Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/370

 October 29,  1859.]

PRAWN CURRY.

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tionately large  and  disagreeably  expressive,  that seemed to  roll  about  without  keeping  time,  and  to squint  and  leer  through  the  murky  vapour  most abominably.

The cool  shelter  of  the  inn  was  grateful  enough after the  sweltering  heat  of  the  mid-day  sun,  so I put  on  a fresh  suit  of  grass-cloth,  dipped  my head  in  Cologne-water,  and  composed  my  mind for dinner. The huge,  stone-walled  apartment in which  my  repast  was  prepared,  had  an  earthy odour from  the  tiled  floor,  and  a smell  of  cocoa- nut oil  that  must  have  been  something  like  the atmosphere of  Ali  Baba’s  oil-jars. I was the  only dinner guest,  and  as  I sat  in  the  vast  solitude, listening to  footsteps  echoing  far  and  faint — what with  the  earthy  smell  and  some  burning josstick with  its  incense  fumes  curling  slowly into the  shadows  of  the  lofty  timber  roof,  I felt it was  like  dining  in  a cathedral.

A sort of  grand  servitor  of  the  house  in  a specially  fine  cotton  garment  and  an  extra  big tortoiseshell comb  arranged  the  table  in  a style that only  needed  some  orange  blossoms  and  tin foil to  look  like  a small  wedding; and  when  I took  my  preliminary  sip  of  sherry  I felt  it  almost incumbent to  make  a little  pleasant  speech  to myself,  and  return  thanks  in  a proper  soliloquy. The prawns  were  sublime. I seem to  forget  the accessories of  sauce  and  vegetable. Dr. Johnson once said  of  a lady  that  she  had  been  so  well dressed that  he  could  not  recollect  what  she  had on, and  my  prawns  were  just  as  well  dressed  as that  lady. Half an  hour  was  spent  in  a dreamy enjoyment of  a dry  curry  and  Amontillado,  my white  attendant  quietly  looking  on  like  a benign spectre. Talking would  have  spoiled  the  thing. I pointed to  a slender-stemmed  wine-glass  of  the substance of  a soap  bubble,  and  waved  my  hand with a gesture  of  confidence,  as  Captain  Cook  might have done  to  a Polynesian  savage. The tortoiseshell comb bent  gracefully  as  divining  my  desires,  and moved away  as  gent- ly as a tortoiseshell cat. The wine  was rich as  ever  ripened on a volcano. With delicately deferential but quietly  decisive manner the  spectre removed the  debris of the  first  course.

Green cocoa-nut  cur- ry was the  next  item in the  programme.

The first  spoonful threw me  into  a pa- roxysm of astonish- ment and delight.

My bosom  throbbed, and I think  a tear fell into  my  fourth plate. A little slow music at  thin  junc- ture would perhaps have tranquillised the system. A melo- dious gurgling alone broke the  silence.

Sparkling St.  Peray  of  1811,  the  year  of  the  great comet. Candied pine-apple,  jack  fruit,  maraschino, mango jam,  cigars,  and  coffee,  are  all  that  I can clearly recollect  afterwards,  except  that  my  ghostly guardian extended  my  legs  on  the  telescope  chair, undid my  necktie,  and  sprinkled  me  with  rose- water.

Perhaps it  was  the  monotonous  swinging  of  the punkah as  it  waved  above  my  head  like  a dusty banner in  a windy  cathedral,  or  the  angry  droning of the  mosquitos  who  could  make  no  impression on my  seasoned  epidermis; but,  at  any  rate,  I found  myself  getting  strangely  drowsy,  and  eveiy- thing growing  misty  and  changing  its  aspect,  just like a shilling’s  worth  of  dissolving  views,  only without the  music  and  bad  grammar. And gradu- ally a most portentous  tightness  came  upon  me, and I felt  an  inclination  to  curl  like  toasted  bacon.

I struggled to  rise,  but  felt  a sense  of  general  com- pression as though  I were  in  a suit  of  plate  armour a size too  small,  with  an  odd  tendency  to  curva- ture. I was in  a state  of  collapse,  in  fact,  my nose  and  toes  approximating,  and  at  last  was  per- fectly doubled up,  in  which  condition  I tapped  my forehead  pensively  with  my  big  toe,  and  thought about it. And then  the  appalling  truth  opened on me — I was  become  a prawn! — a scaly monster with a florid  complexion  and  a head  fit  for  nothing. And methought  I was  seized  by  two  Cingalese policemen in  tortoiseshell  hats,  and  carried  before a great golden  cross-legged  magistrate,  and  I felt myself in  the  focus  of  his  huge  round  eyes  as though  I had  been  fixed  for  a stereoscope.

“What’s this?” said  the  gilt-gingerbread-look- ing fellow on  the  bench.

“Over-fed himself,  please  your  worship,”  said a sneaking, cotton-wrapped  constable,  as  he  re- ferred to the  charge,  written  with  Indian  ink  on  a talipot  leaf.

“Fined a three  months*  indigestion  and  costs,” was the  severe  sentence.

“Please, your  wor- ship,” I appealed, looking at  his  cru- ciform extremities through my  upper eye-lashes, “three months' indigestion will bring  no  end  of distress  around  my domestic  hearth — I mean  my  American cooking-stove.”

“Mere stomach- ache repentance,” said the  obdurate brute. “Call the next case.”

I gave a howl, and woke. Next morning I sent  for Mr. Toodle’s  pills — one of  the  4 4 family boxes that  contain four. ” This was  five months ago: I am now  out  of  danger. Austral.