiful young woman, but this opinion did not last. My Amelia won’t think me censorious, for I experienced a feeling of disappointment that a face which seemed at first sight extraordinary handsome should come so far short of beauty. There’s a general something, that I can’t express, which spoils it. No one feature is bad, but none is quite good. The eyes are a little too small and far apart, and of a blue a little too light, as the hair is of somewhat too pale a golden; the nose is a little too short, the lips a little too thin, and the chin a little too much pointed. Such trifles as all these are, yet they spoil the face. For her clothes, my stepmother was wearing a very fine nightgown of white gauze striped with gold, and a Brussels mob trimmed with French flowers, and this dress was well designed to show off the air of great elegance and languor which I observe to be the peculiar[04] of all the Calcutta ladies.
“So you’re arrived, miss!” she said to me. “Had you a short voyage?”
“A monstrous long one, madam. Near ten months.”
“It don’t seem to have done you no harm. I see you’ve brought a pair of red cheeks with you, which is thought vastly ungenteel in Bengall.”
My cheeks were red at that moment, Amelia, I’ll assure you, and I was grateful to one of the other ladies, who seemed a good-natured sort of body, and made room for me on the settee beside her. There I sat, like a good little Miss out of the nursery, to be seen and not heard, and listened to all that was said, while nobody spoke to me, until Miss Dorman, the lady next me, turned and said—
“Have you unpacked your gowns yet, miss? All Calcutta will be agog to see ’em, I’ll assure you.”
“Oh, indeed,” says Mrs Freyne, in a great to-do, “Miss is only just off her journey, and too tired to go showing her clothes this evening. I won’t hear of it. You shall see ’em in good time, miss, I promise you.”
Miss Dorman smiled in rather a droll fashion as she rose to take her leave.
“Pray, miss,” says my stepmother to me, “attend the ladies to their palanqueens,” and I obeyed her.
“Don’t let Madam frighten you, dear Miss,” whispered Miss Dorman to me in the hall. “An English colour is excessively admired in Calcutta, I can tell you, and the plainest woman will pass for a beauty so long as she keeps it. I did, so I know.”
I was sorry for her as she offered me this kind consolation, for sure she’s no beauty now, though well enough, and I began to perceive why young ladies going to Bengall should be in such haste to get married. Not that this consideration changed my feelings on the matter, for indeed I would get rid of my English colour to-morrow, if that would serve me as a protection. Well, I saw the ladies into their palanqueens, and then returned to the parlour, where I looked at Mrs Freyne, and she at me.
“I would have you know, miss,” said she, “that I don’t purpose to put myself out for you in any way. If Mr Freyne had been guided by me, he would have instructed his friends in England to set on foot a treaty of marriage for you with some respectable person there, instead of dragging you half round the world to find a spouse. But since he has chose to bring you out here, pray understand that I won’t carry you at my apron-string to every party of pleasure I may attend.”
“Indeed, madam,” I said, “I don’t doubt but I shall be able to make myself happy at home when you don’t please to take me out with you. I hope I shall always be ready to oblige my mamma in any way I can.” I was resolved to get the word out (though I hated to utter it), both because I was anxious to do my duty, and because I hoped it might render her better inclined towards me. But this was not the case.
“Never let me hear you call me that again, miss!” she said. “En’t it enough to have to take about with me a great creature near as old as I am and half a head taller, without her insulting me by making out she’s my daughter? You must know that I would never have married Mr Freyne if I had thought he would insist on bringing you out, so it behoves you to be as meek as possible.”
“I’ll do my best to oblige you, madam,” I said.
“Well, I must change my dress for supper,” she said, as a black woman came and stood silently at the door. “Your nightgown and mob will do well enough, miss, so don’t change ’em. We are only a small company to-night.”
