Passion & Profession: Chapter 9
In which the Rev. St. John finally hears from the Bishop, takes his Dinner in a Public House, learns several Key Points of Anatomy, and discovers what troubles Cpt. Aquilaine.
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Thursday, the 9th of July, Year of Our Lord 1840, from the Bishop of Calcutta,
Good day and good health, Reverend Rivers. A suitable assignment has been found, if you should be interested in taking it; it would, I think, be an excellent fit for a man of your talents and passions. The requirements are: ambition to found a new parish - enthusiasm for teaching - strong knowledge of Hindustani and Bengali. Prince Krishna (Raja Krishna Kishore Dem Manikya) of the Princely State of Hill Tippera has recently sent a request to my office, enquiring about a suitable tutor for his son. The Prince is a knowledgeable man and wishes to bring up his child according to the dictates of civilisation, educating him in such a manner that he can, upon reaching the age of majority, attend one of the universities in England. He is a baptised Christian, and furthermore has indicated the desire to start a parish on his lands. Would you be willing to take up this assignment?
Hill Tippera is a curious Princely State; the lower classes speak a primitive language called Mrung and practice an unusual form of Hinduism not found in other parts of India. A man could make a name for himself writing monographs on the local customs. Moreover the common people are as a fallow field; a little effort with the plough, a handful of seeds scattered, and think of what could be harvested in the Name of God! Please let me know at your earliest convenience if you will accept this call. Your departure date would be after the roads improve, most likely the start of September.
Your Servant in Christ, the Right Reverend Bishop of Calcutta Daniel Wilson
St. John stared at the desk in his study, at the letter that lay there as malignant as a vial of poison. The Bishop writes in the same manner as he speaks, he thought resentfully. Overly-long and full of needless detail. He had been waiting eleven anxious days to hear back from the Bishop, and had changed his mind a dozen times more about whether to stay or go. But finally the response arrived, and he knew his duty: service, not happiness, was the purpose of Mankind. St. John reached for the inkwell.
To the Right Reverend Daniel Wilson, greetings.
I shall accept your assignment. I will begin concluding my affairs in Calcutta and be ready to depart as of the first of September. My thanks for this fine opportunity to serve the Lord.
Your obedient servant, Reverend Rivers
The longcase clock in the lobby sounded its slow chime-five in the evening, time for men to lay down their daily work. St. John hid away his reply with a twinge and turned once more to Hindustani grammar; his technical knowledge of Hindu had slipped during the past two months, even as his Bengali grew by leaps and bounds. Now he would need proficiency in both.
Beyond his front door the noises in the hall grew louder. Residents returned home, those who had spent the day at the Club emerged from stale-aired rooms, and all began making their way downstairs for smoking, billiards, and darts. St. John strained his ears but could not make out what he longed to hear over the other voices that called out their evening greetings. A half of an hour later he finally caught the limping footsteps of the Captain returning from another day of hassling new recruits, heading past St. John's door to his own quarters. This was St. John's cue to lay down his own daily work, wash his face, and change into a better shirt.
Presently Cpt. Aquilaine knocked and, once he had closed the door behind him and given St. John a full measure of kisses, settled into one of the wicker chairs and cut a cigar. St. John filled his own pipe and they sat in silence for a good five minutes; he had learnt some time ago that Thursday evenings his friend needed extra time before regaining his normal optimistic condition. Finally the Captain spoke.
“Would you like to take dinner out tonight? There is a public house a short walk away that I have not been to in months, and I am in the mood for a pint. What do you say?”
“I have not been to a public house since Cambridge, Marcus. Are they still loud and crowded and smoke-filled?”
“Oh yes, those are their best qualities!” Cpt. Aquilaine grinned cheerfully, so St. John gave his assent. Ever present at the back of his mind now was the realisation that his time in Calcutta-and with the Captain-would soon come to a definitive end, and he intended to make the most of what he had left.
The Elephant & Crown was, as promised, filled with boisterous Englishmen-sailors and soldiers and company men-all nearly shouting to be heard as they drank and laughed and smoked and jostled one another in a merry struggle for elbow room. Cpt. Aquilaine looked apologetically at the Reverend, who merely shrugged and shouted in his ear, “It is nothing! I knew what I would be subject to. I have been a student, recall.” They eventually struggled over to two empty stools side by side in the middle of a long table populated by company men; the Captain disappeared to fetch a round whilst St. John cringed as the rest of the table took up “God Save the Queen”.
Finally Cpt. Aquilaine returned with two pints: ale for himself and small beer for the Reverend. Close behind came a thoroughly-English bar maid bringing wedges of meat pie smothered in brown gravy. The man next to St. John whistled at her, jostling his arm as he tried to drink and sloshing small beer on him; meanwhile, the men began thunderously singing “To Anacreon in Heav'n”. Cpt. Aquilaine looked at the pies, at St. John as he shook beer off his hand, at the company men, then back to St. John, who merely laughed and clunked their tankards together before turning to his pie. They ate and drank in silence-or rather, without speaking to each other, silence being a quality entirely unknown to the Elephant & Crown-whilst their table-mates, having finished “Anacreon”, launched into a drunken rendition of “Hail, Britannia!”.
Although the Captain could have stayed all evening listening to the lively crowd, St. John had soon finished his beer and pie and sat restless on the stool, jogging his legs up and down and drumming his fingers on the table. Cpt. Aquilaine tried to ask if he would like another pint but was drowned out as someone at a different table started “God Save the Queen” again. He winced, tapped St. John on the shoulder and tipped his head towards the door; St. John needed no further encouragement.
Back at the Club, St. John quickly grew irresolute in his actions; he began pulling at the Captain's red coat, kissing hard enough to bruise his friend's lips, and trying to get them both to the bedroom all at once. In return, Cpt. Aquilaine trapped the Reverend's arms against his sides, giving him kisses both gentler and deeper until St. John pulled away in frustration.
“Hurry, Marcus, do not tease. I cannot bear it when you tease.”
“Be calm, St. John, I am not teasing! Your fingers are swifter than mine, that is all.”
St. John swallowed and nodded, but presently his hands were shaking to the extent that Cpt. Aquilaine had to lend assistance with the buttons on his trousers. Whilst the Captain fiddled with them, his wrist brushed against St. John's already-full cock; in response St. John began to thrust forward unthinkingly, aching for more stimulation. No sooner had he realised what he was doing than he stepped back in humiliation, hiding his face.
“O Christ, I am so sorry. I did not mean to be so impatient … I am so sorry.”
“Stop! Pay it no mind, I am not offended. On the contrary, I am delighted to have such an effect on you.” Cpt. Aquilaine turned out the oil lamp and pulled back his counterpane. “Come, it is time I set you to rights.”
