by Peg Kingman
Every word spoken at our last meeting remains seared in my memory; I have been able to think of little else since then.
Major Leslie was saying, “blood was flowing from the shoulder of the leading one, and I myself fired without any effect….”
Catherine stitched doggedly at her canvaswork—finishing off a length of thread, tying it, then threading her needle again with the gray silk. Under her fingers, a new shape grew. The grayish lump of rock on which the now-russet-haired lady sat was becoming something else entirely. It was no longer a rock. It was becoming a large gray-brown elephant.
“But when I looked along the road in the line of the charge, I perceived it was completely cleared,” Major Leslie continued.
Thinking of Mr Fleming’s letter made a great heat rush through her, but a heat of what? Anger? Shame? Fear? Remorse, regret.
We have terribly misunderstood each other, it seems; and it would be folly to hope that any letter can bridge the gulf which now lies between us. One misconception, however, must be corrected before we part: namely, your supposition that my admiration of you stems from nothing more than a depraved taste for “damaged beauties.” Nothing could be further from the truth.
Oh, do stop thinking of it! Over and over again! she chastised herself. So tired of remembering this.
“The men on foot began beating the bushes under direction of the shikari,” Major Leslie said, stroking his mustache.
I do recognise, certainly, that you have been hurt, that your spirit has suffered a grievous injury. But just as the iron ore is alloyed in the fiery furnace, then hammered, wrought, quenched, and cooled, to emerge at last as tempered steel, so too may an injured spirit emerge finer than ever from the forge of its ordeals—not only undamaged but tempered, annealed, stronger than before. Certainly it has been thus with you. I do perceive that you are made of a finer, purer metal than any woman I ever knew; and that you are fitted now for any test you may encounter, in this world or the next.
A heat seemed to radiate off Major Leslie, even warmer than the hot air coming over the water from the hot land. Two red spots flushed his cheeks. His clothes fit him very snugly. He stood—perhaps excited by reciting his own exploits—and strode back and forth as he spoke. Or perhaps he was proud of his height, for tall he certainly was, well above the common height. Yet his shoulders were rather sloping, and not as broad as they looked in his better-tailored and better-padded wool uniform jacket. And then his hips looked curiously wide, rather womanish, in the white uniform breeches.
Such an immodest dress, a man’s! A kilt so much handsomer and more modest. And surely more comfortable, more airy. Oh, do think of something else…
What if Sandy cannot be found? What if she is too late? Why had she not understood immediately, after meeting Dr Wallich and Dr Carey, that Sandy had gone to Assam? She should have gone directly to Assam, not wasted time making long detours to Patna and Ghazipur. So many regrettable errors, so many wrong turns.
And now—now that I have discovered, at last, the finest woman in the world, am I likely, do you think, to plunge her into the ignominy of a degrading connection? Do you indeed consider me capable of this? How have I deserved that you should think so ill of me?
If, during the course of your travels, you will do me the justice to reflect upon what you know of me, and upon what you may yet learn of me from others; then, when we meet again (as I trust we shall), it will be upon a better understanding. And you must forgive me if I assert the right, even now, to subscribe myself, dear Mrs MacDonald, your most devoted friend in this world,
Pieter Fleming
It was like pressing a bruise frequently, too frequently, to see if it still hurt. It always still did. And she was troubled to find how little command she had over her own mind.
MAJOR LESLIE’S PINNACE and baggage boat anchored each evening close to land, either at a safe distance from the eroding undercut bank of a sand island, or along the river shore itself. All the Hindu crew and servants—men, women, and children—would go ashore each evening and bathe, and prepare their evening meal over their cook fires. The Europeans seldom ventured ashore after dark, but as they lay hour after hour in their hot stuffy cabins aboard the pinnace, seeking elusive sleep, they could not help but hear the voices ashore: the laughter, jokes, stories, talk talk talk and often music—singing, drumming, and strange Indian instruments—for hours and hours. There was not much sleeping on those short, hot, dark nights.
Grace wheedled permission from Catherine to go ashore one evening with Sharada; and after that she made it her invariable habit. Soon the people got accustomed to her presence and paid her little attention. This was the way she liked it; she was there amid the talk and the music—listening but invisible. And by now she could understand almost all the talk that ran around her, even some of the jokes and the slang and the country accents and the words of the songs.
The pinnace had made her way down past the familiar place where the Bhagirathi ran off southward toward the sea, and had now achieved at last the great confluence where the waters of the Ganges and of the Brahmaputra met and mingled. Gradually the riverbanks had receded and the boat emerged onto a broad inland sea of murky water, the green forests and the fields hazy or invisible in the distance on either side. In this broad muddy complicated lowlands, many waters met, mingled, then divided again into their various changing shallow channels, to run spreading over the lowlands down to the Bay of Bengal. In this place where waters joined and separated, the essential distinctions between upriver and downriver, between running against the current or with it became indistinct. The current itself was muddled; there were strange, powerful eddies; and mile-long sand islands would pile up overnight in the wide channels, then erode away for no reason.