She went out, and I sat aghast for a moment, then looked round for some diversion, for in fact, my dearest friend, I was too great a coward not to seek to occupy my mind. I durst not think. There were two books on a table near me, and I took them up. One was a French novel, which did not please me, the other a volume of Archbishop Tillotson’s sermons, but with half the leaves torn out, and the rest all singed with curling-tongs. I was turning them over, wondering who could have so misused such a book, when I heard voices, and jumped up all in a fright, for the one voice was Captain Colquhoun’s, and I could not doubt but the other was my papa’s. If I had been disturbed at the prospect of meeting my stepmother, what was the state of my feelings now? My heart swelled, and was thumping fit to burst, as a fine portly gentleman came in at the door, following the Captain.
“Why, who’s this?” he cried.
“Your daughter, sir,” says Captain Colquhoun, and hearing my doubts resolved, I could forbear no longer, but ran across the room and threw myself at my papa’s feet, seizing his hand and bedewing it with my tears. I fear my agitation must have disturbed Mr Freyne, for all he could say was, “Hey, Sylvy? hey, my girl?” touching my hair with his other hand.
“Oh, won’t my papa bestow his blessing on his child?” I sobbed, looking up at him with eyes streaming with tears. He failed to understand what I said.
“Hang me if I know what the girl would be at!” he said, gruffly.
“I believe, sir, that Miss is entreating your blessing,” says Captain Colquhoun, with his stiffest air.
“There, there, child! God bless you!” says my papa. “Get up, and don’t cry. I want to have a look at my girl.”
I rose as he bade me, and dried my eyes as well as I could, and he led me to the window, to look into my face with the aid of the wax candles which were now set alight under glass shades on the varanda. “The living image of my lost charmer!” he said, kissing me kindly. “Han’t my girl got a kiss for her old father?”
I put my arms about his neck, and was bold enough to kiss him two or three times, but it did not seem to displease him, for he blessed me again, and I think there was tears in his eyes. “I could believe that I saw your mother alive again, child,” he said. “But there’s no need to let Madam know that. ’Twould vex her sorely, poor woman, and we should never hear the end of it. Your coming out has been a sad trial to her, miss.”
Captain Colquhoun coughed somewhat loudly, and Mr Freyne remembered his presence. “Come in, Captain, come in,” he cried. “I want to present you to my daughter.”
“I have had the honour already of meeting Miss, sir, and of offering her some slight service in a sufficiently disagreeable situation, for she was landed at the Gott from Mr Hamlin’s budgero with no means of getting here.”
“What! wasn’t my budgero sent for her, nor so much as a palanqueen to the Gott?” cried my papa, and turned upon Mrs Freyne, who came into the parlour very fine, as I saw to my surprise, in a dressed suit and a fly cap.[05] “Pray, madam, how is it you showed such neglect towards my daughter? Must I be at the pain of giving all my orders myself when I leave home for three or four days? Wasn’t it understood when I married you that you was to relieve me of all these points of ceremony? What else did I do it for?”
I took the words as a jest, though they seemed to me harsh enough to hear even then, but Mrs Freyne shut her fan with a snap that bade fair to break the sticks, and said, “Indeed, sir, I can’t guess, no more than I can tell why I married you.”
“Oh yes, madam, you can,” says my papa, “or your clothes and jewels would tell it for you.” He seemed about to continue, but I catched his hand boldly.
“Oh, pray, sir, dear sir, don’t let me be a cause of dissension between you and Mrs Freyne,” I said, and I think my face must have exhibited to him the agony I felt.
“Don’t be a fool, child,” he said, but not roughly. “When you are married, you’ll know better than think every hasty word a tragedy. But sure you don’t look to get a husband if you come to supper in an undress? We’ll pardon a nightgown and mob this first evening, but the Calcutta ladies go very fine, and I don’t want my girl to fall behind them.”
“O’ my conscience, sir, you are on monstrous familiar terms with your daughter already,” said Mrs Freyne. “Perhaps you’ll forgive my asking who it is you expect to supper?”
