Zemindar

by Valerie Fitzgerald

  ‘Thank you—my bedroom is beautiful, but I wish you had not put yourself to the expense of employing an ayah on my behalf. I have not yet become used to such a luxury, and could easily have shared Emily’s.’

  ‘An ayah?’ I knew from his tone that he had had no hand in the matter, but he recovered himself in a second. ‘Oh, yes, well, don’t worry about that. My grandmother had a whole assortment of them, and I daresay they are delighted to have something to do again. They have lived on the estate, eating their heads off in idleness, ever since she died. They are married to other servants, you see, and one could not very well turn them away, could one?’

  He moved away from me and took a brisk walk around the lighted portion of the room, examining everything as he passed. ‘Tell me,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘is anything lacking? Anything that you ladies are accustomed to and do not see here? Do you need more light for—well—er, needlework, that sort of thing?’

  I had to laugh. ‘No indeed,’ I assured him. ‘It is a lovely room and a great deal more comfortable than anything we have been accustomed to in Lucknow.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The unfortunate Averys.’ He paused in his peregrination and faced me. The mention of the Averys had heightened my colour, and, knowing it, I raised my chin defiantly as I met Mr Erskine’s regard. ‘I would have helped, you know,’ he said unexpectedly, ‘if I had thought my help could do any good. But it wouldn’t. You must know that now.’ It was a statement more than a question, and before I could reply, his attention had again turned to the room. ‘I suppose it is all very old-fashioned now,’ he said, looking around him critically. ‘It is just as my grandmother left it. I never use it when I am on my own. I stick to the library and the dining-room. This place is too large for one man, so I ignore all but the rooms I need to use. I have not been in here for months.’

  It was, as he said, old-fashioned, but the light, straight-legged tables, the fine bow-fronted chests, the simplicity of the chairs and sofas, the many long mirrors and, most of all, the absence of those bobble-trimmed velvet covers and cushions, bamboo what-nots, knick-knacks and china flowers which I had become accustomed to in Mount Bellew, gave the room an airy spaciousness well suited to the climate of the country. Ornaments there were, of course, what seemed to my ignorant eye to be a fine collection of Chinese porcelain and jade, but housed neatly in a succession of cabinets around the room.

  ‘It is a beautiful room,’ I repeated, and went on boldly, hoping to avert any further mention of Lucknow. ‘In fact, if you will forgive my saying so, all this magnificence—your house, your style of living—is so little what I expected to find so far from civilization, that I almost believe I am dreaming.’

  ‘Hmph!’ Mr Erskine glowered at me from under his heavy brows, and muttered more to himself than to me, though obviously I was meant to hear him, ‘So “civilization” is confined to the white nations.’ Then in a normal tone he went on, ‘It’s not unusual. Hassanganj is a modest place compared to some of the planters’ houses in Bengal, for instance. You know, the old “nabobs’ ” places? I expect you have heard of them.’

  ‘Are you a “nabob” then?’

  ‘Good heavens, no.’ He laughed. ‘I believe the race is extinct. But perhaps my grandfather was in his day. I have certainly never thought of him as such—but perhaps he was.’

  ‘It’s not only all this,’ I gestured at the chandeliers and the cabinets of jade, ‘that surprises me. But the house has a settled air, if I can put it like that, as though its inhabitants never intended to leave it. An atmosphere quite different to any of the other houses I have visited in India, and which were obviously only temporary homes, however comfortable. Your grandfather must have intended to spend his life here when he built it?’

  ‘Certainly. And he intended his descendants to do the same—which, as you see, we are doing.’

  ‘He was founding a dynasty?’

  ‘I believe he wanted to. But I am all that is left. Conditions in his day, you see, were very different to those that obtain out here now. When a man came out to India sixty or seventy years ago, it was with the knowledge that he would spend his life in the country. Some few, having made their money—or “shaken the pagoda tree” as they put it—went home to England to die. Most preferred to stay or had to stay; most also had Indian wives or—er—responsibilities. It is only since travel became easier, this new overland route and so on, in fact I would say that it is only since English women began coming out in large numbers, that men have begun to think of India as a career rather than a life. For me, however, things have not changed. Hassanganj is my home, my work and my future. I was born here; I hope to die here. I want no other life.’

