THE GREAT
TAMASHA COOKBOOK AND FAMILY
HISTORY
12
Scenes from
the Shikar, Or, Hunting the Prey
From the
unfinished MS., circa 1899: Our India
Days
Chapter 11: More Darjeeling Days;
Together With Some Curious Indian Tales (continued)
Darjeeling opinion of that year’s visiting
widows was, so to speak, in the process of consolidation. Lady Caroline
Armstrong, once again in the company of Collector Widdop, was seen to pat his
arm confidentially. Mrs Turner took a deep breath.
Mlle Dupont murmured on a weak note that
that was—eugh—just manner, Madame.
To which Mrs Turner, though her commanding
figure had stiffened alarmingly, returned graciously that it was like our dear
Mlle Dupont to say so. And should they walk on?
And the ladies walked on.
—Most certainly we have not forgotten the
Junoesque Mrs Mollison, Mr Thomas—your favourite, indeed? The Junoesque and the
cigars must put her well in the running? Dear sir, you shock us! –Do not look
like that, Antoinette, you goose, we are joking him, and in fact were about to
say that a guinea or two could well be placed on Lady Anna Lovatt. Had the
form, dear Mr Thomas? At any rate she had the face! Oh, dear, oh, dear! –Very
well, Antoinette, dearest, by all means order a tray of something cooling.
Lemon barley would be lovely, and we shall all calm down and listen sensibly
while Tiddy tells it!
Barley Water
Three tablespoonsful of barley kernels
& one pinch of salt to be added to a pint and a half of fast boiling water.
Boil rapidly for 4 minutes. Strain. Flavour with sugar & lemon.
Further
extract from a letter to Miss Lucas from Tiddy, from “The Allardyce House,
Trafalgar
Grove, Darjeeling”, found in the tin trunk in poor condition
I had part
of what follows from Mlle Dupont, who does not care for some of the commentators
concerned, and part I observed for myself—or heard: ladies d’un certain âge do not consider that the near presence of persons
of my age and status in life is worthy of consideration, you see!
The evening
party was a select affair. Out on Collector and Mrs Voight’s verandah, Mrs
Mollison, only too visible from the Voight drawing-room, expelled a long stream
of blue smoke. The cluster of young gentlemen laughed admiringly and little Viccy
Truesdale, very much above himself, could be heard to suggest: “Essay a smoke
ring, ma’am!”
“What, are
you betting I cannot do it, darling Viccy?” she drawled.
The cluster
drew closer, the gentleman laughing and laying bets, and the Junoesque Mrs
Mollison drew in smoke…
“Insufferable,” Mrs Martinmass concluded grimly.
“My dear,
my very word!” Mrs Carruthers agreed. “Poor Mrs Voight! And word has it the
creature has set her sights on dear Commander Voight!”
Mrs
Martinmass’s eyes went to the other side of the room, where Mrs Voight’s
brother-in-law was sitting on a sofa while the horse-faced Lady Anna Lovatt
told him what was apparently an uproariously funny story. “Then I am glad to
say she will have her work cut out for her.”
Reluctantly
Mrs Carruthers revealed: “Er—I have it on very good authority that he was at
school with the late Mr Lovatt.”
“Nevertheless,” she said firmly.
Mrs
Carruthers looked again. She smiled slowly. “Indeed,” she murmured.
After a
moment Mrs Martinmass added: “So, Lady Anna’s late husband must have been
considerably older than she; does one conclude she prefers older gentlemen?”
Mrs
Carruthers sniffed—quite in the manner of her daughter Emily. “My dear Mrs
Martinmass, had you observed her comportment at the Duckworth breakfast but
yester morning, you would not conclude so!”
The
Duckworth breakfast was a most
exclusive affair and Mrs Martinmass cannot have expected to be invited, but
nevertheless it rankles. The youngest Duckworth boy is an amiable creature with
few wits, and it is known in Darjeeling that Mrs Duckworth, who of course was a
Vane, considers that Emily Carruthers might do for him. Poor Mrs Martinmass’s lips
tightened; nevertheless she asked with interest: “Her comportment with whom?”
“Hatton. I
would say,” said Mrs Carruthers on a very sour note, “monopolising him, were it not that the boot appeared to be very
much on the other foot. He made,” she said with a moue of distaste, “a dead set at her.”
Secure in
the knowledge that Mrs Carruthers and Emily are both very, very miffed that
since his return from England Charlie Hatton has been steadily ignoring the
said Emily, Mrs Martinmass was able to reply calmly: “Oh? I would have said she
is too old for him. And certainly far above his touch.”
“Exact! The
Hattons,” said Mrs Carruthers bitterly: “are nobodies. That so-called estate of
his in Hampshire is little more than a farm.”
“I am not
surprised to hear it. Er, were any of the Allardyce party at the Duckworth
breakfast?”
An
unpleasant smile spread slowly over Mrs Carruthers’s large face. “No. I think, not because Mrs Colonel Duckworth, alone
of the Darjeeling hostesses, has not heard of the Lucas fortune, but rather
because, for whatever reason, she did not care to invite anyone of the party—”
Mrs
Martinmass laughed. “That was years a[go!”]
“One
gathers, however, that it still ran[kles.”]
Mrs
Martinmass laughed again. “In[deed!”]
Our India Days, Chapter 11: More Darjeeling Days;
Together With Some Curious Indian Tales (continued)
Quite,
Mr Thomas! It is the essence of the thing, if not, at this long distance in
time, the exact words! –Goodness, could there be more to tell of Mr Thomas’s favourite? Very well, we shall stop
teasing and Tiddy will tell it—yes, she will do the voices, Madeleine, of
course! Er, no, dear, the children would not be interested in the content, even
though they love the voices, and as you can hear, they are very busy shooting
that tiger!
Tiddy’s letter
found in the tin trunk, continued
[The en]tirety
of Darjeeling society had not been invited to the Voights’ evening party,
though there was certainly a more general spread of personalities than had been
at the exclusive Duckworth entertainment, so those who had not been favoured
were very eager to hear of it from those who had—or even from those who knew so[meone
who had!]
