Zemindar (10 page)

Tiffin
was a very quiet meal, due as much to the heat, which sapped all alike of energy, as to the ill humour of some of those present. But by dinner, which was always taken early by English standards, Emily appeared to have recovered her spirits, and came to the table very becomingly dressed in a gown of pink gauze trimmed with silver leaves. As usual, we were to spend the evening in company, and I knew from her choice of this favourite gown that Emily had made up her mind to forget her woes and enjoy herself. I was truly relieved, and in my relief managed to enjoy myself rather more than usual. Charles remained aloof in his manner towards his wife and spent all his time in the card room, at a particularly noisy table where brandy goblets were more in evidence than cards. I seldom touched liquor myself, and to the best of my knowledge Emily had never had anything stronger than lemonade in her life. But that night I saw her accept a glass of champagne from the hands of one of the adoring young men who somehow contrived to get themselves invited wherever young Mrs Flood was expected. I felt no great surprise at seeing Emily take champagne; after the morning’s passage of arms, I construed it as merely a gesture of independence and hoped she would not get a headache. The wine must have agreed with her. She laughed, danced and flirted all through the evening with the greatest verve and, when at last we were in the carriage driving home, recounted her triumphs in a way well calculated to irritate her silent spouse, who sat upright in his corner and vouchsafed never a word.

I went to my bed glad that the trying day was over. But sleep eluded me. The heat was unbearable, and the slight breeze that swept inland from the sea and stirred the mosquito net so desultorily was as warm and comfortless as the stale air in the room. My skin burned at the touch of the sheets, and my nightgown was soon drenched with sweat. Neither was there any way in which I could improve my situation, for the
punkah
swayed regularly above my head and every door and window stood wide open; even the inner doors, as is usual in Indian bungalows, were louvred from top to bottom to allow free passage to any wind that stirred. In the thick darkness of the night dogs barked, jackals yelped, and the watchman struck the quarters on his gong, then cleared his throat and shouted to let the world know he was awake:
‘Ko hai? Ko hai? Q’abr dar
!’ (Anyone there? Have a care!)

I tossed and turned and tried to find the best position in the bed to catch the draught of the
punkah.
And then, above the drone of the mosquitoes and the noises of the Indian night, I became aware of the sound of voices in the room occupied by Emily and Charles across the wide corridor from mine. Those tall louvred doors shut out as little sound as they did air, but I had never before heard more than the low murmur of voices from that room. Now I realized, as I shook myself loose of my dozing, the voices were raised in anger, or I could not have heard them so clearly. The morning’s quarrel was continuing then. I shrugged mentally and berated Emily for being such a self-willed little fool. But I was not much concerned; there had been other quarrels. I was, however, glad that the raised voices would not be audible to the Chalmerses, who slept at the other end of the house. I turned over in my bed and once again tried to settle to sleep, but odd words and phrases, dulled but distinguishable, came to me through the doors.

‘Why did you not…’ That was Charles.

Then Emily, ‘… you never have listened …’

‘… but at the start you were not …’—Charles again.

Then Emily, ‘No, no, even then I …’

‘… and so now I am never to …’

‘… as though there is nothing else …’

Then Charles again, ‘… my need, Emily …’

Then Emily, quite loudly and shrilly: ‘I don’t care; I do not care! … You are …’ Her voice was suddenly stifled, as though she had put her hand over her mouth, and then broke out again, in a scream, a shrill scream: ‘No … no … no, Charles! I won’t let you! Don’t touch me! No-o-o!’ At this I shot up in bed. It could not be true! Surely Charles could never strike her?

Then suddenly all was quiet again. I found I was shivering despite the heat, and with the awareness of my shaking limbs came too awareness of what I had really heard. With flaming cheeks I buried my face in the hot pillows, pulling them up around my ears so that I should hear no more. For hours, it seemed, I struggled there with my imagination, with my memories and with my own long-dead hopes, until at last, hot, exhausted and distressed, I gave way to tears and wept for Emily, for Charles, and most of all myself.

But how could I guess then that the unwilling loving of that night would result in such tragedy for us all? That it would bring life—and death—and turn the tides of all our days towards a sea of events that finally engulfed a nation?