As a cold mountain lake, swollen by many years' contributions from glacial springs, suddenly bursts the dams that restrained it and floods the valleys below in an unstoppable rush, so St. John, having released his physical passions, could not call them back nor even slow them to a more measured pace. Their first success at 'less precipitous' intimacies had unfortunately proved to be their only success, and his lack of control shamed him to no end. At first this presented certain difficulties in bed. St. John was mortified that bodily needs held such sway over him. He insisted on the cover of darkness for their affections-so shy was he concerning the frank appearance of his proud flesh-and felt wretched that he could not offer Cpt. Aquilaine slower, more deliberate joys. Cpt. Aquilaine, in turn, longed to gaze at St. John's form, and felt disappointed that he could not prolong their cursory affections; moreover, the haste left him personally unsatisfied. But he swiftly learnt that even mentioning such dissatisfaction only made the matter worse. It brought much relief to them both when he came up with a compromise of sorts.
Upon retiring to bed, before snuffing the last candle, he would take the Reverend in hand and stroke and strip until St. John had spent himself into the Captain's palm; then, after St. John was calmed and less needful, they would plunge the room into darkness and begin more thorough intimacies. Cpt. Aquilaine loved having the license to finally admire St. John (as he was wont to whisper when the mood overtook him), to run fingers down his ribs and over his hips, graze his small brown nipples and kiss under his jaw line whilst his friend arched and gasped in the extremity of arousal, even as he struggled to set his own need by a while longer. St. John loved the Captain's broad hands on his body and the permission granted to him to simply submit to those hands' ministrations without demand of reciprocity, even as he disliked being observed.
Indeed St. John secretly thought this part of the night best; once the room was dark and his need had been slaked, he allowed himself to set agitation by and take his ease. He often wondered if how he felt then, whilst soothed and firmly encircled by the Captain's arms, was how other people felt always; not evaluating every action, nor constantly striving for improvement. Even the most alert and exacting portion of his mind, which in his very sleep would worry that he was currently failing in some small way, never bothered him at that time. It almost seemed as if the Peace of God, which so rarely visited during his piety, came instead when he sinned. They always took a few minutes to talk about their day's activities, share small pieces of minutia, or just lie still as Cpt. Aquilaine held him close and listened as the Reverend's pulse slowed to its normal andante.
Tonight they lay intertwined in silence. St. John had not the presence of mind to think on anything more significant than the Captain's breath tickling the back of his neck. Finally his friend proposed a change of activities, voice low in the velvet blackness of the warm bedroom.
“Would you like to try something different? My leg may not be up to its normal activities.”
“I did notice your limp was more pronounced, but you said nothing. Why is it paining you tonight?”
“Oh, it was hardly worth mentioning; I simply made a misstep during a demonstration of an exercise. Clumsy of me, and I do not wish to tax it further.”
St. John did not need to see Cpt. Aquilaine's face to know that from the hollow cheer in his voice he was speaking false, either to the cause of the injury or the amount of pain it gave him.
Truly, you do not lie well, Marcus. I wish you would be frank with whatever troubles you.
He tested the waters of enquiry gently, not wanting to press too far and sour the moment. “Is there anything you have not told me? I grow concerned for you and your health, sometimes, but I do not know what aid I can give; you are so closed up about it all.”
The Captain made an impatient noise and shifted to cup one of St. John's buttocks in his hand. “I will say more at some point, if you insist, but not tonight. Tonight, I would like to teach you something new, if you are willing. Would you lie on me?”
Cpt. Aquilaine slicked the inside of his own thighs with oil and helped the Reverend settle atop him, chest to chest. It was a delicate maneouvre, as they were already both growing hard. St. John felt foolish and clumsy in the darkness, as he carefully straddling the Captain with his own legs, trying not to jar his bad leg. Whilst he began to make himself comfortable the Captain wrapped his sturdy arms around the small of St. John's back, knuckles working at the tense muscles. The touch was both soothing and stimulating. Presently, St. John began to shift his hips up and down as he had felt his friend do so many nights now. Slowly he lost himself in the rhythm. As his need increased Cpt. Aquilaine slipped one oiled finger down the cleft between St. John's buttocks, lingering over his fundament. St. John immediately paused and stopped the Captain's hand with his own.
“Marcus, no, I do not want that … I am no sodomite.”
From beneath him came a voice filled with mirth at his protestation. “I have never doubted that, St. John. But may I touch? I will not breach you, I swear it.” St. John relented, wishing to be amenable, and began to move again as the fingers slid back and forth across him, tantalising but nothing more. He soon discovered an entirely new, different set of sensations associated with this particular act. So he continued, knees splayed and waist pinioned, finding gratification whether he thrust up into the Captain's fingers or down in between his thighs. Gradually these sensations increased until, in the fullness of time, he whispered,
“Marcus, Marcus, I am nearly there!” At this Cpt. Aquilaine clenched his thighs, slid his errant fingers just past St. John's fundament and pressed; St. John arched and threw his head back with a wordless cry as he spent himself for the second time that night. His second climax was far more intense than his first, and for a few moments he was aware of little beyond the waves rippling through his body and the blood pounding in his ears. Finally he became more sensible and fell onto his back, clutching at the Captain's arm.
“O, I am entirely overthrown,” he murmured. “What was that you did? How did you do that?”
“I have never known why that particular location causes such greater pleasure,” Cpt. Aquilaine replied as he gently rolled St. John onto his side, took up a position behind him and resumed stroking his buttocks. “I imagine it is a thing similar to what women hide between their legs-do you know of that spot?”
“Of course not. What do they hide?” He sounded thoroughly scandalised.
“It is a very small, well … it is hard to describe, because we men have no equivalent. The best I could say is that it looks like a whortleberry, and if you run your finger along it the woman makes all sorts of noises. Can you imagine my shock upon discovering that?”
St. John wrinkled his nose in disgust and made himself more comfortable whilst the Captain draped his good leg over both of St. John's. “I had no idea women enjoyed coitus in the least. At any rate, how do you know about women? I thought you disliked the very shape of them.”
Cpt. Aquilaine chuckled. “I did not discover that dislike immediately! But I have learnt the error of my ways. May we continue now?”
Not content to let the matter rest, St. John raised himself up on one elbow in confusion. “Yes, but … do all women enjoy themselves thus? Truly? That is awfully unseemly. I have sisters, Marcus! I cannot imagine them-phew.” He went silent, then burst out, “A whortleberry?”
The Captain clapped a hand over his mouth. “Hush! Enough of talk. Your thighs are soft and sleek, and I cannot contain myself any longer.” He kissed St. John on the shoulder, pulled him back down and slid his arousal between the other man's legs with a sigh.