[Vio]let
and I called upon Miss MacDonnell and Master Tinker Terrier, to find she was
not alone, and we would not therefore need to give our feeble accounts of the
evening’s proceedings. Mr Sebastian Whyte, warning that his report was but at
second-hand, for he was not there in person, plunged eagerly into it in the
shade of the maiden lady’s great deodar. Brigadier Polkinghorne had told him that
cards were mooted, poor Mrs Voight attempting to make up several whist tables, but
Mrs Mollison said that was but dull stuff and they must get up a faro table,
and Mrs Allardyce supported her. Most taken aback, Miss MacDonnell ventured
that she has played whist with dear Mrs Allardyce an hundred times, and she is
a splendid player.
Agreeing calmly, Mr Whyte took a seedy
biscuit, approved it as “Delicious as ever,” and continued smoothly with his
narrative. All the younger gentlemen of course joined Mrs Mollison and Mrs
Allardyce at the faro table, and not a few of the older gentlemen, too. Mrs
Carruthers immediately developed a headache, and removed Emily. And Mrs
Duckworth claimed her girls were overtired from all the late nights and got
them out of it. At this Miss M. was driven to thrown up her hands, gasping: “Mrs
Duckworth left early?”
To which Mr Whyte returned sweetly: “Yes, but
I do not think that Mrs Voight particularly cares that she was a Vane, not even
if her brother be Viscount Stamforth himself.” Taken unawares, dear Miss
MacDonnell choked. And allowed that Mrs D. is but a cousin to the head of the
family. She then enquired anxiously: “But what about dear little Tiddy and
Violet?” At which Violet and I exchanged glances but remained properly dumb,
like well brought-up young ladies.
Mr Whyte
assured her it would not have been proper for us to play. Not perceiving the
twinkle in his eye, she cried: “But that is my point! Were they left quite out
in the cold?”
Looking
impossibly prim, Mr Whyte explained that Violet, Miss Martinmass and I were
left to play spillikins with Mlle Dupont, while the gentlemen encouraged Mrs
Mollison and Lady Anna Lovatt to lay the silly sort of bet which you may
imagine. Captain Lord Alfred Lacey and Commander Voight, alas, making cakes of
themselves just as much as silly little Viccy Truesdale.
Miss M. was
duly horrified, gasping: “Surely not dear Commander Voight?” At which he
confirmed that yes: he was, alas, stationed at Lady Anna Lovatt’s right elbow. “The
gentlemen,” said Miss MacDonnell on a
vicious note, “all seem to admire that young woman. But I cannot tell why, for
she reminds me forcibly of a favourite brown gelding of my dear brother’s! I
would not even call her pretty!”
Looking
primmer than ever, naughty Mr Whyte returned: “No, nor I. But the consensus is,
I collect, that the sterner sex find her fascinating. Cmmdr. Voight certainly
appeared fascinated.” He took another biscuit, chewed slowly, and swallowed,
possibly meditating whether or not to say it, given our presences. But, perhaps
deciding that as we had seen the thing, it could not signify, he admitted that according
to his friend Stanley, Charlie Hatton appeared equally fascinated and was at Lady
Anna’s left elbow. Before Miss MacDonnell could throw up her hands again, he
added quickly: “By this time, I am sorry to say, Mrs Voight had tacitly washed
her hands of it, and was absorbed in whist in the other room.” This tactic, if
tactic it were, worked: Mrs Voight’s passion for whist is well known, so Miss
MacDonnell had to admit that one could see it.
Mr Whyte
awarded us a kindly look. “Stanley was very annoyed about the gentlemen’s
complete desertion of the young ladies, but as he had been asked to make up a
table with General Hay, could not go to their rescue. So he was very pleased to
see Collector Widdop leaving the faro table and joining Mlle Dupont and the
girls.”
“Not
really?” she cried, the hands clasped to the flat bosom in positive ecstasy.
“Oh, he is the most gentlemanly of men! So gallant!” Placidly the narrator agreed,
nobly forbearing to mention that when his game broke up Brigadier Polkinghorne
came over to our table and grunted: “Very well done of you, Widdop!”—causing us
maidens to redden, alas, for who wishes to be perceived to be the object of a
gentleman’s charity, however kindly meant?
Our India Days, Chapter 11: More Darjeeling Days;
Together With Some Curious Indian Tales (continued)
Later, of course, Brigadier Polkinghorne
and Mr Whyte became quite close friends of ours, visiting with us all at our
homes, so we also had their versions of that season in the hills! Yes,
precisely, Antoinette dearest: we all grew up enough, we are glad to say, to be
capable of perceiving the solid worth and kindly hearts of both gentlemen.
Though the Brigadier’s lorgnette continued as entertaining as ever! No, well,
what would life be without the little eccentricities of one’s friends, after
all? Very dull, yes, Madeleine, dear!
Now, Mr Thomas, are your guineas still on
the Junoesque Mrs Mollison? Yes, perhaps a prudent man would have a side bet on the equine Lady Anna Lovatt!
Oh! Ponsonby sahib, pray do not creep up on one like that! We are not encouraging the youth of today to
lay bets, at all, for he thought of it for himself! The luscious Mrs Matcham?
Dear sir, that phrase, in front of the girls? Is the shikar over? Oh, they have gone off into the mofussil after more game! At least five days by elephant, or
gazebo? Pray stop it, sir, you will have us all in hysterics!
Now,
you have not overtired yourself, we trust?—Good.—Then run along inside and ring
the bell for a tray of tiffin,
Antoinette. –Yes, pray do look at her notes, Ponsonby sahib: we have been telling them of that time Tiddy baba was in the hills with Mrs
Allardyce. Still? No such thing!
There is a lot to tell!
By all means pass him the pencil,
Madeleine—no, dear girl, if he were tired he would not care to draw. Do not
worry: for a gentleman he has quite a deal of good sense! –No, well, persons
who creep up on one and accuse one
of encouraging the youth of today in bad habits must expect to be paid back
in their own coin, Ponsonby sahib!
