Playing the English Gentleman

My faith in vegetarianism grew on me from day to day. Salt’s book whetted my appetite for dietetic studies. I went in for all books available on vegetarianism and read them. One of these, Howard Williams’ The Ethics of Diet, was a ‘biographical history of the literature of humane dietetics from the earliest period to the present day.’ It tried to make out, that all philosophers and prophets from Pythagoras and Jesus down to those of the present age were vegetarians. Dr. Anna Kingsford’s The Perfect Way in Diet was also an attractive book. Dr. Allinson’s writings on health and hygiene were likewise very helpful. He advocated a curative system based on regulation of the dietary of patients. Himself a vegetarian, he prescribed for his patients also a strictly vegetarian diet. The result of reading all this literature was that dietetic experiments came to take an important place in my life. Health was the principal consideration of these experiments to begin with. But later on religion became the supreme motive.

My faith in vegetarianism grew stronger every day. Salt’s book sparked my interest in the study of diet. I read every book on vegetarianism that I could find. One was Howard Williams’ The Ethics of Diet. It was a ‘biographical history of the literature of humane dietetics from the earliest period to the present day.’ The book tried to show that all philosophers and prophets, from Pythagoras and Jesus to those of the present day, were vegetarians. Dr. Anna Kingsford’s The Perfect Way in Diet was also an appealing book. Dr. Allinson’s writings on health and hygiene were likewise very helpful. He advocated a system of treatment based on controlling his patients’ diets. He was a vegetarian himself, and he prescribed a strictly vegetarian diet for his patients too. As a result of all this reading, experiments with diet became an important part of my life. At first, health was my main reason for these experiments. But later, religion became my overriding motive.

Meanwhile my friend had not ceased to worry about me. His love for me led him to think, that if I persisted in my objections to meat-eating, I should not only develop a weak constitution, but should remain a duffer, because I should never feel at home in English society. When he came to know that I had begun to interest myself in books on vegetarianism, he was afraid lest these studies should muddle my head; that I should fritter my life away in experiments, forgetting my own work, and become a crank. He therefore made one last effort to reform me. He one day invited me to go to the theatre. Before the play we were to dine together at the Holborn Restaurant, to me a palatial place and, the first big Restaurant I had been to since leaving the Victoria Hotel. The stay at that Hotel had scarcely been a helpful experience, for I had not lived there with my wits about me. The friend had planned to take me to this Restaurant, evidently imagining that modesty would forbid any questions. And it was a very big company of diners in the midst of which my friend and I sat sharing a table between us. The first course was soup. I wondered what it might be made of, but durst not ask the friend about it. I therefore summoned the waiter. My friend saw the movement and sternly asked across the table what was the matter. With considerable hesitation I told him that I wanted to inquire if the soup was a vegetable soup. ‘You are too clumsy for decent society,’ he passionately exclaimed. ‘If you cannot behave yourself, you had better go. Feed in some other restaurant and await me outside.’ This delighted me. Out I went. There was a vegetarian restaurant close by, but it was closed. So I went without food that night. I accompanied my friend to the theatre, but he never said a word about the scene I had created. On my part of course there was nothing to say.

Meanwhile, my friend had not stopped worrying about me. He loved me and thought that if I continued to object to eating meat, I would become physically weak. He also thought I would remain a fool, because I would never feel at home in English society. When he learned that I had become interested in books on vegetarianism, he feared the books would confuse me. He worried that I would waste my life on experiments, neglect my own work, and become a crank. So he made one last effort to reform me. One day he invited me to the theatre. Before the play, we were to dine together at the Holborn Restaurant. To me, the restaurant seemed like a palace. It was the first large restaurant I had visited since leaving the Victoria Hotel. My stay at the hotel had hardly been a helpful experience, because I had not kept my wits about me there. My friend had apparently planned to take me to the Holborn Restaurant, imagining that modesty would keep me from asking questions. We sat at a table for two among a very large crowd of diners. The first course was soup. I wondered what it was made of, but I did not dare ask my friend. So I called the waiter. My friend saw me and sternly asked from across the table what was wrong. After some hesitation, I told him I wanted to ask whether the soup was made from vegetables. ‘You are too awkward for decent society,’ he exclaimed angrily. ‘If you cannot behave yourself, you had better go. Eat at another restaurant and wait for me outside.’ I was delighted. I went out. There was a vegetarian restaurant nearby, but it was closed. So I went without food that night. I accompanied my friend to the theatre, but he never said a word about the scene I had caused. For my part, of course, there was nothing to say.

That was the last friendly tussle we had. It did not affect our relations in the least. I could see and appreciate the love with which all my friend’s efforts were actuated, and my respect for him was all the greater on account of our differences in thought and action.

That was our last friendly disagreement. It did not affect our relationship at all. I could see and appreciate the love behind all my friend’s efforts. I respected him even more because of our differences in thought and action.

But I decided that I should put him at ease, that I should assure him that I would be clumsy no more, but try to become polished and make up for my vegetarianism by cultivating other accomplishments which fitted one for polite society. And for this purpose I undertook the all too impossible task of becoming an English gentleman.

But I decided to put him at ease. I would assure him that I would no longer be clumsy, but would try to become polished. I would make up for being a vegetarian by developing other skills suited to polite society. To do this, I took on the all too impossible task of becoming an English gentleman.