They continued in this fashion for several weeks, focusing on their own lives during the day and coming together at night, simply taking pleasure from one another's presence. As if by an unspoken agreement, neither talked of the future. St. John was terribly grateful for that; he had not yet mentioned a single word to Cpt. Aquilaine of his decision to leave Calcutta, and was growing increasingly apprehensive as to how he would break the news. Firstly, Cpt. Aquilaine's affections seemed-at least to St. John, although he freely admitted his complete innocence in such matters-beyond the normal depth for an intimacy only several weeks in length. Secondly, he had begun to wonder just how much ending their affair would wound his own heart; he was growing increasingly reliant on his friend for companionship, conversation and advice on the many minor problems that crop up in any life. All of that, needless to say, was in addition to what they took and gave at night. Turning his back on those particular delights frightened him when he thought of it.
One Thursday afternoon, a full month after their fateful evening at the symphony, Cpt. Aquilaine asked St. John to accompany him to Maidan Park. He was so low that St. John worried he should have enquired far more firmly into what unspoken sorrow hung over the Captain's shoulders. He agreed to the excursion; he had visited the park on occasion, during his walks, but knew little of its history or points of interest. Further, he determined to himself that they would not sit to dinner before he had uncovered whatever sad truth the Captain preferred to leave hidden.
Maidan Park, in the heart of civilised Calcutta, provided vast expanses of lawn, cricket fields, shady walks beneath Banyan and Indian Almond trees, and a race course for horses; in short, all the afternoon diversions considered necessary by high society. The park itself was bounded by the city's most spectacular sights: to the north could be seen Lord Auckland's palace, to the east fine neighbourhoods filled with the pinnacle of English gentry in India, south held the site where the new St. Paul's Cathedral was being raised, and to the west flowed the Ganges. It was the finest location in the city to take a cooling walk. To their mutual regret, Cpt. Aquilaine and St. John were not gentry and did not live adjacent to the park. They had to travel some distance on foot before they could enjoy its restorative powers.
The weather was as unpleasant as could be easily imagined. Searing hot sun blazed down upon their heads and the remnants of the morning's downpour steamed up off the cobblestone streets and sodden grass. The climate seemed to possess a limitless supply of cruel surprises. They walked slowly, unwilling to expend any extra efforts; the Captain leant heavily on his cane and St. John secretly wished he could take off his black frock-coat.
“How did you ever accustom yourself to this terrible weather? When it rains, I expect to see Noah and his sons floating past. When it is not raining, it is as hot as Hellfire. And with either comes this confounded humidity and an entire fog of mosquitoes! I have never felt such mugginess; I feel as if I am swimming! Sleet, mist, snow-I am fond of these things, being raised in moory climes. Days like today, however, I begin to suspect Englishmen were simply not meant to live in the tropics.”
“Time and patience, Reverend, are the only remedies. My three years in Afghanistan were of great assistance; there it is blisteringly hot in summer, snowy and frozen in wintertime. And now I find it all pleasant! It is true, though, that nothing will compare to the delights of English weather.”
“Do you wish for home, now and then?”
“Hardly ever. There is little for me in England. Here I am happy, of a sort. Although I must confess some days I do long for Silchester, especially in spring when the strawberries are ripening.”
“Ah! Do not talk to me of strawberries, I beg you. I cannot bear the thought of fresh wild strawberries. I miss them too dearly, and there can be no good substitute.”
Cpt. Aquilaine fell silent at this piece of homely wisdom, but then cheered as the park came into view. “Here we are at Maidan, and I know how to cure your present misery. I would not want you to be seized with some sort of heat-stroke, for certain. Would you like a lassi?”
“I have never tasted lassi; I was not certain if I dared.”
“Then I shall buy you one. A salty lassi is an acquired taste, but sweet is so delicious and refreshing, I can scarcely credit the natives with creating it. Nothing compares to wild strawberries, but few things compare to lassi, either, and it will never be drunk in England.”
He purchased two from a street vendor who had set up shop on the Esplanade as it ran past the Government House; his stand was currently doing a brisk business providing refreshments for the Englishmen nearly fainting in the heat.
St. John sniffed, noted the scent of rose-water, sipped tentatively-occasionally he and the Captain differed greatly on what constituted delicious, or even edible-and then sipped more enthusiastically as it slipped down his throat. The drink was tart and fragrant, and cooled him with every swallow. Halfway through the glass he had to force himself to proceed more slowly and make it last. By the time he had finished he felt revived and up to a stroll through Maidan Park.
“That is remarkable, Captain. No strawberries, to be sure, but equally delightful in its own way. Āpanākē dhan'yabāda!” he said to the vendor, reluctantly handing back his glass. Perhaps they could have another on the walk home.
They ambled in silence under a long row of towering Umbrella pines, pausing every so often to admire one of the numerous statues that dotted the path. Governor-General Hastings looked so dignified in his wig and breeches that they agreed the statue must have been cast before his impeachment trial. Lord Auckland simply looked over-determined and militaristic. Lord Bentinck's statue featured a little bronze tableau at the base, with Hindi women kneeling before a tiny, seated Bentinck and raising their arms in supplication. St. John (who knew a good deal of Indian history) had the pleasure of explaining to Cpt. Aquilaine (who knew nothing of Indian history unless it involved the military) that the scene referenced the abolition of suttee.
When they had run through all the statues, they made their way to the cricket grounds and found a bench in the shade. There they watched teams of Indian boys, in starched white uniforms, competing at this most thoroughly-British of sports. St. John knew little of the game but Cpt. Aquilaine assured him that the boys were quite good, not just by Indian standards but by British too.
“It is strange, how they have taken to our sport. Stranger still to watch so many dark-skinned natives excelling at it. I almost forget they are not Christian when they mimic our habits; they seem quite taken with our-oh, good shot!” He stood in excitement as the batsman hit the ball far afield, scurrying from crease to crease as the outfielders tried to run him out. After a few minutes of leaning on his cane, watching with a wistful expression on his face, St. John decided to break into his thoughts.
“Why did you invite me here today, Captain? Certainly I am enjoying myself, but I am troubled, too.”
Cpt. Aquilaine looked at him in consternation. “What is troubling you, Reverend?”
“You, Sir!” St. John smiled as he spoke, not wanting his friend to worry that he had committed some great crime. “You are so low lately, even more so this week, and I wish you would say what it is that bothers you. You cannot think I have not noticed, surely, and I am tired of watching you trying in vain to hide your unhappiness. Tell me once and for all-please. Marcus.”
The Captain sat heavily, seemingly distracted by rubbing his bad leg, but he had noticed the familiarity and returned it willingly. “Truly, St. John, I thought it was obvious. Well, perhaps not as much to you, to be fair. Do you not know today's date?”
“It is the 23rd of July, but I do not know if that signifies anything important.” He shrugged slightly.
