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42  HENRIETTA CLIVE AND ANNA TONELLI FIG 5 Hon. Edward Clive, 1794, Anna Tonelli, pastel on paper, 24.4 x 19.6cm, Powis Castle, Powys Photo: © National Trust Images/John Hammond FIG 6 Hon. Robert Clive, 1794, Anna Tonelli, pastel on paper, 24.4 x 19.6cm, Powis Castle, Powys Photo: © National Trust Images/John Hammond FIG 7 Hon. Henrietta Clive, 1797, Anna Tonelli, pastel on paper, 24.4 x 19.6cm, Powis Castle, Powys Photo: © National Trust Images/John Hammond FIG 8 Hon. Charlotte Florentia Clive, 1797, Anna Tonelli, pastel on paper, 24.4 x 19.6cm, Powis Castle, Powys Photo: © National Trust Images/John Hammond scimitar at his side. Sapphires hang about his neck and jewelled ornaments decorate his turban. Almost entirely gilded, each surface of the throne is animated by a lambent tiger-stripe design. The octagonal platform has tiger-head finials at each corner and rests on the back of a roaring tiger, Tipu’s personal emblem. The parasol-like canopy, raised on a curved support, is surmounted by an Iranian huma, a mythical bird associated with auspicious rule. As the son of a usurping ruler keen to assert the legitimacy of his own rule, Tipu had made his throne and its iconography central to his assertion of kingship.21 It was probably commissioned in c. 1787–93 as part of his campaign to surround himself with the paraphernalia of Indian royalty, earlier petitions to the emperor in Delhi for that status having failed. Emulating Mughal custom, plans were underway in the early 1790s for Tipu officially to ascend the throne in Seringapatam. This ceremony would have been accompanied by the solemnisation of 12,000 marriages. However, the festivities seem to have been indefinitely postponed due to the renewal of hostilities. Tonelli’s drawing therefore depicts a crowning moment that, as the British were keen to stress, may never have occurred.22 Despite its delicacy and fresh colouring, there is a definite awkwardness to the composition, a result not least of the extreme angle of Tipu’s head in relation to his body and of the large blank areas of paper in which the throne floats. Tonelli, in fact, acknowledged as much. When, on 12 July 1800, Lady Clive sent the picture from the Mysorean city of Bangalore to her husband in Madras, along with other documents related to Tipu’s rule, she wrote, ‘Signora Anna desires me to say you shou’d have had them sooner but that she had no good place to paint in till we came here & that it is the first thing of the sort she ever did.’23 For an artist in any circumstance, it was certainly a challenging commission. Not only was her sitter deceased (the profile was copied from existing likenesses), but the throne had furthermore been dismantled and sold off by the Prize Committee several months previously. Back in May 1800, Lady Clive had herself been given one of the jewelled finials by Lord Mornington, who also presented 5 x 6 x 7 8 the large tiger’s head and huma (Figs. 11–13) to George III.24 Tonelli certainly made use of an earlier sketch of the throne that Captain Thomas Marriott (1773– 1847) had made from memory and included in the documentation of the Seringapatam spoils, although the greater accuracy of the tigers and huma in her drawing suggests that she had already made preliminary observations of these elements in Madras (Fig. 10).25 It seems to have been the presence of Tipu’s former munshi (secretary) at Banga- lore that prompted this latest attempt at graphic reconstruction. Having obtained the throne’s koranic inscriptions from this court official, Lady Clive told her husband that she and Tonelli had ‘asked many questions of the Moonshee & [the drawing] is alter’d as much as he said was necessary from the Model & a slight sketch of Capt Marriott’s’.26 Within a fortnight of receiving the drawing in Madras, Lord Clive seems to have written back, suggesting that Tonelli work the piece up as a print, although the plan proved impractical in the circumstances. ‘I told Signora Anna what you said about the throne,’ reported Lady Clive. ‘I do not think she intends the engraving at least at present as she cannot work at it upon the road.’27 