Nizams Daughters

to indulgence in this incarnation through preparation in earlier ones.’

Hervey was as much engaged by the elegance of the rajah’s phrasing as he was intrigued by his theology. ‘You know, sir,’ he replied, with considerable delicacy, ‘that our religion holds these things differently.’

‘And I shall look forward keenly to our being able to speak on these matters, for you are the son of a sadhu, a priest, I am informed — whereas Mr Selden, there,’ he nodded, smiling, ‘is as much an atheist as was my tutor.’

‘Your tutor an atheist, sir? Mr Selden informed me that he was a fellow of Cambridge.’

‘Oh, indeed — both. He was sent down along with Coleridge for his opinions. Do you like Coleridge’s poetry, Captain Hervey?’

‘Very much, sir,’ replied the latter, hoping to conceal his surprise at hearing of Coleridge here.

‘I am much diverted by the notion of his enlisting in the cavalry afterwards. It was not your regiment, was it, by some chance?’

‘No, sir,’ said Hervey, even more surprised. ‘His was the Fifteenth Light Dragoons, and mine the Sixth. He was, by his own admission, a very indifferent equestrian!’

‘It is as well, Captain Hervey, otherwise we should have been deprived of some sublime poetry.’

‘Just so, sir,’ agreed the other, but with a resigned smile, for the rajah evidently held the two to be incompatible occupations.

However, the rajah did not press the matter, returning instead to the subject of his gardens and menagerie, and the plans he had for their enlargement. The khitmagars entered once more in procession. ‘These will delight you especially, Captain Hervey,’ he smiled, as one of them proffered a salver. ‘Mandaliya. I have a cook from Bengal who makes it as no other I know. There is nothing else of worth in Bengal, I assure you, Captain Hervey!’ he added with an even broader smile.

‘He takes the entrails from only the youngest of lambs and then fills them with marrow and a mixture of spices known only to him, and then he roasts them over charcoal. They are the very apotheosis of taste, are they not?’

Hervey agreed readily, and he would have indulged himself liberally had he not a concern for how many such dishes he would have to savour before the feast was ended. He glanced across at Selden and saw him eating modestly, and then at Locke, who was attending to each dish as if it were his last.

‘Why are you come to India, Captain Hervey?’ asked the rajah suddenly, though without trace of anything but approval.

He sighed inwardly. He had no wish to deceive this generous and civilized man. ‘I believe you will have heard of Sir Arthur Wellesley?’ he began.

‘The Duke of Wellington?’ replied the rajah.

He was much embarrassed by his presuming the rajah’s ignorance. ‘I am very sorry, sir; I had no reason to suppose that the duke’s elevation to the peerage would have been of interest in Chintal.’

‘But indeed it is,’ replied the rajah. ‘The duke rid India of the Maratha plague — Sindhia and Barjee Rao, and the other devils. I met him once, in the company of his then more illustrious brother. I was gratified to see him made a marquess, and then duke. Are you acquainted with him?’

‘Not intimately, sir. I am recently appointed aide-decamp, a very junior capacity, and am sent here to learn the employment of the lance. We suffered from it at the hands of the French, and the duke intends forming lancer regiments forthwith.’

‘Indeed,’ was all that the rajah would say by reply, although after a while he appeared to remember his own lancers. ‘My sowars would be able to instruct you most ably,’ he said, nodding.

‘I am grateful, sir. I believe I have also heard that the nizam’s cavalry have lances.’ Hervey wished at once he had not said it — a clumsy stratagem.

The rajah, after the briefest flicker of consternation, recovered his composure. ‘You may know that we are to receive the nizam in Chintalpore in a month’s time,’ he said, dipping his fingers in a bowl of scented water.

‘Mr Selden so informed me, sir.’

‘We hope to show him some sport.’ And he embarked on a lengthy praise of Chintal’s hunting promise.

The musicians were by now less animated in their playing. A leisurely tala weaved its way in and out of the conversations around the rajah’s table, a perfect accompaniment to the sweet confections now brought by the khitmagars — sweeter even than the madhuparka in the Venetian glasses.

