Prologue
October 1872
Orange light fizzled through the haze of the early morning mist as the steamer skimmed over the mirror-like water towards the port of Calcutta. Was it mist? Or dust perhaps? Josephine squinted her eyes, not certain. Uncertainty seemed to characterise all her life now she was an “exile”, as those who had forsaken England called themselves. She stood stiffly on the wooden deck of the ship, her hands gripping the warm metal railing as she gazed out over the calm river. The soft aroma of spices wafted over the water, a faint din hummed from the distant city, and the echoed cries of an unintelligible language sounded out from canoes and dhows that bobbed in the river, impermanently shattering the mirror’s surface into fragments before it returned to repose.
India.
Josephine Ashton was finally in India. After weeks of laborious travel across the land and seas she had finally arrived in its capital, Calcutta. This city, slowly climbing out of the haze, with its eclectic buildings and low green jungles, was not Josephine’s final destination. She would be travelling a further few hours out to Sagribad, a popular station, also the residence of her long not seen brother, Paddy.
Strangeness had hung in the air the day Josephine had forsaken England. The rather teary scene (all of which was on her mother’s side) mirrored that of when Paddy left six years ago. The continual dabbing of her mother’s wet cheeks, the bark of the family spaniel, and the fervent waving as the exile vacated the greystoned house and climbed up into the carriage. It had been now Josephine’s turn, and her mother stood in the doorway alone, clasping the dog in her arms. (The cat, singularly unbothered, remained by the fireside.)
Travelling from her Devonshire home to Southampton to catch the steamer, Josephine witnessed all the things she possibly would not see for years on end: the humble village she had spent all of her life in, the craggy shoreline where she had played as a child with her brother under the sparkling summer sun, the green patchwork rolling hills, all of which she had hitherto left unappreciated! She had never considered herself as a sentimental person, someone to self reflect, but she could not help but revel in the melancholy of the silence of the carriage that carried her across the country she would soon be leaving. It would certainly starve off any boredom. Anything Josephine had before deemed as meaningless was now supposed to be meaningful: the grey cloud cover of an English autumn day, the glowing embers of the fire in the hearth, like deep red rubies hidden under blackened bark, and sore fingers after hours of embroidery beside her mother.
These sentimental remembrances were to be mostly rid of however when Josephine became diverted by her long journey. It so far had not been comfortable. While Josephine had the unfortunate tendency to see things as far worse than they were, she had all the right in the world to complain about the journey. Cramped compartments, seasickness, all those infuriatingly tedious hours that she endured travelling from England to India by carriage, train, and ship, and such storms in the Indian Ocean as she wailed she should drown! (The image now was one of strange pleasure but she had been quite concerned at the time.)
But all was nothing in her mind to her very disagreeable company. The only companion she had on board caused more distaste than admiration. A Miss Hortensia, a girl in a similar position to Josephine herself. She sought India for a family member, she sought it for change, and most importantly — she sought it for a husband. Everyone knew of the surplus of fine English men in India, whether they worked in the army or Civil Service or in business (and whether or not they were very fine). Hortensia had detailed her exact plan to be married as soon as possible: attend all social events, ride the Esplanade Row every day, always be aware of eligible gentlemen present.
‘Many things are different in India, you’ll see,’ Hortensia had said in her soft northern tones early on in the journey as they watched the grey churning sea of the Channel, ‘I’ve had plenty a letter from my cousin telling me all about it. The summers are so hot that everyone retreats up north, the servants always are listening to you so no secret can ever be kept long, and all the men will be desperate for your hand. Unless of course,’ she said sticking up her nose, ‘you’re too ugly or too uncongenial. No matter how desperate a gentleman is, he would never look over such flaws.’
'I am not wholly ignorant of the country,’ Josephine sniffed, irritated that she had had such things explained to her. ‘My brother has written to me.’
‘Sure he has, but it’s different for the women, the memsahibs. Life is all very different. The men and women may live in the same houses, the same town, but the ways of India are strange as anything and they almost live separate lives. You’ll see.’
To Josephine it sounded like an odd sort of threat. She tried not to show any anxiousness of her face, and nodded, her eyes trailing towards the empty horizon that would soon promise a sight of the country of spice.