“To me, however, this date is everything.” He stared off into the distance as the bowler threw a spinning delivery that skipped straight past the batsman and scattered the wicket. “One year ago today was the Battle of Ghazni, when all my hopes came to their abrupt end. It is very difficult to think of it now, all my fine plans for wealth and prestige and respect, and I can assure you that none of them involved hobbling around Calcutta in pain, training insolent Sepoys, and staring at a future that promises nothing but poverty and obscurity. I have tried to reconcile myself to it, to a life of watching lesser men gain promotions and glory, as I grow ever more feeble, thinking of the name I was never able to make for myself, and the honour never won. I wanted to put my family's great shame behind me, and create something new and better. I failed.” A hint of tears glittered in his eyes. “It has been such a hard year, and if I had known in that medic's tent in Afghanistan what lay ahead I do not think I would have had the strength to live. Perhaps it is kind that God does not shew us what lies in store. I suspect most people could not bear it.”
He glanced around; there was no one nearby except for the cricketers, wholly engaged in their match. Satisfied, he reached over and took one of St. John's hands in his own, rubbing gently across the back of the palm with his thumb. St. John did not pull away.
“I could never have foreseen what this year brought me. But suddenly I find I am genuinely looking forward to the next one, and I have you to thank for that. Now it almost seems a shame not to know what the future holds. What do you think?”
St. John looked him in the eye and found his own tears beginning to form. He pressed the Captain's hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “I think that men can try to influence events by prayer, work, and study, but ultimately the future is in the Lord's hands. However painful it may seem at the time, as it must have been for you after Ghazni, we must trust and have faith that all things happen as God intends. Providence does not lead us astray.”
“You truly believe that! I wish you could teach me how to have such faith.”
“It is not hard. Look back at how your life has unfolded up to this point. Think: if we had known each other at Cambridge, I suspect neither of us would have had any inclination to pursue friendship now. Our heads would have been too filled with recollections of our university days. I might have said, 'I remember him, he was that fellow who played too much at cricket and hung about the atrocious Placido'. You might have said something similar about theology students who grew pale and wan from too much time in the library, and then we would not be sitting here in the park together.”
Cpt. Aquilaine's smile softened and he squeezed St. John's hand tightly before moving his own away. They turned back to watch the cricket.
Although he could never admit it, St. John's tears were for an entirely different reason than the Captain's. The argument he had just made, about Providence guiding their lives and throwing them together, nearly convinced even him; he wished with all his heart it were true. They were so comfortable in one another's company, each man bringing out the best in the other, that if one of them had been but female, society would have given an easy assent to their happiness.
But they were men, and so what should have been blessed was instead a terrible sin.
St. John did not weep for his transgressions against God; his tears sprang from the deep, clear conviction that he was misleading his friend in the cruellest way possible. He felt as confident about that awful truth as he was that God had created the universe, and that all men were wicked.
What I am doing, deceiving him into such a false understanding, is as sinful as fornication. I am giving him joy at the moment, but soon it will be swept away by such unhappiness that he will entirely forget all pleasant memories of me. Worse, I cannot stop myself. I must leave; I cannot serve God whilst I so wilfully choose to sin-that is clear. I hardly even find myself praying anymore. And this is entirely of my own doing.
He had trapped himself between Scylla and Charybdis, and would soon pay the grievous penalty for his choice: leave, and wound the Captain deeply (perhaps permanently, if he took it as a natural consequence of his family's history), or stay, and bring himself perilously close to damnation. St. John dreaded either outcome, but feared most for the state of his own soul; with every passing day, he grew less willing and less able to turn away from that which scripture taught was wrong, but which he felt in his heart was right, possibly the only right thing he had done thus far with his barren, empty life.
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notes:
Princely State of Hill Tippera - a small state in the far northeast corner of India, now called Tripura. During the days of the EIC and the Raj, it held the status of “Princely State”, which meant that it remained technically independent, was allowed some say over its domestic policies, and yielded all control of external affairs to the British. It remains impoverished and isolated to this day.
longcase clock - Another name for a grandfather clock (although the actual term “grandfather clock” did not come into use until 1876).
small beer - Small beer had a lower level of alcohol than regular beer or ale; it was considered suitable for children and women. People did not fuss about giving small beer to children, back in the early days of the 19th century, as it was often far more healthy and nourishing than the local water supply.
“To Anacreon in Heav'n” - After witnessing the bombardment of Fort McHenry by the British Royal Navy in 1812, Francis Scott Key, a lawyer and poet, was inspired to write a poem entitled “Defence of Fort McHenry.” He set the poem's lyrics to the tune of a popular drinking song, Anacreon, and the new song, soon renamed the more melodic “Star-Spangled Banner,” became popular throughout the young United States. Here are Anacreon's original lyrics:
To ANACREON in Heav'n, where he sat in full Glee, / A few Sons of Harmony sent a Petition, / That He their Inspirer and Patron wou'd be; / When this Answer arriv'd from the JOLLY OLD GRECIAN / "Voice, Fiddle, and Flute, / No longer be mute, / I'll lend you my Name and inspire you to boot, / And, besides, I'll instruct you like me, to intwine / The Myrtle of VENUS with BACCHUS's Vine.”
andante - a musical tempo; walking speed.
fundament - a polite, archaic term for 'anus'.
whortleberry - A whortleberry is small, round, and red, like an American cranberry. The Victorian man's knowledge of anatomy generally left much to be desired.
Maidan Park - To this day the park is green, beautiful, well-maintained, and immensely popular; it is often called 'the lungs of Calcutta'.
sweet lassi - A standard, traditional lassi is savoury, and often a bit salty. The saltiness is surprisingly refreshing on a hot day. Sweet lassi, yoghurt blended with rose-water and honey, is delightful.
numerous statues - Maidan Park was filled with statues of prominent British gentlemen. (After the country gained independence in 1947, the monuments were gradually replaced by different statues, ones featuring prominent Indians.) Hastings was the very first Governor-General of India (1773-1785); he lived a long and colourful life, perhaps the highlight of which (so to speak) was a seven year impeachment trial that dragged on from 1788 to 1795, ostensibly for various crimes committed whilst in India. By the time the proceedings finally ended (over a third of the Lords who had attended the opening of the trial had since fled the mortal plane), no one could quite recall why impeachment had seemed so necessary in the first place, and Hastings was acquitted, suffering no ill effects other than massive bankruptcy and debts reaching over £70,000.
Bentinck ruled the EIC from 1828-1835 and managed, in seven short years, to pull the EIC from the brink of bankruptcy (thus keeping the Crown from taking over), infuriate the British and the military with his cost-cutting measures, infuriate the Indians by modernising and westernising the territories, and infuriate anyone who might be left uninfuriated by forbidding native customs such as suttee, which nobody much cared for until Bentinck decided to interfere.
Suttee (sati) was the Hindu custom in which a widow (either through her own volition, or by coercion) burned herself alive on her husband's funeral pyre.
cricket grounds - I do hope that no one is expecting a good summary of cricket here. If you would like one, Reader, my recommendation is to find someone who understands the game and have them jot down some explanatory notes in the margins.
Scylla and Charybdis - In Ancient Greek mythology, to sail between Scylla and Charybdis meant (literally) to navigate a dangerous, narrow waterway between two points of land, one of which housed the monster Scylla, and the other of which housed the monster Charybdis. Less literally, it meant “between a rock and a hard place”.
