by Peg Kingman
“Oh!” said Catherine. “How shocking!” She was shocked less by the fate of the little dog, however, than by the news that there existed such a person as “Mr Fleming’s lady.”
Mr Fleming’s lady!
Was she a Mrs Fleming? Surely not! Or how in the world could she have gone unmentioned, unalluded to, for all these months? But what was she, then, this “lady” who lived at his house at Serampore? Catherine thought of drinking tea with Mr Fleming in his comfortable cabin, of their two heads bent over his Chinese scrolls, of his taking her hands in his own the other day. She had come to like him so much. She had felt glad that he liked her, and glad that she would continue to see him often in Calcutta, that she still could expect the pleasure of his company, his stimulating conversation, his pleasant manners, his kindness to her, the whole companionable unreserve that had gradually established itself over the course of the voyage. In truth, that had been her greatest pleasure while at sea. That had been in fact the only pleasure she had felt in a very long time. And now! Now, it seemed that frank friendship had not been so very frank after all. She felt a shaming flush rising through her; she had been made a fool of. She had made a fool of herself.
Master yourself! she thought. He was only…a friend. A shipboard acquaintance. Nothing more.
But perhaps she had misunderstood the captain. There had been a prim elderly housekeeper at Mr Fleming’s apartment in Antwerp, Catherine remembered: a starched, proper, matronly female who kept the place in polish and brought refreshments on a tray. Perhaps the captain referred only to a similar person who looked after Mr Fleming’s villa here.
To whom he made presents of little lapdogs?
Well, and why not?
“A scorpion in my boot, a fine fat fellow,” Captain Mainwaring was saying. “So now I generally sleep aboard, for nothing can suit me so well as my own cabin, where scorpions never do find their way into my boots.”
“I shall miss my comfortable cabin too,” said Catherine, making a great effort to put away her private distress. “It has come to feel amazingly like home.”
“Just so, just so. It has been a wonderfully fast and excellent voyage—favorable winds at every point, never a storm, never becalmed, a most excellent passage—well, except for that unfortunate incident at the Cape. And certainly not quite the voyage you yourself had contemplated back in Edinburgh! But I am very glad you have been among us, you and the little girl. Do you know, she actually spoke to me the other day. ‘Good morning, Captain,’ she said to me, clear as eight bells. Well, and to arrive on New Year’s Day—that is a pretty thing, isn’t it? And your birthday. It would have been your twin brother’s birthday, too, I suppose, bless his soul.”
“Oddly enough, it is not. We were born twenty minutes apart. He was born ten minutes before the stroke of midnight, and I was born ten minutes after it.”
“Ah! So his birthday is New Year’s Eve, and yours is New Year’s Day. Born not just into different days, but into different years!”
“Not just into different years, sir, but different centuries. He was born in the last minutes of the year 1799; I in the first minutes of the year 1800.”
“Now that is a marvelous thing! I wonder what the native astrologers would make of it. Perhaps some astonishing fate awaits you.”
“Oh, I trust not,” said Catherine.
INDIA.
16
Something very Peculiar in the Taste
“Mr Sinclair! How very glad I am to see you here!” exclaimed Catherine. She was attending a reception given one evening by the trustees at the Asiatick Society’s museum. A familiar face in Calcutta was a welcome thing, and Mr Sinclair was equally glad to see her.
He had found lodgings in a pleasant part of the city near the Writers’ Buildings, he reported. He had made his calls, presented his letters of introduction, and within three weeks had secured his first commission. He was now engaged in producing the likenesses of the three little children of a Calcutta judge, who were soon to be sent home to England to live with their uncle and be educated.
