Some of the party discussed politics, horse-racing, the latest news from up the country, the promotions and appointments, and so forth, in groups; whilst others, four or five abreast, stumped up and down the broad verandah, talking and laughing energetically; their spirits evidently enlivened by the rapid locomotion in which they were indulging.
General Capsicum was very pleasant with the burra beebee, a fine stately old dame, with a turban of bird of paradise plumes, and with whom, I afterwards learned he had actually walked a minuet in the year of grace 1770. Mrs. Capsicum, surrounded by a group of military men and young writers, was endeavouring to reduce her large mouth to the smallest possible dimensions—mincing the kings English, and “talking conversation” “mighty illigant” to the whole ring, in whose countenances a certain mock gravity indicated pretty evidently what they thought of her.
At last, the khansaman-jee, or chief butler, a very important and respectable personage, with an aldermanic expansion of the abdominal region, a huge black beard, and a napkin hanging from his kummerbund, or girdle, with hands respectfully closed, head on one side, and an air most profoundly deferential, announced to the general that the dinner was served “Tiar hyn?”
“Dinner ready, did ye say?” said the general, who was a little deaf, and turning up his best ear to catch the reply.
“Han khodabund” (“yes, slave of the Lord),” repeated the khansaman-jee.
“Come, gintlemen; come, leedies—those who have any mind to ate may follow me.”
Thus saying, the general, with great gaité de cœur, presented his arm to the old lady of the bird of paradise plume, and hobbled off with her, chattering and laughing, and followed by the whole company. I, the lanky griffin, brought up the rear, looking, on the whole rather “small.”
The coup d’œil of a grand dinner party in Calcutta, given by a rich merchant or high official, is a very splendid affair, and perhaps eclipses anything to be seen in the mansions of persons of the same rank in England.
The generals presented a brilliant sample of oriental style: a long and lofty room in a blaze of lustre, from a row of wall lights; a table, covered with a profusion of plate and glass, occupied nearly the whole length of the apartment; the huge punkahs, suspended from the ceiling, with their long fringes, waved to and fro, gently agitating the air in the room, which would otherwise have been hardly endurable from the crowd it contained.
There was much lively conversation, taking wine, and clashing of knives and plates; altogether far less quiet, I thought, than at a dinner in England. The peculiar feature, however, of the scene, and that which marked most strongly its eastern character, was the multitude of servants in attendance on the guests; behind each chair, on an average, stood two khidmut-gars, or footmen, with black beards and mustachios, and attired in the various gay liveries of their masters, adapted to the turban and Indian costume; most of them were the domestics of great people, and exhibited in their looks a good deal of that pampered, self-satisfied importance, so often observable in our metropolitan servants here at home—the vulgar reflection of their masters’ consequence. Many stood, their arms folded, with Roman dignity, gazing consequentially about them, and mentally making their observations on their fellow-servants and the guests. Dinner over and the ladies withdrawn, the gentlemen closed up, and the conversation became more general.