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Thursday, the 9th of July, Year of Our Lord 1840, from the Bishop of Calcutta,
Good day and good health, Reverend Rivers. A suitable assignment has been found, if you should be interested in taking it; it would, I think, be an excellent fit for a man of your talents and passions. The requirements are: ambition to found a new parish - enthusiasm for teaching - strong knowledge of Hindustani and Bengali. Prince Krishna (Raja Krishna Kishore Dem Manikya) of the Princely State of Hill Tippera has recently sent a request to my office, enquiring about a suitable tutor for his son. The Prince is a knowledgeable man and wishes to bring up his child according to the dictates of civilisation, educating him in such a manner that he can, upon reaching the age of majority, attend one of the universities in England. He is a baptised Christian, and furthermore has indicated the desire to start a parish on his lands. Would you be willing to take up this assignment?
Hill Tippera is a curious Princely State; the lower classes speak a primitive language called Mrung and practice an unusual form of Hinduism not found in other parts of India. A man could make a name for himself writing monographs on the local customs. Moreover the common people are as a fallow field; a little effort with the plough, a handful of seeds scattered, and think of what could be harvested in the Name of God! Please let me know at your earliest convenience if you will accept this call. Your departure date would be after the roads improve, most likely the start of September.
Your Servant in Christ, the Right Reverend Bishop of Calcutta Daniel Wilson
St. John stared at the desk in his study, at the letter that lay there as malignant as a vial of poison. The Bishop writes in the same manner as he speaks, he thought resentfully. Overly-long and full of needless detail. He had been waiting eleven anxious days to hear back from the Bishop, and had changed his mind a dozen times more about whether to stay or go. But finally the response arrived, and he knew his duty: service, not happiness, was the purpose of Mankind. St. John reached for the inkwell.
To the Right Reverend Daniel Wilson, greetings.
I shall accept your assignment. I will begin concluding my affairs in Calcutta and be ready to depart as of the first of September. My thanks for this fine opportunity to serve the Lord.
Your obedient servant, Reverend Rivers
The longcase clock in the lobby sounded its slow chime-five in the evening, time for men to lay down their daily work. St. John hid away his reply with a twinge and turned once more to Hindustani grammar; his technical knowledge of Hindu had slipped during the past two months, even as his Bengali grew by leaps and bounds. Now he would need proficiency in both.
Beyond his front door the noises in the hall grew louder. Residents returned home, those who had spent the day at the Club emerged from stale-aired rooms, and all began making their way downstairs for smoking, billiards, and darts. St. John strained his ears but could not make out what he longed to hear over the other voices that called out their evening greetings. A half of an hour later he finally caught the limping footsteps of the Captain returning from another day of hassling new recruits, heading past St. John's door to his own quarters. This was St. John's cue to lay down his own daily work, wash his face, and change into a better shirt.
Presently Cpt. Aquilaine knocked and, once he had closed the door behind him and given St. John a full measure of kisses, settled into one of the wicker chairs and cut a cigar. St. John filled his own pipe and they sat in silence for a good five minutes; he had learnt some time ago that Thursday evenings his friend needed extra time before regaining his normal optimistic condition. Finally the Captain spoke.
“Would you like to take dinner out tonight? There is a public house a short walk away that I have not been to in months, and I am in the mood for a pint. What do you say?”
“I have not been to a public house since Cambridge, Marcus. Are they still loud and crowded and smoke-filled?”
“Oh yes, those are their best qualities!” Cpt. Aquilaine grinned cheerfully, so St. John gave his assent. Ever present at the back of his mind now was the realisation that his time in Calcutta-and with the Captain-would soon come to a definitive end, and he intended to make the most of what he had left.
The Elephant & Crown was, as promised, filled with boisterous Englishmen-sailors and soldiers and company men-all nearly shouting to be heard as they drank and laughed and smoked and jostled one another in a merry struggle for elbow room. Cpt. Aquilaine looked apologetically at the Reverend, who merely shrugged and shouted in his ear, “It is nothing! I knew what I would be subject to. I have been a student, recall.” They eventually struggled over to two empty stools side by side in the middle of a long table populated by company men; the Captain disappeared to fetch a round whilst St. John cringed as the rest of the table took up “God Save the Queen”.
Finally Cpt. Aquilaine returned with two pints: ale for himself and small beer for the Reverend. Close behind came a thoroughly-English bar maid bringing wedges of meat pie smothered in brown gravy. The man next to St. John whistled at her, jostling his arm as he tried to drink and sloshing small beer on him; meanwhile, the men began thunderously singing “To Anacreon in Heav'n”. Cpt. Aquilaine looked at the pies, at St. John as he shook beer off his hand, at the company men, then back to St. John, who merely laughed and clunked their tankards together before turning to his pie. They ate and drank in silence-or rather, without speaking to each other, silence being a quality entirely unknown to the Elephant & Crown-whilst their table-mates, having finished “Anacreon”, launched into a drunken rendition of “Hail, Britannia!”.
Although the Captain could have stayed all evening listening to the lively crowd, St. John had soon finished his beer and pie and sat restless on the stool, jogging his legs up and down and drumming his fingers on the table. Cpt. Aquilaine tried to ask if he would like another pint but was drowned out as someone at a different table started “God Save the Queen” again. He winced, tapped St. John on the shoulder and tipped his head towards the door; St. John needed no further encouragement.
Back at the Club, St. John quickly grew irresolute in his actions; he began pulling at the Captain's red coat, kissing hard enough to bruise his friend's lips, and trying to get them both to the bedroom all at once. In return, Cpt. Aquilaine trapped the Reverend's arms against his sides, giving him kisses both gentler and deeper until St. John pulled away in frustration.
“Hurry, Marcus, do not tease. I cannot bear it when you tease.”
“Be calm, St. John, I am not teasing! Your fingers are swifter than mine, that is all.”
St. John swallowed and nodded, but presently his hands were shaking to the extent that Cpt. Aquilaine had to lend assistance with the buttons on his trousers. Whilst the Captain fiddled with them, his wrist brushed against St. John's already-full cock; in response St. John began to thrust forward unthinkingly, aching for more stimulation. No sooner had he realised what he was doing than he stepped back in humiliation, hiding his face.
“O Christ, I am so sorry. I did not mean to be so impatient … I am so sorry.”
“Stop! Pay it no mind, I am not offended. On the contrary, I am delighted to have such an effect on you.” Cpt. Aquilaine turned out the oil lamp and pulled back his counterpane. “Come, it is time I set you to rights.”