–We were just saying that some years later, Stanley Polkinghorne and Sebby
Whyte became our good friends. Lorgnette and all—precisely, Gil! Oh, do but
look: that sketch is Stanley to the life!
Antoinette, do come and look: Ponsonby sahib is drawing some of the Darjeeling
characters for you! John said what, dear? No more strawberry tarts? But the
good Cook made a large batch this morning! All gone to the children? –Hush,
Gil, we are not prepared to hear a single word about the strenuous nature of a
tiger shoot! And you shall eat cucumber sandwiches and like them, sir! –Yes,
that is Sebby Whyte: a very round face, with twinkling eyes! Well, yes,
elaborate coloured cravats had come into fashion for gentlemen, Antoinette:
that is not exaggerated. Not for Mr Whyte.
"Sebby Whyte" & "Brigadier Polkinghorne" 2 gouaches from John Widdop's journal, circa 1829. From the Widdop family papers |
Ponsonby sahib, you will absolutely not take Mr Thomas’s guineas, for you
know the end of the story! Only sixpences? You will not take them either, sir!
Yes, thank you, Mr Thomas, we shall all
have a cucumber sandwich. Please pass this cup to Ponsonby sahib, Madeleine. The next part of the story concerns John
Widdop—and Tess is to stop giggling immediately! Now, Collector Widdop, we
should explain, was not an unattractive gentleman, but it was not his slim
figure and pleasant but unremarkable looks which were the draw. No: in British
India a Collector of the East India Company was generally reckoned a great
catch—and, indeed, the phrase “flies round the honey-pot” must spring to mind!
"Five Antique Honey Pots & a Silver Honey Bee from the Maunsleigh Collection" Courtesy of the Maunsleigh Collection |
Extract from a
volume of John Widdop’s journal,
written at the
Widdop bungalow in Darjeeling
Tues
10.
I must confess that in the course of a
sufficiently long and successful career I have become accustomed to all of the
many and varied forms of persuasion human ingenuity can devise. And, since
being left a widower some ten years since, to those devised by the female mind
in pursuit of a mate. Accustomed though I am, however, to the ladies of
Anglo-India and the many and varied snares they lay, I was a little surprised
to have a bowing bearer come into the parlour at a sufficiently early hour and
announce that an English mem was
calling.
“I think you mistake, bhai,” said I. “English mems do not call on sahibs.”
“It is an English mem, sahib,” the man
persisted, bowing again but with, or so I fancied, an odd look in his dark,
slightly slanted brown eye.
I asked cautiously whether she had an ayah with her but the answer was “No, sahib.
No ayah.”
I went to the window and peered from behind
the curtains. Not that I was aware of any particular sins of my own that might
be coming home to roost in my quiet little hill station bungalow, but my older
brother has been here for a while, and Cuthbert has always been a dashed idiot…
I could not see more than the indication of a pale gown within the shelter of
the front porch, and said on a resigned note: “You had better show her in here.
Is my brother up, yet?” He was not, it being “too early for Major-General sahib to be having chota huzzree.”
I asked for the mem to be shown in and leant my shoulders against the mantelpiece
above the empty grate, doing my best to make sure my face expressed nothing at
all.
“English mem, huzzoor,” announced
the bhai, bowing deeply.
There was no doubt whatsoever that both the
term of address and the depth of the bow were meant to put the English mem severely in her place! I merely
thanked the fellow, which got rid of him, and said neutrally to the heavily
veiled lady: “Good morning. May I help you?”
She raised the veil. “Phew, that’s better!
I think the things gather dust, far
from keeping it off! Good morning, Collector.”
I trust my face did not express my
emotions, which were in considerable turmoil. The little Lucas girl calling
here? Why, for God’s sake? Surely Cuthbert could not have been so idiotic as
to—And surely she could not have
been! The girl had struck me as a sensible little creature! Nay, both
intelligent and sensible—and I am not accustomed to misjudge people.
“If this is a social call, Miss Lucas,”
said I drily, “allow me to tell you that it is ill-judged. Ladies do not call
at bachelor houses.”
“I know. That’s why I have come so early,”
she returned cheerfully.
I bit on the bullet and replied, I hope
evenly: “My brother is not yet up, I’m afraid.”
To this Miss Lucas returned: “Good. I
haven’t come to see him, I’ve come to see you. –I can see what you’re
thinking,” she added kindly—I blinked—“but it’s nothing like that. I am not in
trouble of any sort.”
“Then who is?” I demanded tightly.
“Nobody. I have come in the hope that you
can help me settle a wager.”
At this I took a deep breath. “Miss Lucas,
I perceive that you were not sufficiently spanked in your childhood—which
cannot have been so long since as I thought.”
“No,” she agreed cheerfully, not a whit
abashed: “I’ve only had to be a young lady for about a year. It’s all right,
no-one saw me, and even if they had, it could not signify: this an old dress of
Mlle Dupont’s which no-one in India, let alone Darjeeling, has ever seen.”
“And the bonnet?” I returned unemotionally.
She was not thrown by this gambit. “It’s a
very old one of Mrs Allardyce’s which she gave to one of the ayahs when Violet was a baby. So I don’t
think anyone will recognise it, either. And this is a new ribbon: I took the
old one off.”
I confess I was driven to pass a hand over
my forehead. “Who taught you—never mind.”
Those wide grey-green eyes, which
heretofore in my blindness I would have catalogued as limpidly innocent, not as
shrewd as a hardened box-wallah’s of
forty-odd, were seen to twinkle. “What, the art of deception? No-one would have
dreamed of teaching me any such thing, sir, but I suppose I absorbed something
from Ponsonby sahib during that
period when no-one spanked me sufficiently.”
“More than something. And I doubt he would
be best pleased by this escapade. I know Gil Ponsonby quite well,” said I
grimly.
