Miss Cayley's Adventures - Chapter 9

Miss Cayley’s Adventures (1899) by Grant Allen is a charming, unconventional tale of a young Victorian English woman's independence, wit and quiet rebellion.

When 21-year-old Lois Cayley finds herself requiring income, she sets off across Europe - navigating unfamiliar places and a series of surprising encounters, with intelligence, courage and charm. What begins as a practical necessity soon becomes something more: a journey of self-reliance and discovery.

At a time when women were expected to remain firmly within the bounds of home and propriety, Lois’s freedom to travel, think and act for herself was considered strikingly radical.

Light, fast-moving and quietly subversive, Miss Cayley’s Adventures offers both entertainment and a glimpse of a changing world - one in which a woman might begin to claim a life of her own...

Transcript

Hello there, Thank you so much for joining me for this continued reading of Miss Cayley's Adventures, The charming old English novel from 1899 by author Grant Allen. We are actually two-thirds of the way through this book already, And if you've been following along with the previous chapters you know that we are hearing about the adventures of a 21-year-old woman named Lois Cayley who is extremely unusual for her time. She is off on adventures around the world and getting caught up in various mysteries and more. I will be providing here an abridged version of chapter 9, As unfortunately I feel like most of the content of chapter 9 would be considered very distasteful for the modern audience. This book is of course more than 125 years old at this point and there is a tiger hunt in this chapter that is quite graphic. There's also quite a lot of racial slurring, Especially from our pea-green character from the last chapter, So I will be aiming to preserve the parts of this chapter that are important for the storyline and hopefully avoiding the more distasteful parts. So before we go further, Let's just take a moment here to have a nice deep exhale, Letting go of the day, Letting go of whichever baggage we might be bringing along with us into this moment. For right now, There's nowhere else we have to go, Nothing else we have to be doing, So we can just relax, Get ourselves comfortable and enjoy the next installment of Miss Cayley's Adventures. Chapter 9, The Adventures of the Magnificent Maharaja. Our arrival at Bombay was a triumphal entry. We were received like royalty. Indeed, To tell you the truth, Elsie and I were beginning to get just a little bit spoiled. It struck us now that our casual connection with the Ashurst family in its various branches had succeeded in saddling us, Like the Lady of Burley, With the burden of an honour unto which we were not born. We were everywhere treated as persons of importance. And, Oh dear, By dint of such treatment, We began to feel at last almost as if we had been raised in the purple. I felt that when we got back to England, We should turn up our noses at plain bread and butter. Yes, Life has been kind to me. Have your researches into English literature ever chanced to lead you into reading Horace Walpole, I wonder? That polite trifler is fond of a word which he coined himself, Serendipity. It derives from the name of a happy Indian prince, Serendip, Whom he unearthed, Or invented, In some obscure oriental story, A prince for whom the fairies, Or the genii, Always manage to make everything pleasant. It implies the faculty, Which a few of us possess, Of finding whatever we want, Turn up accidentally at the exact right moment. Well, I believe I must have been born with serendipity in my mouth, In place of the proverbial silver spoon, For wherever I go, All things seem to come out exactly right for me. The jamna, For example, Had hardly heaved to in Bombay Harbour when we noticed on the quay a very distinguished-looking oriental potentate in a large white turban with a particularly big diamond stuck ostentatiously in its front. He stalked on board with a martial air as soon as we stopped, And made inquiries from our captain after someone he expected. The captain received him with that odd mixture of respect for rank and wealth, Combined with true British contempt for the inferior man, Which is universal among his class in their dealings with native Indian nobility. The oriental potentate, However, Who was accompanied by a gorgeous suite like that of the wise men in Italian pictures, Seemed satisfied with his information, And moved over with his stately glide in our direction. Elsie and I were standing near the gangway among our rugs and bundles, In the hopeless helplessness of disembarkation. He approached us respectfully, And bowing with extended hands and a deferential air, Asked in excellent English, May I venture to inquire which of you two ladies is Miss Lois Cayley? I am, I replied, My breath taken away by this unexpected greeting. May I venture to inquire in return how you came to know I was arriving by this steamer? He held out his hand with a courteous inclination. I am the Maharaja of Musa Fenegar, He answered, In an impressive tone, As if everybody knew of the Maharaja of Musa Fenegar as familiarly as they