As a cold mountain lake, swollen by many years' contributions from glacial springs, suddenly bursts the dams that restrained it and floods the valleys below in an unstoppable rush, so St. John, having released his physical passions, could not call them back nor even slow them to a more measured pace. Their first success at 'less precipitous' intimacies had unfortunately proved to be their only success, and his lack of control shamed him to no end. At first this presented certain difficulties in bed. St. John was mortified that bodily needs held such sway over him. He insisted on the cover of darkness for their affections-so shy was he concerning the frank appearance of his proud flesh-and felt wretched that he could not offer Cpt. Aquilaine slower, more deliberate joys. Cpt. Aquilaine, in turn, longed to gaze at St. John's form, and felt disappointed that he could not prolong their cursory affections; moreover, the haste left him personally unsatisfied. But he swiftly learnt that even mentioning such dissatisfaction only made the matter worse. It brought much relief to them both when he came up with a compromise of sorts.
Upon retiring to bed, before snuffing the last candle, he would take the Reverend in hand and stroke and strip until St. John had spent himself into the Captain's palm; then, after St. John was calmed and less needful, they would plunge the room into darkness and begin more thorough intimacies. Cpt. Aquilaine loved having the license to finally admire St. John (as he was wont to whisper when the mood overtook him), to run fingers down his ribs and over his hips, graze his small brown nipples and kiss under his jaw line whilst his friend arched and gasped in the extremity of arousal, even as he struggled to set his own need by a while longer. St. John loved the Captain's broad hands on his body and the permission granted to him to simply submit to those hands' ministrations without demand of reciprocity, even as he disliked being observed.
Indeed St. John secretly thought this part of the night best; once the room was dark and his need had been slaked, he allowed himself to set agitation by and take his ease. He often wondered if how he felt then, whilst soothed and firmly encircled by the Captain's arms, was how other people felt always; not evaluating every action, nor constantly striving for improvement. Even the most alert and exacting portion of his mind, which in his very sleep would worry that he was currently failing in some small way, never bothered him at that time. It almost seemed as if the Peace of God, which so rarely visited during his piety, came instead when he sinned. They always took a few minutes to talk about their day's activities, share small pieces of minutia, or just lie still as Cpt. Aquilaine held him close and listened as the Reverend's pulse slowed to its normal andante.
Tonight they lay intertwined in silence. St. John had not the presence of mind to think on anything more significant than the Captain's breath tickling the back of his neck. Finally his friend proposed a change of activities, voice low in the velvet blackness of the warm bedroom.
“Would you like to try something different? My leg may not be up to its normal activities.”
“I did notice your limp was more pronounced, but you said nothing. Why is it paining you tonight?”
“Oh, it was hardly worth mentioning; I simply made a misstep during a demonstration of an exercise. Clumsy of me, and I do not wish to tax it further.”
St. John did not need to see Cpt. Aquilaine's face to know that from the hollow cheer in his voice he was speaking false, either to the cause of the injury or the amount of pain it gave him.
Truly, you do not lie well, Marcus. I wish you would be frank with whatever troubles you.
He tested the waters of enquiry gently, not wanting to press too far and sour the moment. “Is there anything you have not told me? I grow concerned for you and your health, sometimes, but I do not know what aid I can give; you are so closed up about it all.”
The Captain made an impatient noise and shifted to cup one of St. John's buttocks in his hand. “I will say more at some point, if you insist, but not tonight. Tonight, I would like to teach you something new, if you are willing. Would you lie on me?”
Cpt. Aquilaine slicked the inside of his own thighs with oil and helped the Reverend settle atop him, chest to chest. It was a delicate maneouvre, as they were already both growing hard. St. John felt foolish and clumsy in the darkness, as he carefully straddling the Captain with his own legs, trying not to jar his bad leg. Whilst he began to make himself comfortable the Captain wrapped his sturdy arms around the small of St. John's back, knuckles working at the tense muscles. The touch was both soothing and stimulating. Presently, St. John began to shift his hips up and down as he had felt his friend do so many nights now. Slowly he lost himself in the rhythm. As his need increased Cpt. Aquilaine slipped one oiled finger down the cleft between St. John's buttocks, lingering over his fundament. St. John immediately paused and stopped the Captain's hand with his own.
“Marcus, no, I do not want that … I am no sodomite.”
From beneath him came a voice filled with mirth at his protestation. “I have never doubted that, St. John. But may I touch? I will not breach you, I swear it.” St. John relented, wishing to be amenable, and began to move again as the fingers slid back and forth across him, tantalising but nothing more. He soon discovered an entirely new, different set of sensations associated with this particular act. So he continued, knees splayed and waist pinioned, finding gratification whether he thrust up into the Captain's fingers or down in between his thighs. Gradually these sensations increased until, in the fullness of time, he whispered,
“Marcus, Marcus, I am nearly there!” At this Cpt. Aquilaine clenched his thighs, slid his errant fingers just past St. John's fundament and pressed; St. John arched and threw his head back with a wordless cry as he spent himself for the second time that night. His second climax was far more intense than his first, and for a few moments he was aware of little beyond the waves rippling through his body and the blood pounding in his ears. Finally he became more sensible and fell onto his back, clutching at the Captain's arm.
“O, I am entirely overthrown,” he murmured. “What was that you did? How did you do that?”
“I have never known why that particular location causes such greater pleasure,” Cpt. Aquilaine replied as he gently rolled St. John onto his side, took up a position behind him and resumed stroking his buttocks. “I imagine it is a thing similar to what women hide between their legs-do you know of that spot?”
“Of course not. What do they hide?” He sounded thoroughly scandalised.
“It is a very small, well … it is hard to describe, because we men have no equivalent. The best I could say is that it looks like a whortleberry, and if you run your finger along it the woman makes all sorts of noises. Can you imagine my shock upon discovering that?”
St. John wrinkled his nose in disgust and made himself more comfortable whilst the Captain draped his good leg over both of St. John's. “I had no idea women enjoyed coitus in the least. At any rate, how do you know about women? I thought you disliked the very shape of them.”
Cpt. Aquilaine chuckled. “I did not discover that dislike immediately! But I have learnt the error of my ways. May we continue now?”
Not content to let the matter rest, St. John raised himself up on one elbow in confusion. “Yes, but … do all women enjoy themselves thus? Truly? That is awfully unseemly. I have sisters, Marcus! I cannot imagine them-phew.” He went silent, then burst out, “A whortleberry?”
The Captain clapped a hand over his mouth. “Hush! Enough of talk. Your thighs are soft and sleek, and I cannot contain myself any longer.” He kissed St. John on the shoulder, pulled him back down and slid his arousal between the other man's legs with a sigh.
They continued in this fashion for several weeks, focusing on their own lives during the day and coming together at night, simply taking pleasure from one another's presence. As if by an unspoken agreement, neither talked of the future. St. John was terribly grateful for that; he had not yet mentioned a single word to Cpt. Aquilaine of his decision to leave Calcutta, and was growing increasingly apprehensive as to how he would break the news. Firstly, Cpt. Aquilaine's affections seemed-at least to St. John, although he freely admitted his complete innocence in such matters-beyond the normal depth for an intimacy only several weeks in length. Secondly, he had begun to wonder just how much ending their affair would wound his own heart; he was growing increasingly reliant on his friend for companionship, conversation and advice on the many minor problems that crop up in any life. All of that, needless to say, was in addition to what they took and gave at night. Turning his back on those particular delights frightened him when he thought of it.