A couple of days later Mr Roberts was included in a party made up to view the works in Messrs Thacker & Spink’s picture gallery. This was a new acquisition and provided the inhabitants of Calcutta with opportunity for much spite and malicious laughter, as most of the artists exhibiting were amateurs from amongst themselves, and many of the subjects of the portraits were also personalities of the place.

The gallery consisted of two or three large rooms above a shop. The wall space was occupied with a diverse collection of works in every style and medium—the portrait in oils predominating, followed in number by what were obviously ladies’ watercolours, indeterminate, conventional things, too much like what I myself was able to produce.

Mr Roberts and I, as usual, found ourselves in company as we paced along the walls. I had determined not to be disconcerted by his particularity, but to treat him in just the same manner as I had before my cousin’s foolish remarks, but, despite this resolution, I was very conscious of the company’s eyes upon us and thought I discerned the odd knowing look pass between some of our acquaintance. Probably this was only my imagination, and since Mr Roberts appeared unconscious of anything unusual I pulled myself together and concentrated on the pictures.

Few of them were competent, let alone admirable, but all had been loaned freely by the artists or owners in order to get the gallery off to a good start, so I felt that the ruder comments and louder shouts of laughter could have been suppressed. I was disappointed to discover no single example of Indian art, though there were several portraits of Indian gentlemen, magnificent in jewels and plumed turbans, which Mr Roberts said were probably painted by itinerant Italian artists in the earlier years of the century.

‘What a pity there is nothing of native work,’ I said to my companion. ‘I have heard that the Rajput manner is very interesting, and had hoped to see some here.’

‘Ah, no, I fear not. The best of that is seen in private houses and the palaces of the great. I do not admire it greatly myself; the want of perspective makes it unlovely to the Western eye. But,’ he added with the justice that I so much liked in him, ‘it is certainly lively, and the colours are most intense and jewel-like. No doubt you will find an opportunity to view some of it in Oudh. Lucknow is reputed to be a treasure house of such things—or at least it was in the days of the Nawabs.’

Mr Roberts moved on a few steps, but I remained to look at a pleasant water-colour of mountains and a lake, unoriginal but well executed, and was startled by his sudden urgent call to come and look, for he believed he had found something that would interest me.

This was a portrait, almost life-sized, of a young man.

The subject posed against a bleak landscape of solid rocks and uncompromising trees, with, in the distance, a building that one guessed was a fort or castle of some sort. He stood erect, his right hand on his hip, and on his left a chained and hooded falcon, and gazed straight down at the viewer. It was obvious at first glance that the portrait was the work of two different artists, the body having been done by a very unaccomplished apprentice. The stance of the figure was stiff, the limbs appearing to be riveted to the trunk like those of a puppet, and the whole covered by clothing that bore no sign of wear—no wrinkles, not a hint of the contours of the limbs beneath, no indication of movement.

But, by some touch of genius or happy flash of insight, the artist who had painted it had brought to vivid and assertive life the strongly featured face. It was a long face, the forehead high, the chin strong and markedly cleft, the mouth wide and unsmiling but at the same time not wholly stern. A beaked nose stood out beneath dark brows, shadowing eyes that were heavy-lidded, narrow and hazel in colour, and that drew the viewer’s eyes as a magnet draws a pin, so full of life were they, so charged with the expression of their owner’s character. The man might have been any age between twenty-five and thirty, though I inclined towards the older limit.

We regarded the portrait for some moments in silence, I, at any rate, ignoring the lifeless body and endeavouring from a study of the complex face to form some assessment of the man’s personality, and wondering how it came about that two such differently endowed hands had come to work on the same subject. No doubt it was this point that Mr Roberts considered would interest me, but I knew a little of the system of apprentice painters in portraiture and was not as surprised as he had been.

‘A most interesting face, is it not?’ murmured Mr Roberts, keeping his eyes fixed upon it.

‘Very,’ I agreed, ‘but I cannot think I would like the man.’

‘Is that so?’ Mr Roberts’s voice told me he was smiling. ‘You have come to your conclusion very quickly. What is it that you do not like in him?’

