CHAPTER V
LETTERS TO MISS MARTIN
JANUARY 1876—DECEMBER 1876
Calcutta. January 13, 1876.
MY DEAR MARY,—I received your welcome letter on Sunday last. I have not been able to answer it sooner, on account of being very busy copying out my book for the press and correcting the proofs. The book consists of about one hundred and sixty pieces of French poems translated into English. I shall send you a copy as soon as the book is out. It is to be printed only, not published, and it will be ready about the end of February.
Many many thanks for your kind wishes, and for the Christmas card; it will be all the more precious as being made by yourself. I should indeed very much like to have a sketch or two of your own drawings, if it is no trouble to you.
I have sent off a packet to your address, containing three photographs of our garden at Baugmaree. I hope you will receive it safely.
The Prince left Calcutta on Monday last. We had capital opportunities of seeing him, though we did not go out with the fixed purpose of seeing His Royal Highness. Once we were out driving in the forenoon, on the Strand, and we saw him driving down to the Serapis, to lunch. We were going rather slowly, and his carriage was also going at a slow rate, so we had a good look at him. Our carriages passed each other, and I had a good view of his pleasant and rather handsome face and his merry blue eyes. I suppose you have seen him, have you not? He has very beautiful auburn hair, though he is a little bald near the forehead. Russell described him, when he was going to be married to the Princess, in the well-known lines of Scott, only varying one or two words for the occasion.
Blue was his eagle eye, And auburn of the richest dye His short moustache and hair.
We saw him again on the morning when he was going to open the Chapter for conferring the honour of knighthood on several of the big-wigs here. Papa saw him very well at the Belgachia entertainment given to him by the native community of Calcutta. We have also seen some of the Rajas and the Maharajas who came down to Calcutta during the Prince’s sojourn there. The Maharaja of Cashmere had a pugree (head-dress) on his head, which was at least worth forty lakhs of rupees, so bejewelled it was. He has given a great many very valuable presents to the Prince, amongst which are hundred and one Cashmere shawls of the best material and the most ‘cunning’ workmanship, a hookah of gold set with diamonds and precious stones, a gold tea service, a gold dinner service, a silver bedstead, a tent of Cashmere workmanship with silver posts, and I do not remember the others: besides presents for the Princess. The Prince is now in Lucknow; at Benares a rich zemindar presented to him a crown worth six lakhs of rupees.
There is a good deal of talk at present about a Bengali gentleman and a pleader, Babu Juggodanundo Mukherjee, because he permitted the Prince to see his Zenana. All the papers conducted by natives are loudly crying out against this ‘Outrage on Hindu Society’. The Prince did not visit any private gentleman at his own house, and only went to Babu Mukherjee’s because he was promised that he would there be shown a real Zenana of native ladies of high position. This ‘Scandalous behaviour’, as the papers say, of the above-named Babu, is unpardonable in the eyes of the greater number of Hindus. The Daily News of Calcutta had a very sensible article on the subject. It said that if the Babu means to bring out his family, as in English society every European does, and let his friends visit and mingle with his family, as behoves civilized men and manners, he is a very well-meaning man, and his aims are very laudable; but if he has only made an exception for the Prince and his suite, and means to ‘lock up’ his wife and family, as all Hindus do, his allowing the Prince to visit his family is a bit of flunkeyism, quite unpardonable, and worthy of the highest disapprobation. Is not this sensibly and fairly put?
Lord Carrington, who is with the Prince, is very unlucky on horseback; he had a fall from his horse at Bombay, but fortunately escaped; he lost some of his teeth, while out on a shooting-party near here, by the handle of a spear, with which he had speared a boar, striking his mouth, and now he has had another fall, during the last shooting-expedition, which has dislocated his collar-bone. He will be all right in a fortnight or so, the papers say. Lord Hastings, who also accompanied the Prince, died of jungle fever at Madras. He was very young, being only twenty-one years of age. It must be sad for his family, who sent him away on this pleasure trip, full of youth and hope; it makes me sad to think of it.
Our Governor-General, Lord Northbrook, has resigned. He will be a great loss to India; he is greatly liked both by the native and European community. He will leave in the spring. Lord Lytton, son of the famous author of that name, is to succeed him. Lord Lytton is a poet himself; his nom de plume is Owen Meredith. Lord Northbrook’s horses are to be sold by auction on Saturday next, which is a piece of rather interesting news to me!
