Part 8

Wending my slow way back towards the main street, I came upon a busy carpenter’s shop—a perfect model of its kind. In this country some carpenters are also carriage-builders, and the place I then stopped to examine was the home of one of these. It was a long, low, rambling shed, such as we might consider good enough to hold cinders or firewood. The leaf-thatched roof had been patched in many places with tattered matting; the crazy posts were undermined by the pigs in the next yard, where they share the dirt and the sun with a heap of wretched children, and a score of starving dogs. Every kind of conveyance that had been invented since the Flood appeared to have a damaged representative in that strange place. Children’s shattered donkey-carriages, spavined old breaks, and rickety tricycles of the Portuguese period; hackeries of the early Malabar dynasty, palanquins of Singalese descent, Dutch governors’ carriages, English gigs—were all pent up, with irrecoverable cart-wheels, distorted carriage-poles, and consumptive springs. Had I possessed any antiquarian experience, I doubt not I should have discovered amongst the mass an Assyrian chariot or two, with a few Delhi howdahs. The master-mind of this coach-factory was a genuine Singalese who, in company with a slender youth, was seated on his haunches upon the ground, chisel in hand, contemplating, but not working at, a felloe for some embryo vehicle. After one or two chips at the round block of wood between his feet, Jusey Appoo paused, arranged the circular comb in his hair, and took another mouthful of betel; then another chip at the wood; and then he rose, sauntered to the door, and looked very hard up the little lane and down it, as though he momentarily expected some dreadful accident to happen to somebody’s carriage in the next street.

Once more in my vehicle, I threaded the entire length of Sea street, with its little dirty shops; the sickly-smelling arrack-taverns; the quaint old Hindu temple, bedecked with flowers and flags inside, and with dirt outside; and the whitewashed Catholic churches. Little bells were tinkling at these churches; huge gongs were booming forth their brazen thunder from the heathen temples; there was a devil-dance in one house to charm away some sickness, and a Jesuit in the next hovel confessing a dying man. There was a chorus of many tiny lungs at a Tamil school, chanting out their daily lessons in dreary verse; and a wilder, older chorus at the arrack-shop just over the way, without any pretence to time or tune. The screams of bullock-drivers; the shouts of horse-keepers; the vociferations of loaded coolies; the screeching of rusty cart-wheels begging to be greased; the din of the discordant checkoo or oil-mill—all blended in one violent storm of sound—made me glad to hasten on my way, and leave the maddening chorus far behind. The open beach, with its tall fringe of graceful cocoa-palms, and its cool breeze, was doubly welcome. I was sorry when we left it, and drove slowly up a steep hill, on the summit of which stood the Church of St. Nicholas—my destination.

A busy scene was there. Long strings of curious-looking vehicles were ranged outside the tall white church—so white and shiny in the sun that the bullocks in the hackeries dared not look up at it. I felt quite strange amongst all the motley throng; and when I stared about and beheld those many carts, and palanquins, and hackeries, I fancied myself back again in Jusey Appoo’s coach-factory. But then these were all gaily painted, and some were actually varnished, and had red staring curtains, and clean white cushions, and radiant little lamps. Nearer the church were some half-a-dozen carriages with horses—poor enough of their kind, but still horses with real tails. I glided in amongst the crowd, unnoticed, as I too fondly believed; and was about to take up a very humble position just inside one of the great folding-doors, when I was accosted by a lofty Singalese in gold buttons and flowing robes, with a gigantic comb in his hair, and politely led away captive, I knew not whither. Down one side-aisle, and across a number of seats, and then up another long aisle; and to my utter discomfiture I found myself installed, on the spot, in the unenviable position of _the_ “lion” of the day’s proceedings. To a person of modest temperament this was a most trying ordeal. There was not another white face there. Cookey had been disappointed, it seemed, in his other patrons, and knowing of my intended visit, had waited for my appearance to capture me, and thus add to the brilliancy of the scene.

I bowed to the bride with as little appearance of uneasiness as I could manage; but when I turned to the bridegroom, I had nearly forgotten my mortification in a burst of laughter. The tall, uncouth fellow had exchanged his wonted not ungraceful drapery for a sort of long frock-coat of blue cloth, thickly bedecked with gay gilt buttons, and sham gold-lace; some kind of a broad belt of a gaudy colour hung across his shoulders; he wore boots, evidently far too short for him, which made him walk in pain; and, to complete the absurdity of his attire, huge glittering rings covered half of his hands. The lady was oppressed with jewellery which, on these occasions, is let out on hire. She seemed unable to bend or turn for the mass of ornaments about her. White satin shoes and silk stockings gave a perfect finish to her bridal attire.