His desire to make this remarkable image widely distributable is nevertheless notable. At a time when the Wellesleys and others were racing to associate themselves as closely as possible with this popular victory in various publications, there would have been a distinct political advantage in releasing this image of the feared and charismatic ruler of Mysore.28 Almost as soon as Seringapatam had fallen, at least eight painters in London, Calcutta and Madras had announced plans to start work on depicting the event, with an eye on the print market.29 The overtly political nature of Tipu Sultan Enthroned draws attention to the imperialistic undercurrents of Lady Clive and Tonelli’s journey through Mysore. While in her letters Lady Clive referred mostly to private motivations for the trip – educational opportunities, relief from the climate and provincial ennui of Madras – the political symbolism of the tour cannot be overlooked. Tonelli was not speaking entirely figuratively when she observed that ‘the
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HENRIETTA CLIVE AND ANNA TONELLI  43 x 9 Queen of England could not have been received with greater Distinction’ than Lady Clive on her ‘Solemn & Magnificent ... March’.30 For the inhabitants of the conquered territories that the party wound through, elephants and palanquins had strong royal associations; the travellers’ tents, furthermore, were arranged into a knaut, the traditional configuration for wives of Indian rulers.31 At Bangalore, the arrival of the wife and daughters of the new governor amid violent rainstorms was regarded as propitious by its citizens and a sign of more settled times to come. Lady Clive reported to her husband: It will be pleasant for you to know that great numbers of the old inhabitants are returning here some after ten or twelve years of absence. We met a large party a few nights ago and they say they come in every day particularly since we came here. They fancy it is proof of the security of the place.32 A close reading of the letters reveals a connection between Tonelli’s drawings and the diplomatic character of Lady Clive’s presence in Mysore. It is worth emphasising that as women, their expedition achieved a different but no less political set of objectives than any equivalent journey that Lord Clive or any other male member of the British government might have accomplished. Lady Clive accepted petitions and witnessed the grieving of the widows of Tipu in their zenana (women’s quarters) at Seringapatam. During her audience with the restored six-year-old Wodeyar rajah at Bangalore, she was given the unusual honour of being presented to his grandmother, the rani. On this latter occasion, Lady Clive refused gifts of ‘diamonds and all sorts of things’, explaining diplomatically that portraits of the pair were ‘the most valuable things we could receive’.33 After Lady Clive had shown the rani likenesses of her own children, the rajah duly sat to Tonelli, who had been instructed to depict him on his supposedly 700-year-old ancestral throne ‘carved in strange shapes and painted with small flowers’.34 Again, this image was intended for Lord Clive. ‘When your picture of the Rajah is done,’ wrote Lady Clive, ‘I must send a copy of it to the Ranee.’35 As well as providing evidence of an educated woman’s curiosity, recurrent references to the thrones of Mysore’s rulers in the letters of Lady Clive and depictions of them in the drawings of Tonelli might usefully be understood in the context of the East India Company’s growing concern with the visual and ceremonial expression of its supremacy in India.36 At a time when the British had yet to decide whether to implement a system of rule based primarily on indigenous or European styles, they might well look to the various ways in which past and present sovereigns, both Muslim and Hindu, had sought to express their legitimacy through the design of their thrones. The question of what a British throne in India might look like, after all, FIG 9 Tipu Sultan Enthroned, 1800, Anna Tonelli (c. 1763–1846), watercolour on paper, 38.5 x 53.2cm, Powis Castle, Powys Photo: © National Trust Images/John Hammond