“Yes; he has mentioned you. Tell him if you
must: I don’t mind. The thing is, I made a bet with Charlie Hatton and he is
being quite insufferable over it, and though it is not the thing to use such
means, I decided I had best ask you straight out and be done with it. For either
you will tell me or you will not,” she explained in matter-of-fact tones.
After an appreciable moment I managed to
utter: “Tell you what?”
“No wonder Ponsonby sahib approves of you,” she discovered. “You go straight to the
heart of the matter, do you not? That must make it difficult for you when
you’re dealing with the mulaquati in
your District, though.”
“On the contrary, I am as capable of
circumlocution as a situation requires. This one don’t. Tell you what?”
“I’m afraid it is a very impertinent
enquiry. Tell me who holds the title deeds to this bungalow,” said little Miss
Lucas, going rather red but, to her credit, looking me firmly in the eye.
There
was then, I freely admit it, a stunned silence in the dingy front parlour of the
Widdop bungalow.
"Our hill station - Bungalows viewed from the hillside" Photograph, circa 1880. Courtesy of Miss Thomas |
I finally managed to ask why?
“That was the bet, you see. That I could
not discover it,” she said simply.
“I grasped that, Miss Lucas. Why bother?”
For the very first time in this
extraordinary interview she actually sounded unsure of herself as she replied:
“Um, the whole of Darjeeling has apparently been in a ferment about it for
years, though there is no why to that,
except that that is the sort of place it is.”
“I suppose I see. Though not why a young
fellow like Charles Hatton should bother to interest himself in the matter.”
“Um, well, he thinks it’s funny. Both in
itself and also because Darjeeling is so interested. But he would not have
bothered himself to the extent of making the wager, only, um…”
“Yes?”
Scowling, she revealed: “He is so sure that
I will lose, and if I do, I will have to give him the supper dance at General
Hay’s stupid ball, you see!”
“You should be flattered, Miss Lucas,” I
returned smoothly.
Now very red in the face, she retorted
crossly: “I am not flattered at all: I have known Charlie Hatton all my life,
and he is the most conniving, selfish creature that ever walked! He was in
England for years and never so much as came near us until he heard that we four
younger ones were to get the bulk of Papa’s fortune!”
“Ah. Then why bother to bet with him?” said
I lightly.
The little thing was now both red-faced and
scowling, and admitted: “He provoked me into it, I suppose. Put it like this, I
was stupid enough to let him provoke me, and he knew I would be.”
“I see. And you do not want the supper
dance with him?”
“No,” she said grimly. “And I certainly do not
want to leave him with the impression that I did not really try to win the
bet.”
To this I murmured that he could not know
her so very well if he could be left with that impression, and invited Miss
Lucas to accompany me to the study. She gave me an uncertain look but trotted
along, noting: “It’s Miss Tiddy, actually. Or Miss Angèle, if you must. I’m the
youngest, you see.”
“I beg your pardon; I had not realized.
Miss Tiddy, then,” said I, showing her into the study. I unlocked the desk and
handed her a folded packet of papers.
Miss Tiddy unfolded the papers and went
very red, I was glad to see. After a moment she said in a strangled voice:
“Thank you, Collector.”
“Not at all. I would ask why the joint
minds of Darjeeling suppose I have turned the place over to my brother, only
that I cannot see that you would be able to offer more than a guess.”
“No. It has something to do with his living
here for so long, I think,” she said limply.
“Mm. Well, Cuthbert has no genius for
managing property, or I might have
turned the place over to him,” I conceded, stowing the papers away again. “How
do you intend convincing young Hatton that you know the truth, Miss Tiddy?”
Her reply was a forceful “Huh!” and the
declaration that Hatton would not dare to accuse her of lying. Assuring her I was glad to hear it, I
led her out to the front door.
“Thank you very much, sir,” she said on a
lame note as I opened the door and bowed.
“Not at all. May I hope that you will
promise me the supper dance in Hatton’s stead?” I ventured.
“You?”
replied Miss Tiddy in frank astonishment.
On reflection, I do not dare to ask myself
precisely why the astonishment! At the time I merely bowed and assured her I
should be honoured.
“What, with all those well-born widows
competing for your hand? I think not!”
she returned with a sudden laugh.
I did manage not to smile but it was a
close-run thing. “No, well, would it surprise you to know, Miss Tiddy, that I
do not want any of those well-born widows?”
“Yes, it would, actually,” said my
astonishing visitor frankly. “Not that I don’t think they’re all very silly and
worthless, but then, gentlemen don’t usually see that in charming ladies, do
they?”
I
begged her to acquit me of the usual gentlemanly blindness, and she duly warned
me that if I dared to bow again, she would go into strong hysterics.
“That would never do,” said I. “So, will
you give me the supper dance and rescue me from the silly widows?”
She was about to accept, but gulped and
admitted that Mlle Dupont and Mrs Allardyce might gain the wrong impression.
“Along with the rest of Darjeeling—well,
yes, that had occurred to me. Wouldn’t it—er—enliven the hill station season?” I
ventured.
“It might, yes! –I have to admit,” she
admitted with a sigh, “that it is all incredibly silly and time-wasting. Though
interesting of its kind. But really, sir: I have come all the way out to India,
and then all the way up to the hills, just to fritter the days away in the
exact same sort of social stupidities that we had back in England!”
To this I replied that in my experience,
humanity is apt to take its social stupidities with it, the colour and romance
of India notwithstanding, and the little girl who had grown up in the country
conceded the colour but owned she would not call it romance. I apologised for
using the term conventionally and repeated my invitation. As might have been
expected, Miss Tiddy Lucas did not return a precisely conventional reply! Nor,
alas, a flattering one! The big grey-green eyes narrowed and she said: “Well,
they may not let us get away with actually supping together, but if we do, will
you let me have champagne?”
“Of course.”
“Good. It’s a bargain,” she said solemnly,
holding out her hand.
I managed to shake it solemnly. As she
pulled her veil down and stepped out into the porch I murmured: “Oh—one thing. The
shoes. You have not yet perfected the art of deception. The shoes give you
away. They are the ones you were wearing t’other day, when Mrs Allardyce was so
kind as to offer me a ride in the barouche.”