As the party marched up to the priest, I felt as a captive in chains gracing a Roman triumph. No one of all that crowd looked at the bride: they had evidently agreed among themselves to stare only at me. I felt that I was the bride, and the father, and the best man—in fact, everybody of any importance rolled into one. I looked around once; and what a strange scene it was in the long white church! There were hundreds of black faces, all looking one way—at me—but I did not see their faces; I saw only their white eyes glistening in the bright noon-day sun, that came streaming through the great open windows, as though purposely to show me off. I wished it had been midnight. I hoped fervently that some of the hackery bullocks would break loose, and rush into the church, and clear me a way out. I know nothing of how the marriage was performed, or whether it was performed at all; I was thinking too much of making my escape. But in a very short time by the clock, though terrifically long to me, I found myself gracing the Roman triumph on my way out. The fresh air rather recovered me; and what with the drollery of handing the cook’s wife into the cook’s carriage, and the excitement of the busy scene, and the scrambling for hackeries, and the galloping about of unruly bullocks, I felt determined to finish the day’s proceedings. I knew the worst.

I followed the happy couple in my vehicle, succeeded by a long line of miscellaneous conveyances, drawn by all sorts of animals. Away we went at a splitting pace, knocking up the hot dust and knocking down whole regiments of pigs and children, up one hill and down another, as best our animals could carry us. At last there was a halt. I peeped out of my carriage, and found that we were before a gaily decorated and flower-festooned bungalow, of humble build—the house of the conjugal cook. Up drove all the bullock hackeries, and the gigs, and the carts, but no one offered to alight. Suddenly a host of people rushed out of the little house in the greatest possible haste. They brought out a long strip of white cloth, and at once placed it between the bride’s carriage and the house, for her to walk upon. Still there was no move made from any of the carriages, and I began to feel rather warm. At length a native came forward from the verandah, gun in hand, I supposed to give the signal to alight. The man held it at arm’s length, turned away his head—as though admiring some of our carriages—and “snap” went the flint; but in vain. Fresh priming was placed in the pan, the warrior once more admired our carriages, and again the “snap” was impotent. Somebody volunteered a pin for the touch-hole, another suggested more powder to the charge, whilst a third brought out a lighted stick. The pin and the extra charge were duly acted upon. The weapon was grasped, the carriages were admired more ardently than before, the firestick was applied to the priming, and an explosion of undoubted reality followed. The warrior was stretched on his back. Half the hackery bullocks started and plunged out of their trappings, while the other half bolted. To add to the dire confusion, my villainous steed began to back very rapidly towards a steep bank, on the edge of which stood a quiet, old-fashioned pony, in a gig with two spruce natives seated in it. Before they could move away, my horse had backed into the pony chaise, and the last I saw of them at that time was an indistinct and rather mixed view of the two white-robed youths and the old-fashioned pony and chaise performing various somersaults into the grass-swamp at the base of the bank.

Glad to escape from the contemplation of my misdeeds, I followed the bridal party into the little house. Slowly alighting from her vehicle, the lady was received by a host of busy relations, some of whom commenced salaaming to her; some scattered showers of curiously-cut fragments of coloured and gilt paper over her and her better half—probably intended to represent the seeds of their future chequered happiness and troubles; and then, by way of inducing the said seed to germinate, somebody sprinkled over the couple a copious down-pouring of rose-water. The little front verandah of the dwelling was completely hidden beneath a mass of decorations of flowers, fruits, and leaves, giving it at first sight the appearance of a cross between a fairy-bower and a Covent Garden fruit-stall. The living, dark stream poured into the fairy bower, and rather threatened the floral arrangements outside; the door-way was quickly jammed up with the cook’s nearest and dearest relatives of both sexes; while the second cousins and half-uncles and aunts blocked up the little trap-door of a window with their grizzly, grinning visages. The room we were in was not many feet square—calculated to hold, perhaps, a dozen persons in ordinary comfort; but, on this occasion, compelled to welcome within its festive mud-walls at least forty. A small oval table was in the centre, a dozen or so of curiously-shaped chairs were ranged about the sides, in the largest of which the bride was seated. The poor creature was evidently but ill at ease—so stiff and heavily-laden with ornaments. The bridegroom was invisible, and I felt bound to wait upon the lady in his absence. The little darkened cell was becoming fearfully hot; indistinct ideas of the Black Hole of Calcutta rose to my heated imagination. A feverish feeling crept over me, not a little enhanced by the Oriental odours from things and persons about me. The breeze, when it did manage to squeeze itself in, brought with it the sickly perfume of the myriads of flowers and leaves outside. Upon the whole, the half hour or so which elapsed between our arrival and the repast, was a period of intense misery to me, and vast enjoyment to the cook’s family circle. There was nothing to while away the hot minutes. I had to look alternately at the bride, the company, and the ceiling; the company stared at myself and the lady; while she, in her turn, looked at the floor hard enough to penetrate through the bricks to the foundation below. In the first instance I had foolishly pictured the breakfast, or whatever the meal was to be, set forth upon some grassy spot in the rear of the premises, under the pleasant shade of palms and mangoe trees.