One Thursday afternoon, a full month after their fateful evening at the symphony, Cpt. Aquilaine asked St. John to accompany him to Maidan Park. He was so low that St. John worried he should have enquired far more firmly into what unspoken sorrow hung over the Captain's shoulders. He agreed to the excursion; he had visited the park on occasion, during his walks, but knew little of its history or points of interest. Further, he determined to himself that they would not sit to dinner before he had uncovered whatever sad truth the Captain preferred to leave hidden.
Maidan Park, in the heart of civilised Calcutta, provided vast expanses of lawn, cricket fields, shady walks beneath Banyan and Indian Almond trees, and a race course for horses; in short, all the afternoon diversions considered necessary by high society. The park itself was bounded by the city's most spectacular sights: to the north could be seen Lord Auckland's palace, to the east fine neighbourhoods filled with the pinnacle of English gentry in India, south held the site where the new St. Paul's Cathedral was being raised, and to the west flowed the Ganges. It was the finest location in the city to take a cooling walk. To their mutual regret, Cpt. Aquilaine and St. John were not gentry and did not live adjacent to the park. They had to travel some distance on foot before they could enjoy its restorative powers.
The weather was as unpleasant as could be easily imagined. Searing hot sun blazed down upon their heads and the remnants of the morning's downpour steamed up off the cobblestone streets and sodden grass. The climate seemed to possess a limitless supply of cruel surprises. They walked slowly, unwilling to expend any extra efforts; the Captain leant heavily on his cane and St. John secretly wished he could take off his black frock-coat.
“How did you ever accustom yourself to this terrible weather? When it rains, I expect to see Noah and his sons floating past. When it is not raining, it is as hot as Hellfire. And with either comes this confounded humidity and an entire fog of mosquitoes! I have never felt such mugginess; I feel as if I am swimming! Sleet, mist, snow-I am fond of these things, being raised in moory climes. Days like today, however, I begin to suspect Englishmen were simply not meant to live in the tropics.”
“Time and patience, Reverend, are the only remedies. My three years in Afghanistan were of great assistance; there it is blisteringly hot in summer, snowy and frozen in wintertime. And now I find it all pleasant! It is true, though, that nothing will compare to the delights of English weather.”
“Do you wish for home, now and then?”
“Hardly ever. There is little for me in England. Here I am happy, of a sort. Although I must confess some days I do long for Silchester, especially in spring when the strawberries are ripening.”
“Ah! Do not talk to me of strawberries, I beg you. I cannot bear the thought of fresh wild strawberries. I miss them too dearly, and there can be no good substitute.”
Cpt. Aquilaine fell silent at this piece of homely wisdom, but then cheered as the park came into view. “Here we are at Maidan, and I know how to cure your present misery. I would not want you to be seized with some sort of heat-stroke, for certain. Would you like a lassi?”
“I have never tasted lassi; I was not certain if I dared.”
“Then I shall buy you one. A salty lassi is an acquired taste, but sweet is so delicious and refreshing, I can scarcely credit the natives with creating it. Nothing compares to wild strawberries, but few things compare to lassi, either, and it will never be drunk in England.”
He purchased two from a street vendor who had set up shop on the Esplanade as it ran past the Government House; his stand was currently doing a brisk business providing refreshments for the Englishmen nearly fainting in the heat.
St. John sniffed, noted the scent of rose-water, sipped tentatively-occasionally he and the Captain differed greatly on what constituted delicious, or even edible-and then sipped more enthusiastically as it slipped down his throat. The drink was tart and fragrant, and cooled him with every swallow. Halfway through the glass he had to force himself to proceed more slowly and make it last. By the time he had finished he felt revived and up to a stroll through Maidan Park.
“That is remarkable, Captain. No strawberries, to be sure, but equally delightful in its own way. Āpanākē dhan'yabāda!” he said to the vendor, reluctantly handing back his glass. Perhaps they could have another on the walk home.
They ambled in silence under a long row of towering Umbrella pines, pausing every so often to admire one of the numerous statues that dotted the path. Governor-General Hastings looked so dignified in his wig and breeches that they agreed the statue must have been cast before his impeachment trial. Lord Auckland simply looked over-determined and militaristic. Lord Bentinck's statue featured a little bronze tableau at the base, with Hindi women kneeling before a tiny, seated Bentinck and raising their arms in supplication. St. John (who knew a good deal of Indian history) had the pleasure of explaining to Cpt. Aquilaine (who knew nothing of Indian history unless it involved the military) that the scene referenced the abolition of suttee.
When they had run through all the statues, they made their way to the cricket grounds and found a bench in the shade. There they watched teams of Indian boys, in starched white uniforms, competing at this most thoroughly-British of sports. St. John knew little of the game but Cpt. Aquilaine assured him that the boys were quite good, not just by Indian standards but by British too.
“It is strange, how they have taken to our sport. Stranger still to watch so many dark-skinned natives excelling at it. I almost forget they are not Christian when they mimic our habits; they seem quite taken with our-oh, good shot!” He stood in excitement as the batsman hit the ball far afield, scurrying from crease to crease as the outfielders tried to run him out. After a few minutes of leaning on his cane, watching with a wistful expression on his face, St. John decided to break into his thoughts.
“Why did you invite me here today, Captain? Certainly I am enjoying myself, but I am troubled, too.”
Cpt. Aquilaine looked at him in consternation. “What is troubling you, Reverend?”
“You, Sir!” St. John smiled as he spoke, not wanting his friend to worry that he had committed some great crime. “You are so low lately, even more so this week, and I wish you would say what it is that bothers you. You cannot think I have not noticed, surely, and I am tired of watching you trying in vain to hide your unhappiness. Tell me once and for all-please. Marcus.”
The Captain sat heavily, seemingly distracted by rubbing his bad leg, but he had noticed the familiarity and returned it willingly. “Truly, St. John, I thought it was obvious. Well, perhaps not as much to you, to be fair. Do you not know today's date?”
“It is the 23rd of July, but I do not know if that signifies anything important.” He shrugged slightly.
“To me, however, this date is everything.” He stared off into the distance as the bowler threw a spinning delivery that skipped straight past the batsman and scattered the wicket. “One year ago today was the Battle of Ghazni, when all my hopes came to their abrupt end. It is very difficult to think of it now, all my fine plans for wealth and prestige and respect, and I can assure you that none of them involved hobbling around Calcutta in pain, training insolent Sepoys, and staring at a future that promises nothing but poverty and obscurity. I have tried to reconcile myself to it, to a life of watching lesser men gain promotions and glory, as I grow ever more feeble, thinking of the name I was never able to make for myself, and the honour never won. I wanted to put my family's great shame behind me, and create something new and better. I failed.” A hint of tears glittered in his eyes. “It has been such a hard year, and if I had known in that medic's tent in Afghanistan what lay ahead I do not think I would have had the strength to live. Perhaps it is kind that God does not shew us what lies in store. I suspect most people could not bear it.”