‘Perhaps his arrogance. Look at the way the head is set on the shoulders. Stiff-necked and proud.’

‘That could be a fault in the painting.’

‘Yes, but see, it is in his eyes too, and in the cut of the nostrils.’

‘Hm. What else do you see in the eyes?’

‘Intelligence—wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Certainly.’

‘And … and humour, I think. The mouth bears that out—see the faint quirk at the end of the lips? But I feel it must be a most sardonic humour. Look at these long lines coming down by the side of the nose past the lips.’

‘Smile lines, perhaps?’

‘It would be a cruel smile that left such marking on a face in repose.’

‘Or it could be a wide one? What else?’

I considered for a moment. ‘Imagination. That breadth of forehead, you know. And he has great strength of character. That is a despot’s nose.’

‘Yes, there I must agree with you. But do you see no sign of any gentler characteristic? Sensitivity perhaps?’

‘Well, there is a hint of delicacy in the moulding of the lips, but I think it has long since been overlaid by assertiveness.’

‘Generosity?’

‘Certainly nothing of the contrary! There is no hint of meanness or smallness of mind that I can detect.’

‘No indeed, no pettiness there. I remember, Miss Hewitt, once telling you that he would be accounted a great man in his own acres, and now, looking at his face, I am inclined to think his greatness lies not wholly in his possessions.’

Mr Roberts pointed, with a small air of triumph, to lettering, dark against dark foliage, which I had not before noticed. I bent forward, and following his finger read:

OE … HASSANGANJ … 1848

‘This is the gentleman in whom you displayed so much interest on board ship, Miss Hewitt. Mr Oliver Erskine!’

‘Mr Erskine? But how can you be so sure? You told me you had never seen him, and the initials may stand for many other names, even the artist’s.’

‘True,’ agreed my companion imperturbably, ‘but not in conjunction with “Hassanganj”. That is the name of Erskine’s estate, and that,’ he pointed at the fort-like building in the background, ‘that is the house at Hassanganj. It is quite famous, I assure you.’

‘But how extraordinary.’

I looked with a new and livelier interest at the face, and the more I examined it the more enigmatical it became. All I had read in it before was still there, but the more I studied, the more I found my curiosity aroused. Perhaps the novelty of masculine features entirely clean-shaven added something to my puzzlement. It was rare indeed to meet a gentleman quite unbewhiskered, and I was not sure I liked the effect. At all events, my first feeling of antipathy remained.

‘We had better introduce Charles to his brother,’ I said at length, and signalled to attract his attention. He and Emily were together, but Emily had chosen to lean upon the arm of one Lieutenant Charlton, a most devoted admirer, rather than upon her husband’s. They took their time in coming, but as they approached the picture to which Mr Roberts and I had again bent our attention, Emily said, ‘Oh, who is that
ugly
fellow!’ and shuddered in exaggerated distaste.

He was certainly singular but he had many other qualities as well, and I could have cheerfully shaken Emily as she chattered on about his great ‘hooked’ nose, and the unfashionable cut of his coat.

Mr Roberts allowed her to run on, and then said mildly, ‘I am sorry that you have so poor an opinion of the gentleman’s physiognomy. You will probably be much in his company before long as he is your husband’s near relative—Mr Erskine.’

‘Mercy!’ My cousin clutched Lieutenant Charlton’s arm and made as if to swoon, and I had to grit my teeth to remain silent. This ridiculous response to trivialities was one of her new affectations that I most disliked.

Then all had to be explained anew. Charles was properly impressed, wondered how the portrait had come to Calcutta, who had commissioned it, and whether it was a true likeness or not. We all, save Emily, gave our findings as to the gentleman’s character, and at the end Charles and I had something of an altercation, he professing to see in the face much that was powerful, even noble, and I failing to find too much to admire.

‘It is a fine manly face,’ he declared.

‘Excellently executed,’ I demurred.

‘True. But no painter could invent an expression of such strength and marked intelligence.’

‘Portraitists are notoriously flattering in their approach,’ I pointed out. ‘Their living depends on it.’