  Mr Erskine was not the first man I had met who was truly committed to the land of his adoption. I had known officers in the Army and met civilians who felt as he did; who had given all their enthusiasm, all their loyalty, to the men who served under them or the districts they administered. But he was the first known to me who was continuing such a tradition; the others were initiating it. I was intrigued.

  Once again I realized that, despite his somewhat forbidding appearance, Mr Erskine was a remarkably easy man to talk to, and though I was reluctant to admit as much to myself, I enjoyed talking to him. Attired in the black broadcloth evening dress in which I had first seen him at the Residency ball, he sat now, incongruously, in a small gilt chair, his long black legs stretched out before him and crossed comfortably at the ankles. His white stock accentuated the weather-burnt olive of his complexion; the lamplight fell on the thick brown hair, bleached to straw colour on top by many Indian summers, and exaggerated the arch of his nose. His strange gold eyes, Danielle’s eyes, shadowed by black lashes, regarded the toe of his boot while he talked, or met mine sometimes with a gaze that was at once direct and enquiring.

  ‘Ah! So here is another crime to be laid on the overburdened head of the Englishwoman. She has the temerity to distract her man from India,’ I said slyly, recalling previous opinions he had expressed regarding my countrywomen.

  ‘But of course! They would not be out here if they thought they had to spend the remainder of their lives in India. Would you?’

  ‘I only came out on a short visit.’

  ‘True—but could you contemplate spending the rest of your days out here—happily?’

  ‘I do not know enough of India yet, or of my own mind regarding India, to answer that question honestly.’

  He uncrossed his legs and sat up in his chair.

  ‘I believe you could.’

  ‘Thank you! I am sure that is a compliment.’

  ‘Certainly it is a compliment. But I have a notion that you and India will do very well together.’

  I laughed, though he was serious. ‘Only time could tell,’ I said, ‘and I see no possibility of my remaining in India for more than a few months at most.’

  ‘Hmph!’ he snorted, and let the matter drop.

  Shortly afterwards the others joined us, and then, at the behest of a gong in the corridor, we went into the dining-room.

  Dinner was the usual succession of many courses to which I was now accustomed, but the room in which we ate, and the plate, china and glass, were a great deal grander than any to which we were used. Behind each chair stood a servant in livery and, though a plethora of servants was a commonplace in India, these were so well-trained and silent that they awed me. It was impossible that any one man should need so many, particularly since I had a suspicion that Mr Erskine’s own tastes were simple. But perhaps these men, like the ayahs, had also been eating their heads off in idleness and were glad to return to their old duties.

  Mr Erskine was an attentive and considerate host and did his best to maintain a general conversation, but it was uphill work. Emily was rendered solemnly silent by her surroundings, while Charles used a voice that was a little too loud in order to stress his self-assurance. I found myself suddenly very tired, and longed for my bed. Only Kate, dressed in her old black satin gown with the high
neck, long sleeves and skimpy skirt, seemed at ease in her opulent circumstances and talked comfortably about the ‘old days’.

  We retired early, all of us wearied by the conflicting impressions of our journey and its end, but when I went to Emily’s room to say goodnight, I found her seated at an escritoire already writing to her mother.

  ‘Not that she’ll believe the half of what I have to tell her,’ she said, putting away her paper. ‘Who would have thought that Mrs Flood could ever leave all this and be able to settle down in that poky little place in Dissham.’ I made no reply, remembering the time, not so long ago, when the ‘poky little place in Dissham’ had been the acme of perfection in Emily’s eyes. ‘And really, Laura, I cannot think why people in Lucknow, and even Charles, for a time anyway, should think so badly of Mr Erskine—Oliver, I mean. I expect it is just because he is so rich. They are jealous of him. For really, he has been everything that is considerate to us, has he not?’

  ‘Let us hope that he continues as he has begun,’ I replied.

  ‘You are determined not to like him.’

  ‘Not at all. I merely require something other than material wealth to like. If I find he has it—well then, I shall be happy to like him.’