He glanced around; there was no one nearby except for the cricketers, wholly engaged in their match. Satisfied, he reached over and took one of St. John's hands in his own, rubbing gently across the back of the palm with his thumb. St. John did not pull away.
“I could never have foreseen what this year brought me. But suddenly I find I am genuinely looking forward to the next one, and I have you to thank for that. Now it almost seems a shame not to know what the future holds. What do you think?”
St. John looked him in the eye and found his own tears beginning to form. He pressed the Captain's hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “I think that men can try to influence events by prayer, work, and study, but ultimately the future is in the Lord's hands. However painful it may seem at the time, as it must have been for you after Ghazni, we must trust and have faith that all things happen as God intends. Providence does not lead us astray.”
“You truly believe that! I wish you could teach me how to have such faith.”
“It is not hard. Look back at how your life has unfolded up to this point. Think: if we had known each other at Cambridge, I suspect neither of us would have had any inclination to pursue friendship now. Our heads would have been too filled with recollections of our university days. I might have said, 'I remember him, he was that fellow who played too much at cricket and hung about the atrocious Placido'. You might have said something similar about theology students who grew pale and wan from too much time in the library, and then we would not be sitting here in the park together.”
Cpt. Aquilaine's smile softened and he squeezed St. John's hand tightly before moving his own away. They turned back to watch the cricket.
Although he could never admit it, St. John's tears were for an entirely different reason than the Captain's. The argument he had just made, about Providence guiding their lives and throwing them together, nearly convinced even him; he wished with all his heart it were true. They were so comfortable in one another's company, each man bringing out the best in the other, that if one of them had been but female, society would have given an easy assent to their happiness.
But they were men, and so what should have been blessed was instead a terrible sin.
St. John did not weep for his transgressions against God; his tears sprang from the deep, clear conviction that he was misleading his friend in the cruellest way possible. He felt as confident about that awful truth as he was that God had created the universe, and that all men were wicked.
What I am doing, deceiving him into such a false understanding, is as sinful as fornication. I am giving him joy at the moment, but soon it will be swept away by such unhappiness that he will entirely forget all pleasant memories of me. Worse, I cannot stop myself. I must leave; I cannot serve God whilst I so wilfully choose to sin-that is clear. I hardly even find myself praying anymore. And this is entirely of my own doing.
He had trapped himself between Scylla and Charybdis, and would soon pay the grievous penalty for his choice: leave, and wound the Captain deeply (perhaps permanently, if he took it as a natural consequence of his family's history), or stay, and bring himself perilously close to damnation. St. John dreaded either outcome, but feared most for the state of his own soul; with every passing day, he grew less willing and less able to turn away from that which scripture taught was wrong, but which he felt in his heart was right, possibly the only right thing he had done thus far with his barren, empty life.
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notes:
Princely State of Hill Tippera - a small state in the far northeast corner of India, now called Tripura. During the days of the EIC and the Raj, it held the status of “Princely State”, which meant that it remained technically independent, was allowed some say over its domestic policies, and yielded all control of external affairs to the British. It remains impoverished and isolated to this day.
longcase clock - Another name for a grandfather clock (although the actual term “grandfather clock” did not come into use until 1876).
small beer - Small beer had a lower level of alcohol than regular beer or ale; it was considered suitable for children and women. People did not fuss about giving small beer to children, back in the early days of the 19th century, as it was often far more healthy and nourishing than the local water supply.
“To Anacreon in Heav'n” - After witnessing the bombardment of Fort McHenry by the British Royal Navy in 1812, Francis Scott Key, a lawyer and poet, was inspired to write a poem entitled “Defence of Fort McHenry.” He set the poem's lyrics to the tune of a popular drinking song, Anacreon, and the new song, soon renamed the more melodic “Star-Spangled Banner,” became popular throughout the young United States. Here are Anacreon's original lyrics:
To ANACREON in Heav'n, where he sat in full Glee, / A few Sons of Harmony sent a Petition, / That He their Inspirer and Patron wou'd be; / When this Answer arriv'd from the JOLLY OLD GRECIAN / "Voice, Fiddle, and Flute, / No longer be mute, / I'll lend you my Name and inspire you to boot, / And, besides, I'll instruct you like me, to intwine / The Myrtle of VENUS with BACCHUS's Vine.”
andante - a musical tempo; walking speed.
fundament - a polite, archaic term for 'anus'.
whortleberry - A whortleberry is small, round, and red, like an American cranberry. The Victorian man's knowledge of anatomy generally left much to be desired.
Maidan Park - To this day the park is green, beautiful, well-maintained, and immensely popular; it is often called 'the lungs of Calcutta'.
sweet lassi - A standard, traditional lassi is savoury, and often a bit salty. The saltiness is surprisingly refreshing on a hot day. Sweet lassi, yoghurt blended with rose-water and honey, is delightful.
numerous statues - Maidan Park was filled with statues of prominent British gentlemen. (After the country gained independence in 1947, the monuments were gradually replaced by different statues, ones featuring prominent Indians.) Hastings was the very first Governor-General of India (1773-1785); he lived a long and colourful life, perhaps the highlight of which (so to speak) was a seven year impeachment trial that dragged on from 1788 to 1795, ostensibly for various crimes committed whilst in India. By the time the proceedings finally ended (over a third of the Lords who had attended the opening of the trial had since fled the mortal plane), no one could quite recall why impeachment had seemed so necessary in the first place, and Hastings was acquitted, suffering no ill effects other than massive bankruptcy and debts reaching over £70,000.
Bentinck ruled the EIC from 1828-1835 and managed, in seven short years, to pull the EIC from the brink of bankruptcy (thus keeping the Crown from taking over), infuriate the British and the military with his cost-cutting measures, infuriate the Indians by modernising and westernising the territories, and infuriate anyone who might be left uninfuriated by forbidding native customs such as suttee, which nobody much cared for until Bentinck decided to interfere.
Suttee (sati) was the Hindu custom in which a widow (either through her own volition, or by coercion) burned herself alive on her husband's funeral pyre.
cricket grounds - I do hope that no one is expecting a good summary of cricket here. If you would like one, Reader, my recommendation is to find someone who understands the game and have them jot down some explanatory notes in the margins.
Scylla and Charybdis - In Ancient Greek mythology, to sail between Scylla and Charybdis meant (literally) to navigate a dangerous, narrow waterway between two points of land, one of which housed the monster Scylla, and the other of which housed the monster Charybdis. Less literally, it meant “between a rock and a hard place”.