She looked up at me something dazedly.
“Yes. You are very sharp. But if it had been a serious matter, of course I
should have taken care not to wear a pair of my own.”
Heaven forbid it should ever be a serious
matter, then! I managed neither to laugh nor shudder and merely requested her
to oblige me by going straight home, not offering to send a bhai with her, for the Widdop bungalow bhais are known all over town. I did
just mention that the front parlour curtains of the Porton bungalow, opposite,
had been twitching for the last five minutes. And requested her, as her figure
and gait are, in my humble opinion, unmistakable, to take the precaution of
limping.
“Very wise. A bientôt, monsieur!” said
the small, dingy, veiled figure cheerfully, limping down my garden path.
Well—possibly this season in the hill
station might be rather more entertaining than anticipated! Tho’ that, alas, is
not saying very much at all.
"The hats are worse but otherwise - plus ça change..." Sketch, pen wash, from John Widdop's journal, circa 1829. From the Widdop family papers |
Our India Days, Chapter 11: More Darjeeling Days;
Together With Some Curious Indian Tales (continued)
John Widdop was delightfully intelligent,
of course! And the dearest man! No, no, you are anticipating, Mr Thomas! Er,
no, Madeleine, dear: over time Major-General Widdop did not become more
sensible, alas. Persons of that age are not apt to change their spots. Which
reminds us: if you would just run in and ring the bell, Antoinette, someone had
best be asked to make sure that that tiger comes indoors after it has been well
and truly shot! There is no need, thank you, Mr Thomas: you are a guest and she
is not helpless. Er—no, Madeleine, you
are thinking of lions; tigers are solitary creatures and lurk in the depths of
the forests, one never sees them as a general rule. Nor leopards, neither. As
Ponsonby sahib says, they are
solitary creatures, too, but unlike tigers, extremely agile climbers who often
lurk in the branches of big trees. They do hunt larger game, of course: deer
are plentiful in many parts of India—but they will hunt monkeys, too, either on
the ground or in the trees. No, we have never seen a leopard in the wild; they
hunt mostly at night and like many cats prefer to doze during the heat of the
day.
—Thank you, Antoinette, dearest. Not tigers
still, no, we have diverged onto the topic of leopards. There, now: if Ponsonby
sahib says that when game is scarce,
a leopard will eat fruit or small creatures such as mice or even insects, we
are sure he must be right! And as he says, any notion that tigers or leopards
terrorize the poor villagers is quite incorrect: as a rule they avoid human
habitations entirely. The so-called man-eater is usually a mangy old creature
that has lost most of its teeth and cannot hunt its proper game. Oh, Matt told
you of the pistol in the study which shot a man-eating tiger, did he, Mr
Thomas? That was when you were in the mofussil
with John Widdop himself, was it not, Ponsonby sahib? –Very well, if you two gentlemen think the progress of the shikar should be checked on, by all means
do so, and you may hear the story as you go, Mr Thomas—though it will perhaps
not be as exciting as you imagine! And Gil: please come straight back, or Dr
Fortescue will be scolding us.
The Tale of Ponsonby Sahib ’s Man-Eating Tiger Hunt with
Collector Widdop
"A Tiger, by Matt Ponsonby" Watercolour, circa 1855, by Matthew Ponsonby, Snr. (Inserted in the MS, Our India Days) From the Widdop family papers |
It was not exciting at all, girls, though
perhaps the waiting for the creature to appear was nerve-racking enough. As
tigers hunt at night, the gentlemen could not see very much. They tethered a
goat to a tree on the outskirts of the village and hid in another tree downwind
of it, with their guns at the ready. When the goat shrieked as the tiger went
for it, Mr Widdop’s clerk got such a fright that he fell out of the tree, and
the two Indian bearers who had waxed very brave, insisting on coming with them,
jumped down and ran away. The Collector himself missed with both barrels of his
shot-gun—he was shooting at the noises, you see, it was too dark to see—and
Ponsonby sahib’s gun misfired. The
tiger ran straight towards them, so Gil grabbed up his pistol and shot it
through the head. No, not trying to climb up after them, for as they realized
once they inspected the corpse in daylight the poor creature was missing one
eye and near to blind in the other. What with that and the pitch-dark, it could
not possibly have seen them, or indeed, their tree, and as he tells the story,
in fact bumped into it!
—So, how is the shikar progressing, dear sirs? Goodness, a bag of three crocodiles,
a gazelle for the pot, four brace of rabbits, and a snake before they have even
reached tiger country! Who shot the snake? –Oh, little Gil, but of course! We
do trust they are not leaving poor Malcolm out of it, though? Growling and
roaring in the night? We see! Yes,
indeed, the camp would be terrified! The elephant roared back? So that was what
that noise was all about! –Well, yes, it very likely would, Madeleine, for
elephants become very restless if they scent a tiger or a leopard.
"An elephant rearing" Watercolour, author unknown, circa 1865? (Thought to be by Gilbert Ponsonby after an Indian miniature) From the Widdop family papers |
Er—“trumpeted” is the correct word, Antoinette, but pray do not tell Tessa that,
or we shall have trumpeting in the house! And have you had the full story of
the famous man-eater hunt, Mr Thomas? Exactly! Real life so often offers one an
anticlimax, does it not, in contrast to what Gil would call a rattling good
story! –You have promised them the rattling good story of Lord Sleyven’s wicked
crocodile? Ponsonby sahib, was that
wise, with the little girls here? –It was Harriet who shot one of the
crocodiles? Oh. In that case, there can be no objection!
Now, go on, Tiddy baba: tell them what Hatton dared to say to you in the wake of his
behaviour at the Voight party—was this at Mrs Allardyce’s little dance? Oh,
yes!