“Why, two or three fine gentlemen that all chanced to have business at this end of the town, and to be passing just at the time I came home, madam. They had never heard that I had a handsome daughter just landed from England, of course—hey, Miss Sylvy? And as I came through the town I met the Zemindar and the Padra, and asked them in.”
“Which Padra?” asked Mrs Freyne. (This is the name by which all clergymen are known here, Amelia.)
“Why, the old Padra, madam, our good Mr Bellamy.”
“That man!” cried Mrs Freyne. “I do think, Mr Freyne, that if you must invite a divine, you might oblige me so far as to let it be Mr Mapletoft.”
“But I don’t think so, madam. Be sure Parson Mapletoft is far better in the bosom of his family than rustling about here in his best cassock, and flourishing his white hands to show off his fine lace and his diamond ring.”
“The chuta Padra is a person of taste and spirit,” says Mrs Freyne. “Mr Bellamy is no better than any of the gentlemen of the place.”
“I am thankful if I’m no worse than Mr Bellamy, madam,” says my papa, and some of the guests arriving, we moved into the dining-parlour. Mr Bellamy, who is the senior chaplain of the factory, a cheerful and respectable person, handed Mrs Freyne, and I found myself taken in by Mr Holwell, whom every one called the Zemindar, a gentleman of a serious and somewhat troubled aspect. He spoke little to me, but I found abundant entertainment in listening to the general conversation, although there was much that I could not understand. But as you know, my dear, your Sylvia is afflicted with an invincible desire to know all that there is to be known, and as soon as supper was over, and we were gone out on the varanda, where the checks were drawn up, so that we could see the stars, I seized upon Captain Colquhoun. “Pray, sir,” I said, “be so good as to tell me the meaning of all those words I hear the gentlemen use.”
“All of them, madam? Are they so many, then?”
“Why, yes, sir. I can think of nothing but the letter with which the East India officer confounded the pedant in the last volume of ‘Sir Charles Grandison.’ Pray, sir, who is Mohabut Jing, and the Chuta Nabob, and what is a Zemindar and a Go-master? I know what Moors and Gentoos are, but what are To-passes and Fringys? What are hummums and soosies, and seersuchers and kenchees, and by what names are all these tribes of servants called that I see everywhere?”
“Why, madam, you have set me a task indeed. To tell you the offices of all your servants alone would take me pretty near the whole night. There’s your papa’s mohurry, who is his clerk for the Company’s business, and his banyan, who is both his private clerk and his chief servant. There’s his secar, who keeps his money and pays the wages; and his compidore, who goes a-marketing and helps the banyan; and the kissmagar, that stands behind his master’s chair and looks after his clothes. There’s the consummer, who in England would be called the butler; and the peon, who guards his master and beats the other servants. There’s the mussall chye, that runs before the palanqueen o’ nights; and the pyke, that watches in the varanda and lets no robbers in but his own friends. And there’s a whole parcel more, down to the sweeper and the harry, which is the wench that brings water, but sure a longer list will but incommode you at present.”[06]
“I’ll do my best to make sure of these, sir, and then I’ll ask you for more.” And I am setting the names down here, both to assist me in remembering them, and also that my Amelia may learn them too. For I foresee that before I have been long at Bengall, I shall use these outlandish words without thinking of them, as do the ladies and gentlemen here, and I had as lief not puzzle my dearest friend more than I can help. “But, pray, sir,” I continued, “tell me some of the other words I asked you.”
“Why, indeed, madam, as for soosies and kenchees and the like, they are different kinds of cloths made in this country, of which I en’t merchant enough to give you a particular account. The To-passes (called so because they wear topees or hats) are the country-born Portuguese, like your serving-wench yonder; and Fringys[07] is a vulgar Moorish name for Frenchmen and other Europeans, and also the Armenians. Then I fancy you desired to know what is a Zemindar, such as our good friend Mr Holwell. He is both Judge of the Court of Cutcherry, which decides all matters in dispute among the Indians in the Company’s bounds, and he collects the taxes on merchandises and articles manufactured in the Presidency. A Go-master is an Indian agent, who is sent into the country to buy the cloth for the Company from the brokers, who buy it from those who weave it. Until five or six years back this business was done by other Indians working on their own account, called Dadney merchants, who should have dealt honestly with the Company, and did not, to their own damage, for the work was put under European superintendence, just as the corruption and dishonesty of the former black Zemindar led to his being deprived of his office, to the great advantage of the place. Was there anything more you desired to know, madam?”