But the vulgar crowd must be kept off by walls; and the little oval table in the centre was to receive the privileged few, and to shut out the unprivileged many. Dishes reeking hot, and soup-tureens in a state of vapour, were passed into the room, over the heads of the mob; for there was no forcing a way through them. A long pause, and then some more steaming dishes, and then another pause, and some rice-plates; and at last, struggling and battling amidst the army of relations, the bridegroom made his appearance—very hot and very shiny, evidently reeking from the kitchen. He had slipped on his blue cloth, many-buttoned coat, and smiled at his wife and the assembled company as though he would have us believe he was quite cool and comfortable.

It devolved upon me to hand, or rather drag the bride to one end of the table; opposite to whom sat her culinary lord and master, as dignified and important as though his monthly income had been ten guineas instead of ten rix-dollars. I seated myself next to the lady of the hut, and resigned myself to my fate; escape was out of the question. Nothing short of fire, or the falling in of the roof, could have saved me. Our rickety chairs were rendered firm and secure as the best London-made mahogany-seats by the continuous, unrelenting pressure of the dense mob behind and around us. The little room seemed built of faces; you might have danced a polka or a waltz on the heads of the company with perfect security. As for the window-trap, I could see nothing but bright, shining eyes through it.

The covers were removed, as covers are intended to be; but, instead of curiously-arranged and many-coloured dishes of pure and unadulterated Sinhalese cookery, as I had, in the early part of the day, fondly hoped, there appeared upon them a few overdone, dried up joints _a l’Anglaise_; a skinny, consumptive baked shoulder of mutton; a hard-looking boiled leg of a goat; a shrivelled spare-rib of beef; a turkey that might have died of jungle-fever; and a wooden kind of dry, lean ham, with sundry vegetables, made up this sad and melancholy show. All my gastronomic hopes, so long cherished amidst that heated assemblage, vanished with the dish-covers, and left me a miserable and dejected being. Ten minutes previously, I had felt the pangs of wholesome hunger, and was prepared to do my utmost; at that moment I only felt empty and sick. Could I have reached the many-buttoned cook, I might have been tempted to have done him some bodily harm; but I could not move. The host had the wretch of a turkey before him. Well up to the knife-and-fork exercise, he whipped off from the breast of the skinny bird two slices of the finest meat—the only really decent cuts about it—and then, pushing the dish on to his next neighbour, begged him to help himself. Of course, I had to attend to the hostess. I gave her a slice of the sinewy, lean ham before me, with two legs of a native fowl, and began to think of an attempt upon the boiled mutton for myself; but there was no peace for me yet. The bride had never before used a knife and fork, and, in her desperate attempts to insert the latter into one of the fowl’s legs, sent it with a bound into my waistcoat, accompanied by a shower of gravy, and a drizzling rain of melted butter and garlic. Feeling more resigned to my fate, I proceeded to cut up her ham and chicken, and then fancied the task was done; but not so. Her dress was so tight, the ornaments so encompassed her as with a suit of armour, that all her attempts to reach her mouth with her fork were abortive. To bend her arm was evidently impossible. Once she managed to get a piece of ham as high as her chin; but it cost her violent fractures in several parts of her dress; so that I became alarmed for what might possibly happen, and begged her not to think of doing it again, offering to feed her myself. Feverish, thirsty, and weary as I felt at that table, I could scarcely suppress a smile when I found myself, spoon in hand, administering portions of food to the newly-made wife. Never having had, at that period of my existence, any experience in feeding babies, or other living creatures, I felt at first much embarrassed, somewhat as a man might feel who, only accustomed to shave himself, tries, for the first time in his life, to remove the beard of some friend in a public assembly. Fortunately for me, the lady was blessed with a rather capacious mouth; and, as I raised, tremblingly and in doubt, a pyramid of fowl, ham, and onions, upon the bowl of the Brittania-metal spoon, my patient distended her jaws in a friendly and hopeful manner.