“Such thin, unhealthy-looking children!” he told her, “and so cross! No wonder their mother is determined to secure their likenesses before sending them away, for they do not look thriving. They do sit still—I suppose they lack the vigour to do otherwise—so I am making a tolerable job of it. Children, you know, are the bane of a painter’s existence, except as an entrée. Then, when the parents are well pleased, they want to be painted, too. And as my particular judge and his lady know everyone in Calcutta, and are in the habit of laying down the law with regard to just what constitutes the most fashionable thing of the moment and what constitutes the best taste, it is not a bad start.”
“I am glad you are so fairly launched,” said Catherine. “Have you seen Mrs Todd? No? I met with her at the races one bright day last week, in blooming looks and surrounded by new friends, all young officers and civilians.”
“Ah! She was sure to land on her feet. Is she in lodgings?”
“No, she has been invited to make her home with a friend of Mr Todd’s, an attorney in private practice and his very young wife, to whom I was introduced. Apparently she and Mrs Todd have become entirely necessary to each other. They are inseparable friends and go about everywhere together, arm in arm. And Mrs Todd talks of starting a school for Anglo-Indian girls.”
“Mrs Todd a teacher! Only imagine the polish she could impart to her young ladies.”
“I daresay it will not come to pass. Her new dear friend will not hear of it, cannot think of doing without her. They seem very well matched, these two; and Mrs Todd seems to have recovered all of her old gaiety and assurance. Or perhaps even more than all.”
“Very resilient of her. And what of yourselves? How does the Howrah side of the river suit you MacDonalds?”
“We are comfortably lodged in the buildings belonging to Crawford and Fleming, but I seldom see Hector. He is at the shipyard or the ironworks from dawn until after dark every day. He goes about with furrows engraved on his forehead, and forgets to eat. He and Mr Fleming have had great controversies about whether to build Hector’s newly redesigned rotary oar and install that, or keep to the original design as already built.”
“Is any resolution possible?”
“They have reached a compromise: Hector is permitted to build his new design and graft it onto one of the two engines; on the other, he must leave well enough alone and keep to the original design. Then they are to run trials on the river to show which is superior.”
“And how do you and Grace amuse yourselves? You have nothing like the Esplanade or the Maidan, I suppose, on your side of the river. Where do the sahibs and memsahibs on the Howrah side go in the evening to take the air and stroll about and gossip?”
“I am afraid it is not a fashionable neighborhood; very little air is taken nor reputations ruined on the Howrah side. But we have had some interesting explorations, Grace and I, amongst the shipbuilders’ yards and the foundries and warehouses. The great piles of coals are a worthy sight in themselves.”
“It is a rare lady who delights in piles of coals.”
“Odder still, we particularly enjoy visiting the logs,” said Catherine.
“What logs are these?”
“The logs floating on the river—great herds of them. It is the timber for the shipbuilding—teak, sal, Shorea robusta, or so I am told—all crowded up close to the bank and secured by a cable to prevent their being carried off by the tide. They remind me of the cattle at home when they’re brought down to market, all crowded together in the enclosure and lowing and complaining.”
“You do make it sound so much more interesting than driving about the Esplanade three times and lifting one’s hat to everyone. Is your brother here this evening? I have not seen him.”
“No, he remained at Howrah, frowning at papers, or perhaps writing again to his wife. Mr Fleming brought me here. There he is, talking with that tall dark man.”
“Ah! I think that i
s Dr Wallich himself; he is the curator and superintendent of the museum.”
Mr Fleming and Dr Wallich looked up and came to join them. Mr Fleming performed the introductions. Dr Wallich was a man of aquiline appearance, courtly reserved manner, and a just-discernible Danish accent. “Have you admired our silkworms, madam?” he said to Catherine, for the occasion of the reception was to mark the acquisition of a collection of those useful insects. “These are some fascinating specimens; I am so happy to have them. I see that you yourself are already a devotee of the insect. Oh, I mean only that your sash is made of silk. Bombyx mori silk, I daresay. That is the silk produced by the insect which feeds exclusively upon the leaf of Morus, both alba and nigra—the mulberry tree, that is.”