The Serapis and the Osborne are open to the public, but we do not care much to go and see them.
I am very sorry to hear that your father has been so ill; I am very glad that he is better now. Is the winter very severe and trying this year? Our winter is now very pleasant: imagine the warmest day of spring with cloudless blue sky!
One of my aunts, who was a Hindu and a widow, and who used to live next door to us, died very suddenly, about a fortnight ago, of heart disease. She was subject to sudden and severe attacks of pain near the heart, but she did not think them anything serious. On the night of the 27th December (the night of the Belgachia entertainment) she returned at about eight o’clock from witnessing the street illuminations; at four in the morning she was taken ill with one of her attacks of pain, and in half an hour she died. Her death was so sudden and unexpected that her daughter (who was staying with her at the time) had not the time to send for a doctor. She sent word to her two brothers soon after her mother was taken ill, but when they arrived they found her dead. She was taken to the Ghaut, and burned the same day, according to the Hindu rites.
A rather amusing story is told about the Prince. While at Bombay he visited some school (I forget the name). On seeing a prismatic compass lying on the table, he asked the school boy nearest him what it was; the boy (somewhat agitated I suppose at being questioned by Royalty itself) answered, stammering: ‘A royal com—com—pass, your prismatic Highness!’ At this the whole company could not help smiling, and the Prince himself burst into a hearty laugh.
There is another amusing story about the Duke of Sutherland. He did not come to Calcutta from Madras with the Prince, but came a day later and by rail. His train, though, was three hours later than the appointed time, and the carriages sent from Government House to receive him at the station, tired of waiting, as they well might be, returned. When the train arrived, the Duke, finding nobody waiting for him, told the station master to get him a ‘cab’. The hackney coachman refused to take a sahib he did not know; he had fears about his hire. He was told that the sahib was the burra-sahib’s (Governor-General’s) brother, but he held out till a policeman got up on the coachbox and obliged him to carry his lordship to Government House.
We went to see the horses at Chitpore, a place three miles from here, where annually, in the cold season, horses are brought down from the upper provinces and from the Government studs for sale. There are a great number of them this season. Beautiful cows and sheep are also brought down from the upper provinces for sale at Chitpore. The cows and calves are extremely handsome; some have ears quite drooping, and hiding their pretty faces: they also give more milk than the Calcutta cows. My own Jeunette and Gentille are doing well. I often apply to them (when speaking of them to any one) the words which M. Scaufflaire, in Hugo’s Les Misérables, applied to his horse, when recommending him to a purchaser: ‘Elle est douce comme une fille, elle va comme le vent.’ My uncle used to pride himself on the swiftness of his horse, but my Jeunette and Gentille beat his horse twice; and since then my uncle does not mention the speed of his galloway!
I am very very sorry to hear all what you say about dear Mrs. Hall. I am afraid that in your next letter you will announce her death. Poor lady! We all used to like her very very much.
I am glad to hear that you met Mrs. Cowell. Please give her my love and Mamma’s when you next meet her. I daresay the book she has promised to lend you is Govinda Samanta, for Professor Cowell had, I know, very kindly undertaken to correct the proofs and to do the needful.
How is Mrs. Baker? I have not yet got any answer from her to my note. I hope she is quite well.
All the drainage works in and near our house are finished. I cannot describe the relief we find at this! When are you going to have your likeness taken? I hope very soon, and please to send me one as soon as you can.
I have not been reading anything lately; indeed I have entirely been taken up with my book for the last week. The printer makes such dreadful mistakes sometimes. In one of Victor Hugo’s chansons, where the lines should have run,
If there be a loving heart Where Honour’s throne is drest,
they printed as follows:
If there be a loving heart Where Horror’s throne is drest.
And again in another piece: ‘The Mother’s Birthday,’ the children, addressing their mother, say:
Then to please thee in our duties, We shall try to do our best, Never lift our heads while praying, Just before we go to bed.
The printer has it thus:
Then to please thee in our duties, We shall try to do our best, Never lift our heads while prying (!) Just before we go to bed.