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42  HENRIETTA CLIVE AND ANNA TONELLI

FIG 5 Hon. Edward Clive, 1794, Anna Tonelli, pastel on paper, 24.4 x 19.6cm, Powis Castle, Powys Photo: © National Trust Images/John Hammond FIG 6 Hon. Robert Clive, 1794, Anna Tonelli, pastel on paper, 24.4 x 19.6cm, Powis Castle, Powys Photo: © National Trust Images/John Hammond FIG 7 Hon. Henrietta Clive, 1797, Anna Tonelli, pastel on paper, 24.4 x 19.6cm, Powis Castle, Powys Photo: © National Trust Images/John Hammond FIG 8 Hon. Charlotte Florentia Clive, 1797, Anna Tonelli, pastel on paper, 24.4 x 19.6cm, Powis Castle, Powys Photo: © National Trust Images/John Hammond scimitar at his side. Sapphires hang about his neck and jewelled ornaments decorate his turban. Almost entirely gilded, each surface of the throne is animated by a lambent tiger-stripe design. The octagonal platform has tiger-head finials at each corner and rests on the back of a roaring tiger, Tipu’s personal emblem. The parasol-like canopy, raised on a curved support, is surmounted by an Iranian huma, a mythical bird associated with auspicious rule.

As the son of a usurping ruler keen to assert the legitimacy of his own rule, Tipu had made his throne and its iconography central to his assertion of kingship.21 It was probably commissioned in c. 1787–93 as part of his campaign to surround himself with the paraphernalia of Indian royalty, earlier petitions to the emperor in Delhi for that status having failed. Emulating Mughal custom, plans were underway in the early 1790s for Tipu officially to ascend the throne in Seringapatam. This ceremony would have been accompanied by the solemnisation of 12,000 marriages. However, the festivities seem to have been indefinitely postponed due to the renewal of hostilities. Tonelli’s drawing therefore depicts a crowning moment that, as the British were keen to stress, may never have occurred.22

Despite its delicacy and fresh colouring, there is a definite awkwardness to the composition, a result not least of the extreme angle of Tipu’s head in relation to his body and of the large blank areas of paper in which the throne floats. Tonelli, in fact, acknowledged as much. When, on 12 July 1800, Lady Clive sent the picture from the Mysorean city of Bangalore to her husband in Madras, along with other documents related to Tipu’s rule, she wrote, ‘Signora Anna desires me to say you shou’d have had them sooner but that she had no good place to paint in till we came here & that it is the first thing of the sort she ever did.’23

For an artist in any circumstance, it was certainly a challenging commission. Not only was her sitter deceased (the profile was copied from existing likenesses), but the throne had furthermore been dismantled and sold off by the Prize Committee several months previously. Back in May 1800, Lady Clive had herself been given one of the jewelled finials by Lord Mornington, who also presented

5

x

6

x

7

8

the large tiger’s head and huma (Figs.

11–13) to George III.24

Tonelli certainly made use of an earlier sketch of the throne that Captain Thomas Marriott (1773– 1847) had made from memory and included in the documentation of the Seringapatam spoils, although the greater accuracy of the tigers and huma in her drawing suggests that she had already made preliminary observations of these elements in Madras (Fig. 10).25 It seems to have been the presence of Tipu’s former munshi (secretary) at Banga-

lore that prompted this latest attempt at graphic reconstruction. Having obtained the throne’s koranic inscriptions from this court official, Lady Clive told her husband that she and Tonelli had ‘asked many questions of the Moonshee & [the drawing] is alter’d as much as he said was necessary from the Model & a slight sketch of Capt Marriott’s’.26

Within a fortnight of receiving the drawing in Madras, Lord Clive seems to have written back, suggesting that Tonelli work the piece up as a print, although the plan proved impractical in the circumstances. ‘I told Signora Anna what you said about the throne,’ reported Lady Clive.

‘I do not think she intends the engraving at least at present as she cannot work at it upon the road.’27 His desire to make this remarkable image widely distributable is nevertheless notable. At a time when the Wellesleys and others were racing to associate themselves as closely as possible with this popular victory in various publications, there would have been a distinct political advantage in releasing this image of the feared and charismatic ruler of Mysore.28 Almost as soon as Seringapatam had fallen, at least eight painters in London, Calcutta and Madras had announced plans to start work on depicting the event, with an eye on the print market.29

The overtly political nature of Tipu Sultan Enthroned draws attention to the imperialistic undercurrents of Lady Clive and Tonelli’s journey through Mysore. While in her letters Lady

Clive referred mostly to private motivations for the trip – educational opportunities, relief from the climate and provincial ennui of Madras – the political symbolism of the tour cannot be overlooked. Tonelli was not speaking entirely figuratively when she observed that ‘the

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