The clothes after the Bombay cut that I was wearing were, I thought, unsuitable for English society, and I got new ones at the Army and Navy Stores. I also went in for a chimney-pot hat costing nineteen shillings,—an excessive price in those days. Not content with this, I wasted ten pounds on an evening suit made in Bond Street, the centre of fashionable life in London; and got my good and noble-hearted brother to send me a double watch-chain of gold. It was not correct, to wear a ready-made tie and I learnt the art of tying one for myself. While in India the mirror had been a luxury permitted on the days when the family barber gave me a shave. Here I wasted ten minutes every day before a huge mirror watching myself arranging my tie and parting my hair in the correct fashion. My hair was by no means soft and every day it meant a regular struggle with the brush to keep it in position. Each time the hat was put on and off, the hand would automatically move towards the head to adjust the hair, not to mention the other civilised habit of the hand every now and then operating for the same purpose when sitting in polished society.

I thought the Bombay-style clothes I was wearing were unsuitable for English society, so I bought new ones at the Army and Navy Stores. I also bought a chimney-pot hat for nineteen shillings, an excessive price in those days. Not content with that, I wasted ten pounds on an evening suit made in Bond Street, the center of fashionable life in London. I also persuaded my good and generous brother to send me a double gold watch chain. Wearing a ready-made tie was not considered proper, so I learned how to tie one myself. In India, a mirror had been a luxury I allowed myself on the days when the family barber shaved me. Here I wasted ten minutes every day in front of a huge mirror, arranging my tie and parting my hair in the proper style. My hair was not at all soft, and every day I had to struggle with the brush to keep it in place. Each time I put on or took off my hat, my hand would automatically move to my head to adjust my hair. I also had the civilized habit of doing the same thing now and then while sitting in refined company.

As if all this were not enough to make me look the thing, I directed my attention to other details that were supposed to go towards the making of an English gentleman. I was told it was necessary for me to take lessons in dancing, French and elocution. French was not only the language of neighbouring France, but it was the lingua franca of the Continent over which I had a desire to travel. I decided to take dancing lessons at a class and paid down £3 as fees for a term. I must have taken about six lessons in three weeks. But it was beyond me to achieve anything like rhythmic motion. I could not follow the piano and hence found it impossible to keep time. What then was I to do? The recluse in the fable kept a cat to keep off the rats, and then a cow to feed the cat with milk, and a man to keep the cow and so on. My ambitions also grew like the family of the recluse. I thought I should learn to play the violin in order to cultivate an ear for Western music. So I invested £3 in a violin and something more in fees. I sought a third teacher to give me lessons in elocution and paid him a preliminary fee of a guinea. He recommended Bell’s Standard Elocutionist as the text-book, which I purchased. And I began with a speech of Pitt’s.

As if all this were not enough to make me look like an English gentleman, I turned to other details. These were supposed to help make me an English gentleman. I was told I needed lessons in dancing, French, and elocution. French was not only the language of neighboring France. It was also the lingua franca of the Continent, where I wanted to travel. I decided to take dancing lessons and paid £3 for a term. I must have taken about six lessons in three weeks. But I could not move with anything like rhythm. I could not follow the piano, so I found it impossible to keep time. What was I to do? In the fable, a recluse kept a cat to keep rats away. Then he kept a cow to provide milk for the cat, and a man to look after the cow, and so on. My ambitions grew like the recluse’s household. I thought I should learn the violin to develop an ear for Western music. So I spent £3 on a violin and more on lessons. I found a third teacher to give me elocution lessons and paid him an initial fee of a guinea. He recommended Bell’s Standard Elocutionist as a textbook, and I bought it. I began with a speech by Pitt.

But Mr. Bell rang the bell of alarm in my ear and I awoke.

But Mr. Bell sounded the alarm in my ear, and I woke up.

I had not to spend a life-time in England, I said to myself. What then was the use of learning elocution? And how could dancing make a gentleman of me? The violin I could learn even in India. I was a student and ought to go on with my studies. I should qualify myself to join the Inns of Court. If my character made a gentleman of me, so much the better. Otherwise I should forego the ambition.

I told myself that I was not going to spend my whole life in England. So what was the point of learning to speak formally? And how could dancing make me a gentleman? I could learn the violin in India too. I was a student and should continue my studies. I should qualify to join the Inns of Court. If my character made me a gentleman, so much the better. Otherwise, I should give up that ambition.

These and similar thoughts possessed me, and I expressed them in a letter which I addressed to the elocution teacher, requesting him to excuse me from further lessons. I had taken only two or three. I wrote a similar letter to the dancing teacher, and went personally to the violin teacher with a request to dispose of the violin for any price it might fetch. She was rather friendly to me, so I told her how I had discovered that I was pursuing a false ideal. She encouraged me in the determination to make a complete change.

These and similar thoughts filled my mind. I wrote to the speech teacher, asking to be excused from further lessons. I had taken only two or three. I wrote a similar letter to the dancing teacher. I also went in person to the violin teacher and asked her to sell the violin for whatever price she could get. She was quite friendly to me, so I told her I had discovered that I was pursuing a false ideal. She encouraged me in my decision to make a complete change.

This infatuation must have lasted about three months. The punctiliousness in dress persisted for years. But henceforward I became a student.

This fascination must have lasted about three months. I continued to be very particular about my clothes for years. But from then on, I became a student.