Mamma had one of her attacks of pain a week ago; but she is quite well now, I am happy to say. I am pretty well at present; the cough is there still, a little more troublesome than it was in the summer, with blood-spitting off and on; but, on the whole, I am better now than I was in January last, a year ago.
We are going on with our Sanskrit lessons. When we have finished the book we are reading now, we shall take up Valmiki’s Ramayana. My uncle has followed our example, and has commenced reading Sanskrit also, with another pundit.
I hope you will be able to decipher this scrawl. Please give our kindest regards to your father and mother. Mamma sends you her love, and with best love from myself,—Believe me, yours very affectionately,
TORU DUTT.
Calcutta. February 28, 1876.
I am so very very happy to receive your dear likeness. I am never tired of looking at it, and I have placed it already in my album. So kind of you, dear, to wear my hair always in a locket round your neck. Mamma says she will be highly pleased to get a copy of your likeness; she says she must have one as soon as possible.
I have received two letters from you during the last fortnight, one containing the Sanskrit grammar marker 1 (for which many thanks to you and your mother), and the other enclosing your long expected photograph. I have been unable to answer them sooner, on account of my having been taken ill with fever and dysentery, with an increase of the cough. It is a fortnight or more that I have been obliged to keep my bed. Now I am able to get up and move about a little and take a drive in the afternoon, according to the doctor’s orders. The dysentery is gone, and though the fever comes on now and then, it is always slight. The cough is still troublesome, but I hope it will soon get better. Now that my health-bulletin is written, I shall go on to other things. I hope you will be able to read this scrawl, for I am writing in bed. I do not know how long it will take me to finish this letter, perhaps a week; but, dear, I feel such an irresistible desire to write to you, and above all, to thank you again and again for your photograph. O, I do wish to go and see you once again so much!
Des ailes, des ailes, des ailes, Comme dans les chants de Rückert!
My book is almost ready now; I hope to be able to send you a copy before the end of March.
I must stop here for the present, for I feel a little tired.
It is beginning to get hotter now here. The evenings are cool enough, but the days are a little too warm, though there is almost always a nice refreshing south wind in the afternoon.
I had Gentille and Jeunette taken by a native photographer. I wanted to send you two copies, but the photographs turned out so indistinct and bad after all that I rejected them, and as the artist had tried at least thirty times without success, I gave up the affair as hopeless.
We have sent for another French book from England; it is entitled La Femme dans l’Inde Antique, and is the work of a lady; it has been ‘couronné’ by the French Academy, so it must be a well-written book.
The Prince is at present the guest of the Maharaja of Cashmere. He is having very good sport there; one day he killed six tigers with his own gun; the forest where the tigers are has been surrounded by six hundred trained elephants to cut off every kind of egress from the jungle. The Prince will arrive at Allahabad about the seventh proximo, on his way back to Bombay, which city he will leave about the 14th of March. The Serapis and the Osborne left Calcutta a few weeks ago; they are now at Bombay, waiting for the Prince. Lord Northbrook will leave Calcutta in a day or two, to meet the Prince at Allahabad and bid him farewell. The Governor of Madras, His Grace the Duke of Buckingham, is at present in Calcutta. We saw him two or three times during our evening drives. The Prince, it is said, is keeping a diary, which he means to publish on his return to England. It is to be edited by Dr. Russell, and will no doubt be very interesting reading.
Several weeks ago a man brought a large cobra to show us. He is a blacksmith by profession, but has initiated himself a little in the mysteries of snake-catching. This reptile he had caught himself only four days ago. A doctor of the neighbourhood had given him two rupees for the poison teeth, which the doctor himself extracted with a pair of pincers. The reptile was very fiery and full of life. It would not come out of the earthen vessel (in which it had been placed): at last the man had to draw it out by the tail, at which it hissed frightfully.
The visit of the Prince to Babu Juggodanundo Mukherjee’s Zenana has been made into a farce and acted at the native theatre here under the title Guzadanundo. This was a very bad action on the part of the managers of the theatre, and Lord Northbrook has very rightly put a stop to it, and by an Ordinance has empowered the Lieutenant-Governor to suppress any play which is likely to create any disaffection against the British rule, also any play which the Lieutenant-Governor thinks immoral or unfit to be represented.
