Ignorance both of the language of the country and of the vast vocabulary of Anglo-Indian expressions was a sad drawback to anything like real enjoyment in those early days; as, besides feeling a bore of the first-water, having to ask so many questions, one felt more or less at every one’s mercy.
At my first dinner-party I well recollect a gentleman inviting me to take “simkin” with him; politeness constrained me to accept “with pleasure”—and also with some secret misgivings; and some coagulated stuff was shot into my glass, which, on melting, turned out to be champagne—a word beyond any native’s power of pronunciation, and, in consequence, corrupted into “simkin” by natives and Europeans alike.
Another friend begged me to call on him at some house in “Mango Lane.” I promised to do so, but, unfortunately suspecting a practical joke, I retaliated by telling him that my abode was “Pine-Apple Alley.” Had I only inquired, matters would have turned out otherwise. As it was, the poor fellow drove all over the town in search of a place that did not exist; while I never took the slightest trouble to find out his abode, though it was situated in one of the most important thoroughfares in Calcutta, where merchants most did congregate. Shortly afterwards we met out driving; and after the ensuing explanation, I made the amende honorable.
I have already said that Calcutta did not impress me favourably at first; and after each subsequent visit I disliked the place more and more.
The event of the day, to which all looked forward with great eagerness, was the evening drive up and down a road running parallel with the river; but its duration was of the briefest. As if by magic, the place would suddenly swarm with all sorts of conveyances, from the well-appointed barouche to the modest buggy. The ladies, one and all, looked cadaverous, so much so that I felt quite concerned about them; but was somewhat reassured by my friend’s reply to my inquiries: “Oh! no, they are all ill; they all get like that after they have been out here a short time.”
As far as I could judge, the aim of each native coachman was to outdrive his fellow Jehu, for we certainly moved at a break-neck pace. Consequently, I seldom saw any of my shipmates there. That rapid transit for a brief hour in an open conveyance, with occasionally an hour’s visiting and shopping in a closed one, seemed to me all the outdoor exercise that the ladies had, and this accounted in a great measure for the extreme pallor of their complexions.
In the way of contrasts, I do not think I ever beheld anything so pronounced as the fresh, rosy, and yet bronzed complexions of the new arrivals, and those of the more acclimatized specimens of the gentler sex; yet at the same time, where there prevailed any redundancy of colour and tendency to coarseness, the climate appeared to exercise an ameliorating effect, imparting grace and refinement.
I thought, of course, that every one would be abroad in the early morning, but the Europeans were conspicuous by their absence; and, during the colder months at least, the state of the atmosphere was none too inviting, as a chilly mist invariably hung over the place like a pall, to be dispersed only when the sun was too high to render going forth at all agreeable.
Notwithstanding, I used to make my way through it from one end of the large, open space—the “Maidan”—to the other, returning home with my hair and moustache covered with dewy moisture.
I used on these occasions to meet with one countryman, who, like myself, felt bound to have his morning “constitutional” at any price; and after various stages of recognition we became closely acquainted. I came across him a year ago—nearly forty years after the time of which I write—in Richmond; we were both walking!