During my spoon performances I was much startled at hearing, close to our door, the loud report of several guns fired in quick succession. I imagined at first that the military had been called out to disperse the mob, but as nobody gave signs of any alarm or uneasiness, that could not have been the case; so I settled in my mind that the friends of the family were shooting some game for the evening’s supper. All that I partook of at that bridal party was a small portion of very lean, dry beef, and some badly boiled potatoes, washed down by a draught of hard, sour beer. I essayed some of the pastry, for it had a bright and cheerful look, and was evidently very light. I took a mouthful of some description of sugared puff, light to the feel, and pleasant to look at, but in reality a most heartless deception—a sickly piece of deceit: it was evidently a composition of bean-flour, brown sugar, stale eggs, and cocoanut oil—the latter, although burning very brilliantly in lamps, and serviceable as a dressing to the hair, not being quite equal to Lucca oil when fried or baked. To swallow such an abomination was impossible, and, watching my opportunity, I contrived at length to convey my savoury mouthful beneath the table. This vile pastry was succeeded by a plentiful crop of fruit of all kinds, from pine-apples to dates. Hecatombs of oranges, pyramids of plantains, shoals of sour-sops, mounds of mangoes, to say nothing of alligator pears, rhambatams, custard apples, guavas, jamboes, and other fruit, as varied in name and taste as in hue and form, graced that hitherto graceless board. I had marked for immediate incorporation a brace of custard apples, and a glowing, corpulent alligator-pear, and was even on the point of securing them before attending to my dark neighbour, when a loud shout, followed by a confused hubbub, was heard outside in front. There was a cracking of whips and a rattling of carriage-wheels, and altogether a huge commotion in the street, which at once put an end to our dessert, and attracted attention from the inside to the exterior of the house. My spirits revived from zero to summer-heat, and thence up to blood-heat, when I learnt that the arrivals were a batch of “Europe gentlemen,” friends of the cook’s master, who had come just to have a passing peep at the bride and the fun. Their approach was made known by sundry explanations in the English language, and a noise as of scuffling at the door. How our new friends were to get in was a mystery to me, nor did the host appear to have any very distinct ideas upon the subject. He rose from his seat, and, with his mouth full of juicy pine apple, ordered a way to be cleared for the “great masters;” but he might as well have requested his auditory to become suddenly invisible, or to pass out through the key-hole. There was no such thing as giving way. A few of the first cousins grinned, and one or two maternal uncles coughed audibly, while the eyes of the distant relations at the window were glistening more intensely, and in greater numbers than ever. The stock of British patience, as I rather expected, was quickly exhausted, and in a minute or two I perceived near the door some white faces that were familiar to me at a certain regimental mess-table. Uncles and brothers-in-law were rapidly at a discount, and there appeared every prospect of mere connexions by marriage becoming relations by blood. Some giant of a native ventured upon the hazardous speculation of collaring an officer who was squeezing past him, and received a friendly and admonitory tap in return, which at once put him _hors de combat_. The cook, enraged at the rudeness of his countryman, dealt a shower of knocks amongst his family circle; the visitors stormed the approaches, and at last carried the covered way; Singalese gentry struggled and pushed, and tried in vain to repel the invaders; the fair sex screamed, and tried to escape; the _mêlée_ became general and furious. I gave my whole attention to the bride, who kept her seat in the utmost alarm; her husband was the centre of attraction to the combatants, and in the midst of a sort of “forlorn hope” of the native forces, the heavily loaded table was forced from its centre of gravity. Staggering and groaning beneath the united pressure from fruit and fighting, the wooden fabric reeled and tottered, and at last went toppling over, amidst a thunder-storm of vegetable productions. It was in vain I pulled at the unhappy bride to save her—she was a doomed woman, and was swept away with the fruity flood. When I sought her amidst the wreck and confusion, I could only discover heaps of damaged oranges, sour-sops, and custard-apples, her white satin shoes, the Chinese fan, and the four silver meat-skewers. By dint of sundry excavations, the lady was fairly dug out of the ruins and carried off by her female friends; the room was cleared of the rebellious Singalese, and a resolution carried unanimously that the meeting be adjourned to the compound or garden at the back. Under the pleasant shade of a tope of beautiful palms, we sat and partook of the remains of the feast. The relations, once more restored to good humour, amused themselves in their own fashion, preparing for the dancing, and festivity, and illuminations that were to take place in the evening. We sat there until some time after sunset, and when I had seen the great cocoa-nut shells, with their flaring wicks, lighted up, and the tom-toms begin to assemble, I deemed it prudent to retire and seek a wholesome meal at the hotel.

VI.

_THE TREE OF LIFE._

To dwellers in Ceylon, the cocoanut palm calls up a wide range of ideas. It associates itself with nearly every want and convenience of native life. It might tempt a Singalese villager to assert that if he were placed upon the earth with nothing else whatever to minister to his necessities than the cocoa-nut tree, he could pass his existence in happiness and contentment.