March 2nd. Mamma had a very bad attack of her pain yesterday at half past eleven in the forenoon; she suffered a great deal yesterday and last night. To-day she is much better; the acute stage of the attack is past; there is still a dull sort of pain, but I hope it will quite pass off in the course of the day. My grandfather and grandmother came to see her yesterday, and stayed all night; grandmother kept awake the whole night through, so did Papa; grandfather and I slept. I hope father will not get ill. Grandmother has now gone to the Garden-House; she will come again in the afternoon; she is an invaluable person during illness, so patient and careful.
March 3rd. Mamma is a great deal better to-day. I hope she will soon be quite well and strong again. To-day we received a visit from Mr. Jones of the Bengal Civil Service. We knew him very well at Cambridge; he used to come to learn Bengali from father. It seemed so funny to see ‘Jones, undergrad of St. John’s’, turned into the Anglo-Indian burra-sahib S. S. Jones, Esqre., B.C.S., with a large sola hat!
He was very glad to see us again. He is now stationed at Sasseram and came down to Calcutta yesterday; he is going away again to-day.
The day before yesterday my mother’s cousine was married. She is a Hindu and so is her family, so of course we were not invited. We heard all the particulars from my grandmother, who had been invited. Hindu marriages generally take place during the night or late in the evening. There are some very pretty ceremonies to be gone through. When the bride is unveiled she meets the gaze of the bridegroom for the first time. After a good look at each other, they exchange the garlands of flowers round their necks. Then a small bouquet is given to each, which also they exchange with each other, and which are also afterwards put by in a box. Toward morning the bride’s mother takes her daughter’s hand, puts it into that of the bridegroom, and tells him most pathetically and with tears in her eyes, to take care of her daughter, whom she now resigns to him.
March 4th. To-day is my twentieth birthday: I am getting quite old, n’est-ce pas? La Femme dans l’Inde Antique arrived most opportunely this morning; I received it as my birthday present. It is a big volume and seems very interesting. I was looking it over here and there.
Are the Fishers still in Germany? Have you seen Mrs. Baker lately and is she a little better?
Jeunette and Gentille are quite well and flourishing in health. If you could see all the books I have bought about horses, and the veterinary art! I have also now got a veterinary medicine-chest. I make a tincture or an ointment myself now and then, according to the prescriptions in one of my veterinary books, and I myself doctor Jeunette and Gentille when they want it, which I am happy to say is very seldom.
Latterly there has been some rain and the days are close and sultry. I hope there will be a change for the better in the weather soon, for this hot sultry weather makes one feel very sleepy! O, for a breath of the biting, refreshing March wind! I hope to write to you again soon. I trust you have received the photographs of Baugmaree safely and in good preservation.
If you should see Mrs. Cowell again, please give my love and Mamma’s and Papa’s kindest regards. I am glad you like M. Boquel. Does he continue to live in the house opposite Sayle’s shop?
Papa went to see the sale of Lord Northbrook’s horses: among the lot there was a grey Arab saddle-horse which was very beautiful; Papa said it seemed a little too spirited and fiery to suit me, or else, he said, he would have bought it for me; I have been begging so much and so long for a riding-horse; I hope he will give me one, but as I have never ridden before, he is afraid. Dr. Cayley (who attends us during our serious illnesses) has such a beautiful roan Arab saddle-horse; it is only a little too high in flesh, otherwise it is a perfect animal.
I have nothing to write about, and I am afraid you will find this letter very dull. There! I hear the carriage wheels on the gravel; grandmother is come to see Mamma, I must leave off.
March 7th. I have been obliged to give up Sanskrit for some time. I shall begin again from to-day if my pundit comes, for his wife was unwell on Saturday, suffering from cholera.
Lodgers are coming to-morrow into the house lately occupied by one of my aunts, about whose sudden death I wrote to you in my last. Her son has let it to a native Christian Babu, who will occupy the premises with his family either to-morrow or the day after.
I have been lately only reading articles from the Revue des Deux Mondes. I shall now take up La Femme dans l’Inde Antique. It will be very interesting reading, as it will give me a good insight into the old Hindu legends, which I hope to be able to read in a couple of years in the original Sanskrit.