“Oh!” said Catherine, who had never thought of her sash as having been produced by insects.
“This case contains our specimens of Bombyx mori. Here are the eggs. Then we have the preserved specimens of each instar—each larval growth stage. Yes, in only a month’s time they proceed from this tiny black thread you see, at first instar, to this enormous white-headed, soft-bodied fifth instar, dotted black along the sides. Such a large, regular, handsome cocoon they spin! The pure white cocoon is most highly prized for its ability to take up any dye. And these are the adult moths, male and female.”
“Such marvelous dark, feathery eyebrows they have! Like Madame de Pompadour,” said Catherine.
“Those are called antennae. You may argue that Bombyx mori is of Chinese origin, but in fact it has been cultivated for millenia in the region of Manipur, above the valley of the Brahmaputra River, and therefore we have included it in our collection. Next we have the purely indigenous Indian silkworms. You have heard of tussore, of course.”
“Of course,” said Catherine, exchanging a glance with Mr Fleming, who only twitched one eyebrow.
“This is tussore, also called tasar; we naturalists call it Antheraea pernyi. It is native to Bengal and is found in the central uplands as well, where it feeds upon any of several widely distributed jungle trees, of which the jujube and certain oaks are preferred. And of so magisterial a size! Look at this well-grown caterpillar; it is fully four inches in length and such a striking shade of green, set off by the lateral stripe of yellow, edged with red. Naturally they are much preyed upon by birds. Here is the cocoon, spun inside an envelope of jujube leaves. The silk is relatively coarse but quite astonishingly strong. It is highly valued by the natives, who consider it particularly unpolluted and not requiring ritual washing before use. The moth remains a full nine months in the pupa state, then emerges—thus. The females commonly exhibit a wingspan of eight inches; the males about five or six.”
They were indeed worth seeing; Catherine found herself bent over the display case, quite entranced by the elegant colouring of the creatures.
“Now let me show you here the silkworm called Bombyx cynthia, which is reared upon the leaves of Ricinus communis—that is, the common castor-oil plant, which the natives called arrindy. This is the caterpillar which the natives call eri. You see, it is a plain pale green and attains a length of only three inches or so. The cocoons are remarkably soft and fine—so delicate, in fact, that they cannot be unwound, and so must usually be spun, as cotton is. This caterpillar is remarkable for remaining in chrysalis for only twenty days; so that eight generations may commonly be raised in the course of a year. The cloth made by the natives from this silk, although loosely woven, is of astonishing durability, as long as it is not subjected to hot water. It is commonly used for hangings and canopies, which are passed from parent to child.”
“Remarkable,” said Catherine. “And what is this one?”
“Ah! That is muga, the marvelous Antheraea assama. It is found only in Assam and eastern Bengal, where it feeds upon Machilius bombycina, which the natives call som, the divine nectar. The cloth is never dyed, but is prized for its natural lustrous golden colour. The ancient kings of Assam reserved all muga cloth for their own use, but now of course it is a subject of commerce, like everything else. Those are the specimens that cost our benefactor his life, I fear.”
“How is that, sir? And who was the benefactor?”
“The collection is the bequest of the late Captain Edwards, who gathered nearly all the specimens himself. He was so unfortunate as to tread upon a sharpened bamboo spike set into the rough ground outside a Naga village. The spike pierced quite through his boot and into the sole of his foot. Infection set in immediately, or possibly the spike had been dipped into that poison for which the Assamese mountaineers are so notorious. In any case, he was gone within twenty-four hours in spite of anything that his companions or a copious application of leeches could do.”
“Do you mean Captain Walter Edwards?” asked Catherine carefully.
“Yes, that was his name. Were you acquainted?”
“How extraordinary. He was engaged in conducting a survey for the Company of the natural resources of the Brahmaputra Valley, was he not?”
“Just so.”
“My brother Sandy was one of his party. My late brother, I should say. Mr Alexander MacDonald.”