“Why, yes, sir. About the persons with the strange names, to be sure.”
“I ask your pardon for my negligence, madam. Mohabut Jing, whom some call Ally Verdy Cawn, is the Nabob of Bengall, and dwells at Muxadavad,[08] a great city lying close to our factory of Cossimbuzar.[09] The term Nabob signifies a deputy, or what the Portuguese call a viceroy, and Mohabut Jing affects to consider the Mogul Emperor of Delly[10] his master, though in reality he rules for himself alone. Having attained his present situation by violence, he has held it with a strong hand, though unable to resist the encroachments of the Morattoes,[11] a fierce pagan nation from the Decan. These came so far as to invade Bengall some thirteen years ago, at which time the Indian inhabitants of the Company’s territory sought leave, in a panic, to dig a great ditch all round the place at their own charges. Three miles of this fortification was made, and then stopped as unnecessary, for the Nabob came to an accommodation with the Morattoes, giving up to them the province of Orixa,[12] and consenting to pay them a tribute, which they call chout, for sparing Bengall. This he did, fearing lest the European factories would take the side of the Morattoes, and so drive him out; for he goes very much in fear of us, and desired to have leisure to humble our pride. And this he has done by forbidding any hostilities in Bengall when there was war at home, and also in the Carnatic, between Britain and France—a prohibition which was, as you may guess, the most irksome thing in the world to us. ’Tis his aim to reduce our trade to the level of that of the Armenians, which is carried on merely on sufferance, whereas we are here in virtue of the phirmaunds and husbulhookums[13] granted to us by several of the emperors.”
“But sure, sir, Britons would never submit to such a spoliation?”
“I am not saying they would, madam. But Ally Verdy en’t our worst enemy, for he’s a man of sense and of some honour, if I may speak so of a Moor. But he has lately raised to the musnet,[14] or as we would say, adopted as his heir, his grandson, a youth of the vilest disposition, called Surajah Dowlah, and from him we have little better to hope than we would from a tyger. He is the Chuta Nabob concerning whom you was pleased to inquire.”
“But pray, sir, tell me more of this person.”
“Why, madam, what little I could tell you would be as displeasing for you to hear as for me to relate.”
I went as red as fire, I am sure. “Oh, sir, pray pardon me if I have trespassed on your patience. I know I’m a sad creature for asking questions, and I fear you’ll think I’m intruding into matters too high for a young woman to concern herself with.”
For I remembered, Amelia (how can I ever forget it?), that dreadful day at Holly-tree House, when the Rector brought his brother, the Admiral, to wait on our instructresses. You’ll know with what spirit the dear good gentleman described the last fleet action in which he had taken part, and how I was carried away by my excitements, and asked him all sorts of questions about the ships and their disposition. He saluted me at parting, you’ll remember, and said to Mrs Eustacia, “I dare be bound, madam, this pretty little Miss could write as fair an account of the fight as any clerk I ever had on board ship,” which piece of kindness puffed me up not a little. But when he was gone away with his brother, I was sent for to Mrs Eustacia, and chidden for meddling in matters with which I had no concern. There was nothing, said the good lady, that was so much disliked by gentlemen as the affectation of masculine knowledge in a young woman, and if I was so unhappy as to be cursed with a taste for severe learning, it behoved me to conceal it as I would the plague. And so I have always strove to do, aided by the kind condescension that prompts most gentlemen to turn the answer to a lady’s question into a compliment to her eyes or her smile, but this inquisitive spirit of mine (what am I to do with it, my dear?) is perpetually leading me wrong. But Captain Colquhoun was more tender to my fault than Mrs Eustacia had been.