Extract from a
letter from Madeleine Thomas to her sister Adelaide
Even back
in those days, dear sister, it appears that Darjeeling had a string quartet, so
kind Mrs Allardyce hired them to play for a little hop in the drawing-room of
the Allardyce House in Trafalgar Grove. The old ladies described the quartet so
amusingly, but I fear I cannot capture their exact tone for you. There was a Mr
Harris (first violin), retired some time since from a clerical position with the
East India Company, which of course they refer to as merely “the Company” or “John Company”. It
took me quite some time, I must confess,
to puzzle out their meaning, and our dear brother informed me I was a goose!
Then there was a Mr Kettle (second violin), retired from a position with Lucas
& Pointer, and a meek yellow-brown Mr Robbins (viola). “His musical
contribution was deemed almost to make up for his unfortunate birth” was the
phrase used! And a depressed-looking junior Mr Harris was the violoncello.
Out on the
verandah Charlie Hatton blew a smoke ring and Tiddy baba, as we are agreed I shall call her when it is just between
ourselves, noted that that was not so very clever, for Mrs Mollison could do
it. Mr Charlie then tried to persuade her that his avoiding her at the Voigts’
elegant evening party was done express to force Collector Widdop to hasten to
her rescue, which of course she saw through, as one would. Young men can be so
vain, can they not? So she walked off and left him to his silly smoke rings.
Now, this
little hop of Mrs Allardyce’s was held only two days before General Hay’s big
ball, which might have struck one as an odd time to choose. However, the grand
people, I cannot recall absolutely all their names, but persons such as the
General himself, the Voights, General and Mrs Porton, and the Duckworths were
not present. Instead there were such persons as Miss MacDonnell and Mrs and
Miss Turner, amongst the older ladies, and quite a few young people: Harriet
Doolittle, and quite half a dozen other acquaintances from Calcutta. And a good
number of young officers to dance with them, so it was a delightful occasion.
But the point was—and we all laughed very much over it—that Mrs Allardyce had
invited the ones who were not favoured with invitations to the
General’s ball at Long Reach Villa!
Our India Days, Chapter 11: More Darjeeling Days;
Together With Some Curious Indian Tales (continued)
Yes, we are about to recount the events of
General Hay’s ball, if you are not too tired? Stop it! Of course Gil may come
down to burra khana this evening like
a big boy if he is feeling very well! –It is since our darling little Gil baba came to stay, Mr Thomas: Ponsonby sahib is so thrilled to have one of the
grandchildren named for him, you see. But you must absolutely promise to have a
nap before dinner, Ponsonby sahib.
Very well, after the story of the crocodile, if they will all come and sit
quietly for it. But first, the Long Reach Villa Ball!
The Long Reach
Villa Ball
(A
reconstruction, drawn largely from the journal of Collector Widdop)
"Hay's Ball or Danse macabre" Sketch, pencil, form John Widdop's journal, circa 1829. From the Widdop family papers |
General Hay’s ball was in full swing. The
majestic Mrs Duckworth raised her ivory lorgnette—much prettier then Brigadier
Polkinghorne’s tortoiseshell one—and after a pause for examination of the
somewhat surprising sight of Miss Angèle Lucas in the capable arms of Collector
Widdop, said drily: “Entertaining enough.”
Mrs Voight smiled feebly. Not that she had
any particular interest in Collector Widdop. Well, of course he was a catch,
but it was ridiculous to suppose he would even look twice at her little Jane,
only just out. But young Tiddy Lucas was a nobody, even if she would have a
substantial portion. “Well, yes. In especial as earlier in the season, his
brother was very attentive in that direction.”
“So one had heard… Well, John Widdop is an
attractive fellow, I think we may concede that between ourselves, Eliza,” she
said, lowering the lorgnette. “But he don’t give the impression of a man
setting out to woo the lady of his choice.”
Mrs Voight looked dubiously at Mr Widdop
and Tiddy Lucas laughing as the figures of the country dance brought them back
together. “Er—no-o…”
“He lacks,” elaborated Mrs Duckworth drily,
the lorgnette once again raised, “that sheep-like expression. –Do but look over
there, my dear!” She nodded slightly.
Mrs Voight looked. Young Lord Frederick
Dewhurst, who would have been completely suitable for her own little Jane, was
humbly proffering the smiling Lady Caroline Armstrong a glass of refreshment.
"Closing in for the Kill - Lady C.A. at Hay's ball" Sketch, pencil, form John Widdop's journal, circa 1829. From the Widdop family papers |
The two matrons watched in silence as the
expectable dimpling, curl-shaking and arm-patting then took place.
“Taking of sheep-like expressions,” agreed
Mrs Voight very grimly indeed.
“Oh, and of cradle-snatching, my dear,” she
said with a lightness worthy of Mrs Allardyce herself.
Mlle Dupont and Brigadier Polkinghorne were
sitting together. Mademoiselle had a sneaking feeling that the well-connected
Brigadier had taken her under his wing because his friend Mr Whyte had asked
him to. He had already explained that Sebby was not here tonight—not grand
enough for their host. As Collector Widdop surrendered Tiddy to Major Mason
with what appeared to be great reluctance, the Brigadier said kindly: “Wouldn’t
worry about that, ma’am.”
“N— Eugh,
which, monsieur?” said Mademoiselle
feebly.
“Either,” he noted drily. He raised the
lorgnette. Mademoiselle tried very hard not to notice that on the far side of
the room Mrs Duckworth was doing the precise same thing. He looked slowly round
the crowded ballroom.
As he did not speak, Mlle Dupont eventually
offered: “It is all vairy expectable, no?”
“Somethin’ like that,” he grunted, as the
Junoesque Mrs Mollison, laughing immoderately, was seen to lead the burly,
grinning Colonel Fitzmaurice into the waltz, what time his little nephew Viccy
Truesdale stood by discomforted, and the darkly lush Mrs Matcham, also laughing,
was seen to capture Captain Lord Alfred Lacey from under the very nose of
little Miss Armstrong, not to mention the disconcerted Lady Armstrong, and lead
him ditto.
Mademoiselle looked again.. “Eugh—I do not see Lady Anna Lovatt.”