‘But on the matter of the Duke of Wellington’s bidding,’ said the rajah at length, and seemingly absently, ‘there may be some quality that the duke seeks in numbers: the nizam’s cavalry has the most lancers in all India.’

‘So I am informed, sir. But in terms of how well the weapon itself is handled, and how handily are the rissalahs trained, I understand the Company’s irregulars too have much to teach.’

The rajah nodded. ‘And in our own modest way, Chintal may boast of a handy rissalah. Indeed, you saw some upon your arrival today, did you not? Though they stood at the gates of the palace for ceremony.’

‘And, may I say, sir, their bearing does them great credit. I should much like to see them at exercise.’

‘Then you shall, Captain Hervey,’ replied the rajah. ‘You are our guest: I would not suspend any pleasure of yours that it is in my power to prolong.’

One of those pleasures was the fine claret which the rajah kept. But Hervey was abstemious, for not only was its taste ill-matched to the harlequin dishes paraded before them, he was uncertain of the potency of the madhuparka. He could afford no indiscretion which might suggest his mission were any more than he had declared, especially having once aroused, if not the rajah’s suspicion, then certainly his curiosity. The same was not the case with Locke, however, whose robust spirits seemed wholly pleasing nevertheless to the raj kumari.

The rajah spoke of hunting again: Hervey would not leave Chintal without a tigerskin, he promised, as bowls filled with boiled rice, dyed with saffron and much spiced, were placed before them. They talked of tiger and leopard and the wild boar, and the differing dangers and pleasures in the pursuit of each. And much satisfaction the rajah seemed to gain from Hervey’s keen anticipation.

A light soup followed, and then all was cleared, bowls of hot water scented with lotus flowers were brought, and the rajah began speaking of his stables, of the merits and otherwise of the Arab and the Turkoman when compared with the native breeds — the Kathiawar, Marwari and Waziri. And the air was then filled with yet more, and different, scents as perfumed dishes of curds were laid before them, and the musicians once again became lively, an insistent tabla presaging a turn in the course of the evening. The rajah’s guests ate greedily, even after so much, and when the curds were gone a whole army of khitmagars crowded in to sweep away the residue of the feast so that the entertainment might begin.

The raj kumari herself had arranged their evening’s diversions, explained the rajah. First came an elaborate nautch in which twelve tall, extravagantly dressed girls moved about the wide floor of the banquet chamber with a grace the like of which Hervey had never seen, as if floating — bending this way and that like tall grass in a breeze. From neck to ankle, they were aflash with mirrors, bracelets and rings, and in each bare navel shone an emerald.

‘They are come from Maharashtra for the delectation of the nizam when he visits,’ explained the rajah. ‘I am pleased to see you approve, Captain Hervey.’

How could he not approve? ‘I do not think I ever beheld a more beautiful sight, Your Highness!’

Henry Locke was altogether transported, and even Selden seemed rapt. The nautch girls danced for a quarter of an hour without respite, leisurely in all their movements, mistresses of time as well as of their sinewy muscles; until, though it was grown very warm, their spirited climax of much shaking and turning brought to a sudden end the now frantic raga — and with it the prostration of the dancers. There was great applause and calls of approval, and the dancers stood as one and bowed low to their audience. That they did not smile only added to their allure. Truly, he confided again, he had never seen anything so exquisite!

The entertainment next took a less elevated form. A half-naked, wiry little man entered carrying a basket and a caged mongoose. ‘A vulgar thing of the bazaar, Captain Hervey,’ smiled the rajah indulgently, ‘to fascinate the indigent of the country and visitor alike. You may now write home to tell of your seeing a snake-charmer.’

He was puzzled by the rajah’s need to explain, but thought it kindly meant. The wiry little man placed the basket not a dozen paces before them, and the cage to one side, then sat on the floor, crossing his legs. He took a pipe from the waist of his dhoti, removed the lid of the basket and began to play. The mongoose at once began jumping up and down excitedly, urinating as it did so — to the amusement of the guests — and soon from the