knew of the Duke of Cambridge. Musa Fenegar in Rajputana? Not the one in the Doha? You must have heard my name from Mr Harold Tillington. I had not, But I dissembled so as to salve his pride. Mr Tillington's friends are our friends, I answered, Sententiously. And Mr Tillington's friends are my friends, The Maharaja retorted with a low bow to Elsie. This is no doubt Miss Petheridge. I have heard of your expected arrival, As you will guess, From Tillington. He and I were at Oxford together. I am a Merton man. It was Tillington who first taught me all I know of cricket. He took me to stop at his father's place in Dumfriesshire. I owe much to his friendship, And when he wrote me that friends of his were arriving by the Chumna, Why, I made haste to run down to Bombay to greet them. The episode was one of those topsy-turvy mixtures of all places and ages which only this jumbled century of ours has witnessed. It impressed me deeply. Here was this Indian prince, A feudal Rajput chief, Living practically among his vassals in the Middle Ages when at home in India, Yet he said I am a Merton man, As Harold himself might have said it, And he talked about cricket as naturally as Lord Southminster talked about the noble quadruped. The oddest part of it all was we alone felt the incongruity to the Maharaja. The change from Mutzafernegger to Oxford and from Oxford back again to Mutzafernegger seemed perfectly natural. They were but two alternative phases in a modern Indian gentleman's education and experience. Still, What were we to do with him? If Harold had presented me with a white elephant, I could hardly have been more embarrassed than I was at the apparition of this urbane and magnificent Hindu prince. He was young, He was handsome, He was slim for a Raja, He wore European costume save for the huge white turban with its obtrusive diamond, And he spoke English much better than a great many Englishmen. Yet, What place could he fill in my life and Elsie's? For once, I felt almost angry with Harold. Why couldn't he have allowed us to go quietly through India, Two simple, Unofficial, Journalistic pilgrims in our native obscurity? His Highness of Mutzafernegger, However, Had his own views on this question. With a courteous wave of one dusky hand, He motioned us gracefully into somebody else's deck chairs and then sat down on another beside us, While the gorgeous sweet stood by in respectful silence, Unctuous gentleman in pink and gold brocade, Forming a court all round us. Elsie and I, Unaccustomed to be so observed, Grew conscious of our hands, Our skirts, Our postures, But the Maharaja posed himself with perfect unconcern, Like one well used to the fierce light of royalty. I have come, He said with simple dignity, To superintend the preparations for your reception. Gracious heavens, I exclaimed. Our reception, Maharaja? I think you misunderstand. We are two ordinary English ladies of the proletariat, Accustomed to the level plane of professional society. We expect no reception. He bowed again with stately eastern deference. Friends of Tillington's, He said shortly, Are persons of distinction. Besides, I have heard of you from Lady Georgina Forley. Lady Georgina is too good, I answered, Though inwardly I raged against her. Why couldn't she leave us alone to feed in peace on dack bungalow chicken, Instead of sending this regal-mannered heathen to bother us? So I have come down to Bombay to make sure that you are met in the style that befits your importance in society, He went on, Waving his suite away with one careless hand, For he saw it fussed us. I mentioned you to his honour the acting governor, Who had not heard you were coming. His honour's aide de camp will follow shortly, With an invitation to government house while you remain in Bombay, Which will not be many days, For there is nothing in this city of plague to stop for. Later on, During your progress up-country, I do myself the honour to hope that you will stay as my guests for as long as you choose at Musa Furniger. My first impulse was to answer, Impossible, Maharaja, We couldn't dream of accepting your kind invitation. But on second thoughts, I remembered my duty to my proprietor. Journalism first, Inclination afterwards. My letter from Egypt on the rescue of the Englishwoman who escaped from Khartoum had brought me great éclat as a special correspondent, And the Daily Telephone now billed my name in big letters on its placards. So Mr Elworthy wrote me, Here was another noble chance, Must I not strive to rise to it? Two English ladies at a native court in Rajputana, That ought to afford scope for some rattling journalism. It is extremely kind of you, I said, Hesitating, And it would give us great pleasure, Were it feasible, To accept your friendly offer, But English ideas, You know, Prince, Two unprotected women, I hardly see how we could come alone to Musa Furniger unchaperoned. The Maharaja's face lighted up, He was evidently flattered that we should even thus dubiously entertain his proposal. Oh, I've thought about that too, He answered, Growing more colloquial in tone. I've been some days in Bombay, Making inquiries and preparations. You see, You had not informed the authorities