  ‘You are as wrong-headed as Charles is, in a different way. I know Charles is jealous,’ she announced with satisfaction. ‘Of course he’ll never admit as much, but all … well, all this … and the park and the servants and everything, are turning him green with envy. I can tell.’

  ‘Admiration, perhaps. Envy, no!’ I said with decision.

  ‘Well, have it your own way. It don’t affect my opinion and you never will hear a word against him anyway. But I like Oliver, even if he is too rich, as Charles says, and I don’t agree with Charles that the way he lives is vulgar and ostentatious. In fact I think it is all quite charming, and I think Oliver is charming too—a most charming man!’

  ‘Charming’ was the last word I would have applied to Mr Erskine, but I was too glad to know that Emily was temporarily in accord with her situation to contradict her.

  For the rest—well, we would see.

  CHAPTER 2

  Emily’s instant acceptance of all that Hassanganj offered was so complete that for a time I believe she was truly happy. Nor was it merely the luxurious yet eminently comfortable mode of life that appealed to her, making up for the dreary discomforts of the Avery bungalow and the uncongenial company of the Chalmers in Calcutta. Here she was surrounded, as she felt she should be, by beautiful things and the evidence of wealth; but here also she was met with an almost deferential consideration from her host, which restored to her a great deal of her lost self-consequence. For reasons known only to himself, Mr Erskine set out to study my cousin’s wishes, anticipate her needs and fulfil her every expectation.

  It started on the very first morning, when at breakfast Emily found the silver tea service laid before her place, which was, naturally, to the right of Mr Erskine’s place at the head of the table.

  ‘It would please me, Emily,’ he said courteously, as we sat down, ‘if you would play the chatelaine in this bachelor household.’ So Emily, with great satisfaction, had poured the tea. For all but Mr Erskine himself. He preferred Turkish coffee, and this he poured for himself, from a small copper jug kept warm on a spirit lamp before him.

  That was the beginning. Later in the morning, as he showed us round his gardens, Emily was often applied to for comment and advice and asked to express her own preferences in the matter of fruit and vegetables to be brought into the house each day by the gardener. Within a week, Mr Erskine had asked her to oversee the running of the house while we stayed at Hassanganj. ‘The abdar and table servants were trained by my grandmother,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘They assure me they recollect very well what is required when visitors are present, but I would be more easy in my mind if you directed them personally. Times change, after all, and there must be many things lacking for your comfort in the way I have lived all these years.’

  Emily was given the keys to the storerooms and pantries by a stony-faced abdar, or butler, and thereafter, accompanied by Kate as interpreter, took herself to old Mrs Erskine’s daftar each morning to make out menus, supervise the weighing of food stuffs and give the cook and butler their orders for the day.

  I did not care to think of what the servants made of this interference, but no outbursts of objection took place, so I supposed that Kate’s tact and Oliver’s authority between them smoothed such small difficulties as my cousin’s ignorance might otherwise have produced. In any event, Emily was content and good-natured, bustling about the great house in a black sateen apron, examining the contents of all the closets and cupboards, making inventories of the silver, and sorting piles of yellowed Irish linen for mending and bleaching. Christmas was nearly upon us, too, and there was to be a house party. The old servants, excited by this promise of a return to the busily hospitable days of the Burra-mem, scoured, polished and cleaned, and in the kitchens the cook and his assistants set to work with a will on old receipts for puddings, pies, smoked tongues and spiced beef, almost forgotten for ten long years.

  I must confess that I was a trifle piqued at first by Emily’s being considered more competent to run a house than me. I was the practical one, after all, and even at the Averys it had been I who had brought what comfort and convenience was possible into the ordering of the house. But this resentment was slight and did not last long once I realized that, for the first time since leaving Mount Bellew, the major part of each day was all my own, to use precisely as I chose. Or rather—all but two hours in the morning.

  On the second afternoon of our stay, as we three ladies sat on the lawn drinking our tea—dinner at Hassanganj was taken very late, and to span the void between tiffin and the main meal we had tea and cakes at four o’clock, a custom that apparently Danielle had instituted and which we were happy to follow—Mr Erskine appeared in the company of a tall pompous-looking native dressed in European clothing and wearing shoes.