This night, they had moored alongside a vast high dry sand island planted with ripening watermelons and vigorous sapling trees. Here the crew and servants had eaten their usual fare: tiny fishes netted from the river; eggplants in a spicy sauce; potatoes in another spicy sauce; red lentils, cucumbers and onions in yogurt; a relish of pickled okra; and plenty of sweet watermelon. The cook fires had burned down, and the stars were a dazzling splash across the velvety black sky. The soft sand where Grace lay had cooled at last, and it stuck to her arms in streaks where watermelon juice had run down. Sharada had her musical instruments. A few of the boat wallahs had their instruments, too: a double-ended horizontal drum, and a native fiddle held upright in the lap. Grace liked to lie with the other children just outside the light from the dying fires and hear the singing—sometimes boisterous, sometimes plaintive. Sometimes everyone sang together, a song that everyone knew. Sometimes one person sang alone.
“Come, Miss Grace, I need you to play this,” said Sharada, appearing in the warm darkness. She put a tall four-stringed instrument into Grace’s lap.
“But I don’t know how.”
“I will show you. It is not difficult. This is called tanpura. Look, you hold it thus, upright against your shoulder. And you pluck the strings thus: slowly, evenly, each in turn, with your other hand. The tanpura provides the drone to accompany the melody. I will tune it for you. These two middle strings are my sa. Close. Close. Ahh! There. Saaaaaaaa. Do you hear? They are perfectly in tune. Now the bass string, this fourth one: kharaj. It is an octave lower. Almost…there. That is good. Thus far, the same as your three drones on your bagpipes, nay? But here on the first string we add another tone: we want pa, between the two. Wait; that is not quite right. Pluck it again; let me hear. Again…there! Paaaa. That is all. You touch each string in turn, gently, steadily. You make a veil of sound for the background—not a plonking plucking but a steady shimmering veil of sound. Yes, just so. That is good. Play. This man Rajesh will drum. I will sing.”
Grace felt nervous and self-conscious at first, but then she stopped thinking about the people looking at her and started listening to the sound of the tanpura and the way Sharada’s voice sounded, so lithe, in front of the background of sound she was ma
king. She tried to make the sound like a shimmering veil, and after a while it did seem like that, with colours blending like the colours in a rainbow, or like moonlight glowing behind a scrim of mist…
The people liked it. They praised Grace, too, after the song ended. More, they clamoured. Sing us another. Sing one of Meerabai’s. Do!
Sharada’s eyes met Grace’s. She leaned over and tuned one of the middle strings just a little. Then she nodded, and Grace began again.
Sharada sang. As she sang her first phrase, there was a sigh of recognition, of appreciation from the people. Ah, yes; this one!
Grace understood the words. This was the meaning of Sharada’s song:
What is my native shore but him?
What swims in my heart but his name?
My boat, when it breaks
Where call I
But to him?
Time after time,
Then again.
Let me hide,
Meera says,
in these folds.
The tide of the world
comes close.
Then Sharada borrowed the two-ended drum and launched into another song, accompanying herself as she sang.
He has left his stain upon me
The colour of moonlight he has stained me….
Singing these words, she lifted her arms and turned them toward the people, showing the pale burn scars. There was a collective intake of breath caused by the sight of the gleaming white scars, and by the sudden silence of the drum. Her voice sang unaccompanied. Then at the last possible moment, the drum spoke again, and the audience sighed its relief as she continued:
Beating both ends of the earthen drum
I sing, sing before the boat people
Respectable city dwellers think me mad
Mad for the Wily One
Raw for my dear bright one
Stained the colour of my lord
Birth after birth,
In country after country, Sharada says,
Still I seek him.
Afterward, the man Rajesh leaned over and whispered into Grace’s ear, “Do you understand? Yes? It is another bhajana of Meerabai’s, a very famous one, but she has changed it. She has inverted it and made it her own song. So clever! So deft! So gracefully done! She is a superb musician, this one.”
ON THE ROOF deck of the pinnace, Catherine heard this distant singing and the cries and applause that followed. Mrs Hill had just gone below to feed her baby again, and only Major Leslie remained on the roof deck with her. “Such a caterwauling they make every night!” said Major Leslie. “And then they do go on so, for hours and hours.”
“I like to hear them,” said Catherine.
“Do they not disturb your rest, Mrs MacDonald? You have only to say the word, and I shall forbid it.”
“No, they do not disturb me in the least,” she said. “I quite like to hear their music.” She would in fact have liked to go ashore among them, as Grace did; but she knew that this was not possible. Her presence there would change everything.
“Music! You are generous enough to grace that discord with the very word? Most charitable of you, Mrs MacDonald, I declare. But then, you always are so exceedingly gentle, so very mild. It does not surprise me that you are willing to forgive even this primitive wailing, this savage howling at the moon.”
“Oh, Major Leslie, do not forget that I am a Scot. This music is no more primitive nor more savage than the old songs that I have heard all my life. We have not all had our tastes formed by listening only to the exquisite strains of a Mozart or the poignant expressions of a Rossini.”