Dr Wallich made a little bow. “My sympathy. Was your late brother an entomologist as well?”
“No, Sandy was assisting the expedition’s surveyor. But he seems to have developed a particular interest in the plantation and cultivation of tea outside of China.”
“Yes, a highly interesting object to us all. I cannot tell you how many times hopeful collectors have brought me specimens which they feel certain must be the tea plant itself, the true Thea chinensis. It never is, of course. Usually they are laurels, or various native camellia. At the botanical garden I have several specimens, which were brought to me from China, of the true Thea chinensis; it is useful for identification purposes, or rather for disproving wishful misidentifications. There is in fact an Assamese camellia…I beg your pardon, madam; did I understand you to say that your brother was lost on Captain Edwards’s Assamese expedition?”
“No, sir, he survived the expedition. He was one of those who carried the collected specimens back down to Calcutta and finished Captain Edwards’s report. The Company sent him afterward to the opium fields at Ghazipur, and it was there that he lost his life in the floods.”
“I am so sorry to hear of it. But will you tell me his name again, pray?”
“Mr Alexander MacDonald.”
“Madam, I feel certain I have met your brother. I shall review my accession notes. I believe it was he who brought me the Assamese camellia of which I was just speaking. In fact we have planted out those very specimens at the botanical garden, and they were thriving when last I noticed them. Have you visited our botanical garden?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“You must certainly do so.”
“I should be glad to take you there, Mrs MacDonald,” said Mr Fleming. “It is a very pleasant outing, just a little below Calcutta, on the bank of the river, and very well worth seeing. I should like to go there again myself. You must come with us too, Mr Sinclair, if you can spare the time.”
“I should be happy to meet you there and show you the camellia which your brother contributed to our collection,” said Dr Wallich. “It is a handsome thing, but not, alas, tea.”
“WHAT IS THAT tremendous row?” Catherine asked Grace.
“It is Uncle Hector and Mr Fleming having a disagreement.”
“Oh, another disagreement. But why must they have it so loudly?”
“Mr Fleming says Uncle Hector should have consulted him first.”
“First before what?”
“I don’t know,” said Grace. “But Uncle Hector was offering to make a tremendous wager, for a hundred pounds.”
“Hector hasn’t got any hundred pounds for wagering.”
“Aye, that’s what Mr Fleming said. So then Uncle Hector said he would stake his commission from Crawford and Fleming. And Mr Fleming said there was not likely ever to be any commission to stake if they were to miss the entire trad
ing season due to delays and preposterous second, third, and fourth thoughts, which ought certainly to have been thought of before now.”
“Oh, dear,” said Catherine. “Has Hector changed the design again?”
“I think he has,” said Grace. “I think he wants to make it run backward now.”
“Oh, dear,” said Catherine, and went downstairs to find out.
Hector had indeed changed the design again; and was so inspired, so enthusiastic, so confident of his new insight that already, without consulting Mr Fleming, he had caused the shipbuilders to cut a new hole in the hull for the new placement of the shaft for the cambered-vane oar. The great innovation was this: The cambered-vane oar was to be mounted at the stern of the vessel behind the rudder, not at the bow. It was to push the vessel through the water, not draw it.
“But no modifications to the engine itself are required, you see, sir; none at all,” explained Hector, quite mild and innocent in his confidence. “We simply mount it in reverse, with the shaft extending out the stern rather than the bow. Except for the direction of rotation, very trivial. And then the benefits are so great; the oar is far better protected from damage—so important a consideration in these shallow shoaling waters, or where constantly shifting sandbanks make navigation uncertain, or in unfamiliar and uncharted waters. And then the profile of the vessel itself is certainly cleaner and therefore faster. Stronger, too, with the full integrity of an intact stem. And the vessel is so much less vulnerable to leaks around the packing if the gasket is at the stern—far safer. I wonder I did not think of it sooner.”