of your intended visit, So that you were travelling incognito, Or should it be incognita? And if Tillington hadn't written to let me know your movements, You might have arrived at this port without anybody's knowing it, And have been compelled to take refuge in a hotel on landing. He spoke as if we had been accustomed all our lives long to be received with red cloth by the mayor and corporation, And presented with illuminated addresses and the freedom of the city in a gold snuff box. But I have seen to all that. The acting governor's aide de camp will be down before long, And I have arranged that if you consent a little later to honour my humble roof in Rajputana with your august presence, Major Balmossie and his wife will accompany you and chaperone you. I have lived in England. Of course I understand that two English ladies of your rank and position cannot travel alone as if you were Americans. But Mrs Balmossie is a nice little soul of unblemished character—that sweet touch charmed me—received at Government House. He had learned the respect due to Mrs Grundy. So that, If you will accept my invitation, You may rest assured that everything will be done with the utmost regard to the the unaccountable prejudices of Europeans. His thoughtfulness took me aback. I thanked him warmly. He unbent at my thanks. And I am obliged to you in return, He said. It gives me real pleasure to be able, Through you, To repay Harold Tillington part of the debt I owe him. He was so good to me at Oxford. Miss Cayley, You are new to India, And therefore, As yet, No doubt unprejudiced, You treat a native gentleman, I see, Like a human being. I hope you will not stop long enough in country to get over that stage, As happens to most of your countrymen and countrywomen. I smiled sympathetically. I think, I said, You may trust me. So I believe, He answered, If you are a friend of Harold Tillington's. Five minutes later, When the Maharaja had gone to inquire about our luggage, Lord Southminster strolled up. Oh, I say, Miss Cayley, He burst out, I'm off now, Ta-ta. But remember, That offer's always open. By the way, Who's your friend? Harold Tillington picked up with a fella like that at Oxford. Doozied good cricketer, Too. Wonder if this is the same one. Goodbye, Lord Southminster, I said, Quietly, With a stiff little bow. Remember, On your side, That your offer was rejected once for all last night. Yes, The Indian prince is Harold Tillington's friend, The Maharaja of Musa Furniger, Whose ancestors were princes, While ours were dressed in woad and oak leaves. But you were right about one thing. He behaves like a gentleman. Oh, I say, The pea-green young man ejaculated, Drawing back, That's another in the eye for me. You're a good'un at faces. You gave me one for a welcome, And you give me one now for a parting shot. Never mind, Though, I can wait. You're backing the wrong fella. But you're not the Ethel's, And you're well worth waiting for. He waved his hand, So long, See you again in London, And he retired with that fatuous smile still absorbing his features. A large section of the text is herein abridged, Which involves a tiger hunt, During which Miss Cayley herself accidentally kills the tiger when her gun misfires. We will now pick up the story again for the end of this chapter. We began to move again. We'll go on to where we know there is another tiger, The Maharaja said lightly, As if tigers were partridges. Miss Cayley, You will come with us? I rested on my laurels. I was quivering still from head to foot. No, Thank you, Maharaja, As unconcernedly as I could. I've had quite enough sport for my first day's tiger hunting. I think I'll go back now and write a newspaper account of this little adventure. You have had luck, He put in. Not everyone kills a tiger his first day out. This will make good reading. I wouldn't have missed it for a hundred pounds, I answered. Then try another. I wouldn't try another for a thousand, I cried fervently. That evening at the palace, I was the heroine of the day. They toasted me in a bumper of hate-seek's dry monopoly. The men made speeches. Everybody talked gushingly of my splendid courage and my steadiness of hand. It was a brilliant shot under such difficult circumstances. For myself, I said nothing. I pretended to look modest. I dared not confess the truth that I never fired at all. And from that day to this, I have never confessed it till I write it down now in these confiding memoirs. One episode cast a gloom over my ill-deserved triumph. In the course of the evening, A telegram arrived for the pea-green young man by a white-turbaned messenger. He read it and crumpled it up carelessly in his hand. I looked inquiry. Yes, He answered, Nodding. You're quite right. It's that. Poor old Marmy has gone after all. Ezekiel and Habakkuk have carried off his sixteen stone at last. And I don't mind telling you now, Though it was a near thing, It's I who am the winner.

Reviews

That pea green pea brain of a man is so annoying. 🙄. Thank you for leaving out the tiger part etc. 🥺
Such a remarkably strong and resilient woman she is! I love this story. 💕Thank you also for not making this an all nighter so that I get to hear it😊