“Indeed, madam,” he said, “I could wish there was more of our ladies here with your laudable desire of knowledge. If they took these things into account, there might be less of that grasping and grinding for money, which is making us (saving your presence) to stink in the nostrils of the Indians. But when every one is seeking to outshine her neighbours, and luxury is come to such a pitch among us that Rome herself can’t scarce have been worse, what wonder that money is sought by the sale of dussticks[15] and in other irregular ways, to the great damage of the Nabob and our eternal discredit?”
“Then you look for a judgment upon this place, sir?”
“I look for an invasion sooner or later of our territory on the part of the Chuta Nabob, madam, unless heaven should interpose and raise one of the other claimants to the soubahship[16] in his place. And when that invasion comes, here are we, with the Fort all tumbling to pieces, the guns useless, no powder, and a militia that don’t know one end of their muskets from t’other.”
“And is this the fault of the Company, sir?”
“No, madam. The Company sent out orders for the drilling of the militia by the Godolphin four years ago, and this year they have ordered positively the repair of the fortifications on two separate occasions, chiefly on account of the threatened war with France. But Colonel Scott, who prepared the complete plan of defence which was ordered to be carried out, is dead, and Mr Drake and the gentlemen of the Presidency won’t listen to any one of less responsible station. So the work is hung up, as the lawyers say, and when the place is plunged in one common ruin, all will suffer alike, though with different deserts.”
This and some further conversation to the same effect has made me (as I may without shame confess to my Amelia) almost afraid to sleep in my bed, lest I should find myself aroused at midnight by the terrors of a Moorish invasion. Here, where there’s no Whigs nor Tories, I am become as strong a party-woman, to use Mr Addison’s phrase, as any of the ladies of whom he wrote; and should the fashion arise, as in his days, of wearing hoods differing in colour according to the politics of the wearers, I should be among the first to adopt it. Let me see: our side would choose red, I suppose, as signifying our desire for warlike preparations, while the ladies of Mr Drake’s party would wear the Quaker gray. I think our party would have the best of it, Amelia; don’t you?
CALCUTTA, September ye 21st.
’Tis time, indeed, that I brought this letter to a close; but there’s one or two things I must first put down, though at the risque of my dear girl’s thinking me a sad tedious scribbler. I have found the way, Amelia, into my stepmother’s favour—a thing that would be altogether charming, were it not that the means thereto are such as, to borrow a phrase from our great but neglected British poet, would leave me poor indeed. But you shall hear. On Saturday, then, my trunks, which had been in the hold of the Orford, were brought to the house, and I was extraordinary well pleased, for I had feared to be forced to stay from church the next day for want of a suitable gown. Mrs Freyne was to the full as glad as I, and shut herself up with me in my chamber to see the trunks unpacked, telling the banyan, who performs such services of ceremony here, to deny her to her visitants, using the phrase “The door is shut,” which is so understood by everybody. Well, as Marianna unfolded and laid out one gown after another, I could see that Mrs Freyne became less and less contented, and at last she burst out with—
“I vow, miss, you have a prodigious great store of clothes. Pray how much did Mr Freyne send home for providing you with ’em?”
“I don’t know, madam,” I said, and I was thankful to be able to say so. “The gentlewomen at Holly-tree House were bid to provide them, and account to Mr Freyne, within a certain sum.”
“You might have been coming out as a married woman,” says my stepmother, smoothing the satin of my white quilted petticoat. “I never saw a young Miss so absurdly well provided. Look you there now; you have three—four—silk night-gowns, and questionless a dozen or two of muslin ones.”
“No, madam, I have none of muslin. Mrs Abigail said they would be made cheaper here, and the limit of the money not exceeded.”
Mrs Freyne’s countenance cleared. “Why then,” she said, “I’ll show you what’s to be done. You shall give me two of these silk n