“The d— boy,” replied the Brigadier grimly,
“saving your presence, ma’am, has taken her into a kala jugga.”
“Who? Into a what?” she said limply.
“Oh, beg pardon, Mlle Dupont. Young Hatton.
Taken her into a kala jugga.
Hindustanee, y’know. Means a little sitting-out place.”
“I am vairy sure he has! But as to whether
it might be in response to Tiddy’s encouraging the Collector, or hers is in
response to his, I cannot tell!” said Mademoiselle somewhat wildly. “And Mrs
Allardyce promised it—it would all be resolved!”
The Brigadier blinked. “What, tonight?”
“Eugh—no.
I do beg your pardon, monsieur: I was
becoming heated. No, she had a plan…” said Mademoiselle glumly. “But I do not
know the details.”
“Women like Mrs Allardyce always do have a
plan,” noted Stanley Polkinghorne drily.
It was now time for the supper dance and
Tiddy looked eagerly for the Collector.
“Mrs Duckworth maintains you are wrong,”
said a teasing voice in her ear. “He has signed it over, lock, stock and
barrel, to Major-General W.!”
“Go away, Charlie,” replied Tiddy grimly.
“Pooh! Admit you made it all up, and dance
this one with me!”
“Of course I did not make it up. I told
you: I asked the Collector and he showed me the papers. Here he is now: ask him
yourself,” said Tiddy grimly.
“Oh, Lor’! Wouldn’t dare!” he hissed,
laughing. “Stiff, ain’t he? –Evening, sir,” he said brazenly as Mr Widdop
approached. “I say, hope you was not under the impression that Tiddy had
promised you the supper dance, for, y’know, she promised it me days back.”
“That is a lie, Collector,” warned Tiddy
grimly.
“Yes, I can see that, Miss Tiddy,” he
agreed, looking curiously at Mr Hatton.
To her enjoyment, Tiddy saw that Charlie
had gone rather red. “Oh, you cannot blame a fellow for trying, sir!” he said
with a would-be easy laugh.
“Can I not?” returned the Collector evenly.
“Oh, absolutely not! Well, if you still
maintain you have won the you-know-what, Tiddy—though you know and I know you
have not—s’pose I had best resign myself.”
The Collector put a hand under Tiddy’s
elbow. “I do hope, Hatton, that you are not labouring under the misapprehension
that I don’t take your meaning. As Miss Tiddy is aware, I hold the title deeds
to the bungalow in which my brother and I are living. Good evening.”
Mr Hatton was left with nothing to do but
bow and take himself off.
"Hatton discomforted - Highlight of Hay's Ball?" Sketch, pencil, from John Widdop's journal, circa 1829. From the Widdop family papers |
He
did so in the direction of Lady Anna Lovatt, who was immediately heard to cry:
“There you are, you bad thing! I had almost given your dance to darling
Bertie!” And one of Darjeeling’s medley of majors was then seen to bow and
resign the lady to him.
“I would say,” said the Collector lightly,
whirling his fair prize into the waltz, “that the art of covering one’s bets is
not unknown to your friend Hatton.”
“That puts it very well,” agreed Tiddy
grimly. “Having his cake and eating it is also a favourite with him.”
“Well,” said John Widdop easily, “that
don’t work. Not when one is past the age of two or so. Perhaps one day he will
grow up sufficiently to realise it.”
“I hope I may be a fly on the wall when he
does,” replied Tiddy grimly.
Mlle Dupont found the supper most pleasant,
in the company of Brigadier-General Polkinghorne and the Collector. Since by
now she had received more than one very reliable report that the latter was one
of the most charming men in Anglo-India, she was relieved to see that his
manner to Tiddy was no warmer than that of an older man to a favourite niece.
And, in fact, found it in her heart to feel sorry for the man: widowered these
ten years and being chased by all the hags of Anglo-India! However, the
spectacle of Charlie Hatton supping in a party with Mrs Mollison, Mrs Matcham,
and Lady Charlotte Armstrong and flirting with all three of them was not an
edifying one.
After supper the Collector’s brother came
up and claimed Tiddy for a country dance, Mademoiselle eyed this performance
drily. Had it not occurred that after dancing with his very much younger
brother, Miss Angèle Lucas might not find herself precisely aux anges in his arms? No, apparently
not!
"Cuthbert in his finery" Sketch, pencil, pen, wash & gouache, from John Widdop's journal, circa 1829. From the Widdop family papers |
He
was quickly followed by several young officers. Charlie did not come near her:
he seemed to be sharing himself amongst the three ladies with whom he had
supped. But did that indicate, wondered Mademoiselle, that he was trying to
pique Tiddy into chasing him, or—or not?
And that was more or less that for General
Hay’s ball. No further enlightenment was received that evening as to Charlie
Hatton’s preference, or, indeed, as to which of the ladies might be Mrs
Allardyce’s “she”. He did not appear to favour one above the other, and the
fair Mrs Mollison, horribly Grecian in artfully draped finest Madras white silk
shot with silver, wholly unsuited to her age and widowed station in life, the
lush Mrs Matcham, all smiles, complaisance and dark curls above a superbly cut
deep puce silk with an exactly toning necklace of what she freely admitted were
only garnets, thus neatly pre-empting the female half of Darjeeling, and Lady
Charlotte Armstrong, girlishly simple in a plain lilac silk and awarding
girlish pats on the arm to the male half of Darjeeling, all seemed equally warm
and welcoming toward him… Then there was the horse-faced but wellborn Lady Anna
Lovatt. Allowing Mr Hatton to take her into a sitting-out place had certainly
seemed like encouragement, but in the further course of the evening, to
Mademoiselle’s certain knowledge, she also went aside with three other
gentlemen. Of whom Major Mason might have nothing but a pleasant smile to
recommend him above Charlie Hatton, but the same could not be said of Lord Alfred Lacey and Commander Voight!
“Quatre,”
said Mademoiselle grimly under her breath as Tiddy returned from a dance.
“What was that, Mademoiselle?”