This Miss Hortensia apparently knew so much of India, and was so intent on her plan, but none of it was put to use. At least, that was what Josephine thought of it at first. Quite early on did she see Hortensia’s acceptance of attentions by one young gentleman intending to go to India to join the Civil Service. She laughed so with him, the first time Josephine had seen her laugh to something she hadn’t herself said, and by the end of the journey he had been secured. They were to be married. How one could marvel! Josephine thought on the last bout of the journey, as they sailed up the jungle-lined Hooghly River almost ready to dock. This Hortensia, a girl she did not think very pretty nor very congenial — to use her phrasing — had already caught herself a husband. But indeed, Josephine realised the girl’s scheming. Hortensia had spotted her future “heaven-born” civil servant and tried her best to procure him. She was to set foot on India already an engaged woman. Josephine sighed. And she had come no where in the past couple of months. If anything, she had lost a little of her beauty from being so sick of bobbing of the boat that she had blanched.
‘Ah, well, you’ll lose that in India,’ said Hortensia half way through the journey, referring to her sickly pallor, ‘you’ll catch great sun with that pearly skin of yours. I fear you’ll either go red or go so brown with your black hair and brown eyes you’ll look like a native.’ ‘My hair’s dark brown. And my parasol shall never leave my sight,’ Josephine confirmed, feeling incredibly slighted at such an inference. ‘It’ll be best if it doesn’t, Miss Ashton,’ Hortensia said, a little sneer tucked in the corner of her mouth.
And as the ship slinked into port in Calcutta, Josephine sought to remind herself of why she was undertaking this journey and importantly the pleasant idea of reuniting with her brother. Even through the haze the heat palpable on her skin, her eyes squinting in the unrelenting light. The steamer bustled with people, girls donning their hats to shield their skin, servants heaving their master’s luggage, and Hortensia and her fiancé chortling down the steps. Josephine tried her best to negotiate the deck, making her way to the jetty, desiring quite severely to shove one girl laughing like a shrieking hyena into the water. Josephine’s moment arose; she stood at the top of the plank, breathed in deeply and walked down. (She desired the dramatic moment to last a little longer but was hurried on by another passenger behind her.) The dock was no less busy than the deck, swarming with English travellers, carts, carriages and Indians. Josephine inhaled the spiced air and stepped onto the cobbled ground, when all she’d rather do was scurry onto the steamer and sail straight back home.
Historical Commentary
This chapter comes from the prologue of a novel set in the British Raj, following Josephine, a member of the “fishing fleet” as she tries to navigate Anglo-Indian life. This “fleet” refers to the movement of unmarried English women to India in the 19th and early 20th centuries, since in India English women were outnumbered four to one by English men.
Previously, it had been more acceptable for these English men in India, or sahibs, to marry local Indians. However, during the early 19th century this attitude began to shift until it was a social death to be suspected of having “Indian blood” and interracial marriages were heavily discouraged. English wives were made the only acceptable option.
However, just as the character of Hortensia points out, some women would not be successful in their aims of finding a husband. These women were dubbed “returned empties” when they came back to England a “failure”, as though their husband fishing net did not managed to catch any men. It mirrors other ideas of being ‘on the shelf’. Josephine, already 24, has the very real possibility of being both of these.
Often these unmarried English women, missibabas (or memsahibs in its more general meaning of a female member of a white household), journeyed to India because some of their family already resided there. Men also did this, especially if they were part of ‘dolphin families’.
For a missibaba / memsahib, the best catch was a member of the ICS (Indian Civil Service) who were referred to as the ‘heavenborn’ of the Raj. They were paid well and were at the top of the British Indian social hierarchy, with the Viceroy at the zenith. The highest ranks of the army were also lauded, and businessmen were less highly prized.
The journey to India had been made much quicker by the rail, the advent of steamers and new routes. Previously, ships had had to sail around the Cape of Good Hope which could take around 6 months, but the building of the Suez Canal in 1869 allowed for an even faster route. In Around the World in 80 Days, also set in 1872 , it takes 23 days for Phileas Fogg to arrive in Calcutta, which is particularly speedy. Depending on routes, the journey could take a month or two.
Of course, this Prologue ends with Josephine’s arrival in Calcutta (now Kolkata), which was the capital of India at the time. Reading accounts of women arriving in the port, a mix of anxiety, excitement, suspicion and culture shock were part of their reactions. They may reside in a large city like Calcutta, or move out to a smaller station or the Indian countryside, the mofussil, which was notoriously isolated.
Wherever they did up end going, they still had one priority, to marry an English gentleman. Once married, if the husband was still working, they would remain in India until his retirement. Expensive trips Home (with a capital ‘H’) could be made, and there was often the issue of children (as it was preferred that they be educated at Home).
During their years of living in India, these memsahibs could remain cold to the country, or they could warm to it, and find, on their return to England, a part of them being left behind.
By Jasmine Fry, 2nd Year English & History, Issue 11 Global History, Spring 2023.
An Indian Mosque on the Hooghly River near Calcutta by Auguste Borget, 1846
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