  ‘Miss Hewitt,’ began my host without preamble, ‘this is my head babu from the factory, Benarsi Das. He has agreed at my request to further your Urdu studies and will spend the hours between nine and eleven with you each morning. You may use the library if you choose. He has orders to procure any books, primers and so on that you may need. Mr Das’s knowledge of English is excellent, but we both think it best that absolutely no English be spoken during your lessons. You will learn Urdu as small children do—by speaking it.’

  For a moment I was struck dumb by this high-handed disposal of my time and interest, and my immediate reaction was a point-blank refusal, followed as quickly by a return to common sense. I did after all want to learn the language and had meant to ask Mr Erskine to find me a tutor. Surely the fact that he had anticipated that request need not obviate the desire? But his manner! Why could he not have approached me before making the arrangement with Mr Das? I saw a knowing twinkle in Kate’s eyes as she watched me struggle with myself, so I bowed politely to Mr Das and expressed myself delighted with the plan. If my tone was rather colder than usual, Mr Erskine remained unaware of it.

  ‘Good! That’s settled then! Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’ And turning on his heel he strode off with Mr Das behind him.

  ‘How considerate he is,’ said Emily. ‘So thoughtful of all our wishes. But how did he know that you took Urdu lessons, Laura? You must have told him.’

  ‘I did—in Lucknow.’

  ‘Oh, I see. But how good of him to remember it. Not many men would do as much, would they, Laura?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  Thereafter Mr Das appeared promptly at nine, and for two hours I struggled like a six-year-old to master the rudiments of grammar without recourse to my own tongue. The letters of the Urdu alphabet, unlike the English, change their form depending on which letters precede or follow them. This results in a vast number of characters and character combinations, making the casting of typeface, and consequently the p
rinting of any material, extremely expensive. All the books I used were, therefore, hand-written, copied out on the crude local paper by village scribes. Often I had difficulty deciphering the calligraphy, and would remain at Mr Erskine’s desk in the library until he himself came in shortly before tiffin time. On one such occasion my host found me very near to tears of frustration since I could make no sense of an entire paragraph of elementary prose.

  ‘Let me see,’ he commanded in his brusque fashion, and took the booklet from my hand, scanning the lines with a quick eye.

  ‘Deplorably copied,’ he said, ‘but I see your trouble. The dots are misplaced—see, here on the jeem and again here on the ray. Naturally you could make nothing of it. Now try again.’

  I did better once he had pointed out the errors, and he listened judiciously as I spelt out the words.

  ‘Hm. Now give me the page. I will copy it out for you to use tomorrow—and come to me at once when you find yourself in difficulties.’ He produced a bamboo pen from a drawer and in a few moments had made a clear and precise copy of the whole vexatious page. Thoroughly worn out by my efforts, I sat and watched him as, with the bleached locks of his hair falling over his forehead, he bent to his work, his supple brown hand sketching the convoluted characters with practised ease. Was he really thoughtful and considerate, I wondered, as Emily often declared, or was there some ulterior motive to his interest? The man was a puzzle, a thorough puzzle, and one which, for the moment, I was too tired to think about.

  However, even though my mornings had been thus summarily disposed of by Mr Erskine, I still had the long afternoons to myself and had soon become acquainted with the house and its environs, and my sketchbook filled rapidly with views of the extraordinary edifice from all angles and with details of its odder architectural features. Many were the tranquil hours I spent in the English garden, blooming at this Christmas season with many familiar favourites—sweet peas and heliotrope, phlox, larkspur and love-in-the-mist—in an arbour ariot with roses. The hedges, though not of box, were neatly clipped, the walks between the borders smoothly scythed, and an English lime shed its fragrance on the Indian air. I much preferred this simple, homely scene to the Italian garden on the other side of the house, which was walled and formal, with gravelled paths, stone urns and seats and few flowers, but sang with small cascades and streams kept flowing by means of a waterwheel worked by the usual bullocks plodding in a never-ending circle outside the walls. Behind the house lay the kitchen garden, its paths hedged by the spiky fronds of pineapples, its beds luxuriant with every imaginable vegetable and soft fruit. This was flanked by the orchard, where guavas and custard-apples grew happily alongside apples, pears and lychees, and loquats mingled foliage with plums and cherries.