And in fact Catherine liked very much to hear this nighttime singing. As she drifted in and out of sleep during these brief stifling nights, it reminded her sometimes of the midnight wakings of her early childhood, all alone in her not-quite-warm bed, and the comfort she derived from hearing distant sounds of singing, talking, peals of laughter, drifting up the lower regions of the big chilly stone house that had been home. Night was the fit and meet time for people to amuse themselves with music, talk, and laughter.
But he said, “I would not have you disturbed for the world, Mrs MacDonald. You cannot conceive, dear Mrs MacDonald, how much your comfort and well-being are of concern to me.”
“But I am always quite well and comfortable; and so I daresay is Mrs Hill. Pray do not be concerned with us. It is entirely unwarranted and unnecessary.” She said this in the most repressive tone she could muster, and referred to Mrs Hill quite deliberately, for she began now to feel uneasy about the tendency of his tone and meaning.
But he would not be repressed. “Oh, Mrs MacDonald!” he cried. “Dear Mrs MacDonald. So very modest and self-effacing! How shall I express myself? Do I dare? But dare I must. How shall I tell you how I long for the right, the inestimable privilege, of making your comfort and well-being my own legitimate care, my foremost concern, a right with which I may concern myself always? Oh, do not shake your head! Do not turn away from me, dearest Mrs MacDonald! Catherine! Dear Catherine!”
“Major Leslie—”
“Say Henry. Oh, do let me hear it pronounced by those dear lips!”
“Major Leslie! Sir!” said Catherine quite energetically. She succeeded in extricating her hand, which he had seized; and rising from her chair, she put several yards between herself and him—the width of the deck. Here is an unpleasant turn! She uttered the necessary words and phrases: impossible, never, out of the question; and the like. Also such words as liking, esteem, compliment, and gratitude; then repeated impossible and never. She did her best without actually insulting him.
But he was not easily made to understand her meaning. He referred to his prospects, his family, his connections. He gave her to understand the magnanimity of his heart, that he forgave her for her widowhood and her stepdaughter, and that he considered her the sweetest, the gentlest, the mildest, the most deserving of his protection and guidance of all womankind.
If only she could escape without laughing aloud! Herself: sweet, gentle, and mild! If only Hector—or Mr Fleming—could have heard this! Major Leslie had not the slightest understanding of her essential character despite the weeks he had passed in her company. But then, she reminded herself, this was a man who was tone-deaf, colour-blind, and barely able to taste his food. He perceived only that she was female, unmarried, not ugly, and not poor. And British women with such excellent matrimonial qualifications were exceedingly scarce in India. Once more she expressed her meaning, more definitely, and made to leave; but he threw himself onto one knee before her, blocking the little passageway; and seized again her hand.
She struggled to free herself, but then she was grappling against both his hands at her waist.
“Is it the girl?” he was saying hoarsely. “Is it the girl? But she means nothing to me, nothing. She shall be put ashore at the next village! She and the little half-castes!”
“It is dark as a cave; I cannot see a thing!” cried out another voice—Grace’s clear high voice.
“Well, wait a moment, then, for me and the lantern. You need not go skipping ahead so very hasty,” said Sharada, and the dark shape of her head appeared above the rail.
Major Leslie released Catherine and, rising quickly to his feet, sullenly withdrew. Catherine fled to her cabin, with Sharada and Grace close behind. Without a word Sharada dug into Catherine’s trunk and found the full bottle of whisky which had been Captain Mainwaring’s gift. She poured a good inch of it into a cup and gave it to Catherine, who was still panting.
“Well?” said Sharada after a few moments.
“Well, what?” said Catherine, and coughed, for it was a very strong whisky.
“That,” said Sharada, and gestured with her chin toward the deck they had just fled.
Catherine wiped her eyes, but Sharada was not softened. “‘Would you dismount an elephant to ride on the haunch of an ass?’” she demanded, quoting a line of song.
“What on earth are you talking about?” said Catherin
e.
“Is it to be him, then?” said Sharada, gesturing again with her chin.
“Him! He is an ass!”
“Ah! We are agreeing, then. I feared perhaps you are not knowing an ass when you are seeing him.”
“How dare you!”
“Oh, but I dare a great deal, memsahib. I dare anything. Everything! Just as you do.”
Catherine wiped her nose, and sniffed. “For the same undeserving person too.”
“Mad for the Wily One,” agreed Sharada, and, setting aside Catherine’s empty cup, began to help her undress.
“What did you say about dismounting an elephant? I wish I had an elephant,” said Catherine.
“But you had, memsahib. Mr Fleming offered to take you up to Assam in his steamship. But no, you are preferring to ride upon the haunch of an ass.”
“Impertinent!”
“No, memsahib, most pertinent. In any case I am not talking about boats or asses. I am talking about men.”
“Do not talk to me about Mr Fleming.”
“As you wish, memsahib,” said Sharada, and held up Catherine’s nightdress to slip it over her head.
“What did he mean? Did you hear him? What did he mean about a girl and putting her ashore at the next village?” asked Catherine as her head emerged from the garment.
“His bibi, of course. And the two little babies. Are you not knowing? All this time you are not knowing? But of course. She is aboard the luggage boat, she and the two little children of which he is the father. She comes of good family, too, but very poor. Oh, the things the memsahibs are choosing not to know!”