“Nothing, ma petite. I fear the evening is in danger of becoming rather
rompish: Mrs Duckworth has gone. We should collect Mlle Violette and go.”
There being nothing even remotely exciting
in watching a pack of middle-aged persons becoming rompish, Tiddy agreed
eagerly to this suggestion, and they collected Violet, and went.
Our India Days, Chapter 11: More Darjeeling Days;
Together With Some Curious Indian Tales (continued)
Oh, dear, did you expect a resolution, Mr
Thomas? But what did we say about real life’s tending towards anticlimax?
Ponsonby sahib, please stop laughing,
or the girls may conclude we are teasing him deliberately! Whereas we are
merely allowing the story to unfold in its due order! –No, no, Mr Thomas:
fetching the children would not constitute a retreat, merely a strategic
withdrawal in order to marshal one’s forces! ...Come and sit down, dear
ones—you may tell us all about the shikar
in a little, we promise, but if you wish to hear Ponsonby sahib tell of Lord Sleyven’s crocodile before he retires to rest
before dinner— That’s better! Go to Great-Aunt Tonie, Gil baba, it is Jane baba’s
turn to sit on Ponsonby sahib’s knee.
Yes, Harriet may sit on Great-Aunt Tess’s knee: that’s right!
"The Grandchildren - Tessa, Jane baba and Harriet" Watercolour, circa 1863-5, mounted on brown card. Thought to be by Gilbert Ponsonby. (Inserted in the MS, Our India Days) From the Widdop family papers |
Just put that great crocodile-gun down,
Tessa dearest, we are quite safe on the terrace. Now, dear sir!
The Story of Lord Sleyven’s
Wicked Crocodile
In the days when Lord Sleyven was a young
man, and still only Captain Wynton, the regiment was assigned to the mofussil. As game was plentiful, some of
the younger officers went out for some shooting. Down by a river they came
across a horrid scene: a young donkey had been taken by a crocodile! Its owner
was shouting for help and the poor little mother jenny was braying in distress.
"The wicked crocodile" Sketch, pencil, circa 1865? Author unknown.* (Inserted in the MS, Our India Days) From the Widdop family papers * Variously though to be by Gilbert Ponsonby or another hand. -K.W. |
The officers set their horses at the
stream, and prepared to leap to the rescue. The river was quite wide, though
not one of the great Indian waterways, but not too wide for a capable horse and
rider. Captain Wynton, however, was on a bony, obstinate brute which jibbed,
throwing him over its head so that he landed awkwardly in the water, splash!
His fellow officers rushed to rescue him before the crocodile could perceive it
was being offered another dish to its
dinner, and he was hauled safely onto the bank. But alas, it was too late for
the little donkey, and it was drawn beneath the waters, and eaten up by the
wicked crocodile.
So the officers readied their guns and
waited until there was a ripple on the surface of the river and a wicked
leathery snout showed again; and: “Bang, bang, bang!” A volley of fire rang out
and the wicked crocodile met his just desserts!
Yes, huzza, indeed! Of course you would
shoot it with your huge crocodile-gun, Tessa! Yes, and Matt with his best
shot-gun, naturally. A tiger could beat a crocodile, Malcolm? They are both
very fierce, dear boy, but there is very little save the guns of the regiment
which can bring down a full-grown crocodile! –Snap, snap! Yes, Harriet, they
do! Er, yes, the little donkey was all eaten up, Jane baba, but the officers killed the wicked crocodile in the end! Make
a crocodile dressing case like your Mamma’s out of it? Yes, that would teach it a lesson, darling!
"Five antique dressing cases from the Maunsleigh Collection, including 3 crocodile (L. & R.)" Courtesy of the Maunsleigh Collection |
Now, everyone must thank Ponsonby sahib for the story and let him retire.
No arguments, if you please, children. The two Gils may go together, yes, Gil baba. But no more stories! –He will
probably just nod off beside his grandfather, Madeleine, he is only four, you
know. No, well, look at their faces, dear girl: they thoroughly enjoyed the
story! They are all too young to have developed sensibilities, you see. –Now,
children, you may all tell us the story of your great tiger hunt from the back
of the elephant!
Culinary note
by Cassie Babbage
Australians are now eating crocodile (farmed), though
there don’t seem to be any older recipes. Here is an easy recipe for cooking it
moli-style. Charles calls it “Mum’s
Eat the B’s Before They Eat You Recipe”.
(There are lots of recipes on the Web. I found a
nice-looking one at Huey’s Kitchen, http://www.hueyskitchen.com.au/recipes/4204/asian-crocodile-with-a-snowpea--herb-salad
For more, just search under “crocodile meat recipes.”) Most experts seem to
recommend cooking it quickly as you would squid.
Crocodile Moli
(Serves 4)
500 g crocodile meat (usually tail meat)
1/2 onion 2
cloves garlic
1 red chilli 2-cm piece ginger
juice 1/2 lime 1/2 cup coconut milk
1 teaspoon ground coriander 1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon turmeric vegetable oil
spray
pinch salt Garnish: coriander leaves
Chop the onion and ginger finely. Spray
frying pan or electric frypan on moderate heat with vegetable oil. Sauter onion,
ginger and ground spices until onion is soft and golden. Add crushed garlic and
finely chopped chilli. Cook just until aromas are released.
Slice the crocodile tail into narrow
strips as you would squid. Add to pan. Cook 4-5 minutes, stirring gently,
Add coconut milk. Bring to boil then
quickly reduce heat to medium-low and simmer for 2-3 minutes.
Take off the heat and stir in the lime
juice and pinch of salt. Do not add lime all at once, but taste until adjusted
to your liking.
Serve with a garnish of fresh coriander
leaves.
Note: The Southern Indian moli are made with chicken, lamb, fish,
seafood or boiled eggs (or sometimes pork). They would traditionally be served
with a selection of spicy vegetable dishes and rice, but I like them with plain
rice plus lots of green salad on the side and a spoonful or so of spicy chutney
or hot pickle.
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