“And is it possible,” I cried, “that there’s a human being on this earth more unfortunate than I? Pray, good woman, tell me your history, that I also may learn to endure my miseries with something of your philosophy.”
“Indeed, Beebee,” says she, “the tale’s but a mean one to relate to a lady of your quality. Your slave was mistress of no more than a small house and a decent business in the Great Buzar, but she rejoiced in the company of her children and grandchildren. When the Nabob’s army came, her shop was plundered, her house burnt, and her family slain or dispersed until she was left alone. In the morning, yesterday, she was weeping over the ruins of the beloved spot, when there came along a parcel of soldiers, who seized her also.”
“Alas, my poor woman, you have indeed suffered!” I cried. “But pray tell me your name, that I may know how to call you.”
“I am named Misery, Beebee. In the Buzar they call me Misery Bye.”[01]
I could scarce restrain myself from crying out when I heard this ill-omened name, but fearing to hurt the poor woman, “Tell me, Misery,” I said, “was you carried off to attend upon me?”
“Even so, Beebee. They said there was a servant needed to wait upon a young lady of very great birth, who was to be sent to Muxadavad for a present to the Nabob.”
At these awful words the full horror of my situation became clear to me, and I fell into a frenzy, crying out that I was indeed undone, and that death was my only hope. Misery stood quiet beside me, save that once she seized my hands, fearing that I designed to dash myself against one of the beams in my madness, and when I was become a little calm, said very earnestly—
“Why this passion, Beebee? You are treated honourably, and you have a great prospect to look forward to. Instead of these rags you’ll wear the finest gauzes and the richest silk and tinsel, your hair will be braided with gold, and such jewels as you have never even imagined will load your hands and feet and face and neck. Only lay aside this frenzy, which will but damage your beauty, and permit your slave to practise the arts with which she is acquainted for soothing your spirits and restoring the charming colour of which your troubles have robbed you, and I’ll assure you that instead of the Nabob’s being your conqueror, you shall be his. You shall have the finest palaces in India for a residence instead of your poor Calcutta houses, and you shall be the envy not only of all the ladies of his Highness’s seraglio, but of all the women in Bengall, and rule the province and spend all its revenues if you will.”
Was ever such a bare-faced proposition made before to a Christian Englishwoman, my dear—nothing less than that I should sell myself, body and soul, to this wicked heathen prince for money and jewels? I sat up on my bed.
“Misery,” I said, looking at her with great sternness, “I have suffered you to speak this once, since you have never learnt better. But you must understand now that for a female that is a Christian and a Briton there could be no greater disgrace and wretchedness than to become the Nabob’s slave, as you propose, were he ten times as great and rich as the Emperor of Delly himself. I can die, if it please Heaven so to decree, but I had rather die a hundred times over than purchase a dishonoured life by a weak compliance.”