I must close my letter here, as the mail leaves to-day. By the by, Sir Salar Jung is going to England. The Duke of Sutherland invited him, it is said, to go and see the ‘Barbaric West’. If he is going only as the guest of the Duke, or for political reasons, is not known, though it is generally thought that he is going for the latter. Mamma is better, but she is not able to leave her bed yet, I am sorry to say.
If you call on the Misses Hall, please give them my love, and tell them how deeply I feel and sympathize with their loss.
Give kindest regards from all to your father and mother, and my best love to yourself.
Calcutta. March 13, 1876.
Many many thanks for your long and welcome letter which I have just received. What a lot of questions all at once! I am going to describe our house and answer your questions first of all. There is no conservatory at Baugmaree; the shrubs that you see through the open door on the ground floor grow on the lawn; the rooms on the ground floor are, beginning from the left-hand side, a long drawing-room with three windows, then a small antechamber, then appear the two windows of the verandah, the front door, two windows, which also belong to the verandah; the last window belongs to a small outside room, where Papa receives his acquaintances; the drawing-room being reserved for friends. I must go over it again, for I have omitted one room; after the three windows of the drawing-room and the one of the antechamber, comes that of the library, then the verandah, &c.; in front of the last room (where Papa’s acquaintances are received) you see a small verandah: it is very nice sitting out there; Mamma has had it surrounded with a wire network, which has been covered with creeping plants, and which makes the place more inviting. On the second floor, beginning from the right, first, there is the window of our dining-room (the staircase is just below that window), then the next window belongs to a small room, which is generally known as the ‘clock-room’ (because our clock is kept there), and which is furnished ‘à l’orientale’ with cushions, &c., where we take our ease during the heat of the day; the next three windows belong to the bedroom and the last two belong to the bathroom and the closet; on the third floor, there is only one room, which is generally used as the lumber-room. On the right hand side of the house you perceive another building: this contains the pantry, kitchen, and out-offices. I have explained all that is visible in the photo, I hope satisfactorily. Now I shall say a little more of what is not visible in the photo. The rooms which appear in the photo look to the south: on the north there are similar rooms: that is, on the second floor, there is Papa’s bedroom and another extra room, on the ground floor, three extra rooms, two small and the other large. You see we have quite enough room to lodge you and your father and mother if you come here! The men standing in the middle of the walk must be some of the gardeners: do you perceive Mamma’s favourite cow and calf to their left? The bridge is inside our Garden and belongs to us; it conducts to the small island which is surrounded all round by the sheet of water (which is called a jheel), which is crossed by the bridge. The little island is full of mango trees which we have let out this year for a considerable sum. The building is not on the bridge (though it looks as if it were, on account of the bad photo), but opposite it, and is the domicile of our gardeners or mâlees. I must stop here, for luncheon is ready. Have I explained it all satisfactorily, dear?
Skating rinks are already on the tapis here; I believe they have one already at Bombay. A new zoological garden has just been started in Calcutta; it is far from being complete yet, but specimens are pouring in of all kinds of animals; the tigers, elephants, Cashmere goats, &c., &c., which the Prince has received as presents from the Rajas, were kept there, pending their removal to the Serapis. The zoological grounds are also to contain an aquarium. Calcutta will soon be quite a European city!
Thank you very much for what you say about calling my countrymen ‘natives’; the reproof is just, and I stand corrected. I shall take care and not call them natives again. It is indeed a term only used by prejudiced Anglo-Indians, and I am really ashamed to have used it.
About my age. It is not a forbidden subject at all, and if I did not answer your question it must have been from mere carelessness. I was born in 1856, so I complete my twentieth year and enter into my twenty-first this March.
I am sure your composition will receive M. Boquel’s approbation, for there are very few English girls in Cambridge that know French as well as you do.
If you see Miss Rosie Fullerton again, please give her our kind regards; also to her aunt. I am sorry that she wants to leave St. Leonards, for we liked the place very well when we were there. Give my best wishes to Miss A. L. if you write to her on her birthday, please. Mr. Mittra is a Bengali; I am sure of this from his name, though I do not know anything about him. There are many Bengalis now in England; almost by every mail we see a countryman’s name in the list of passengers for England. All generally go either to compete for the Civil Service, to enter the Bar, or to be created an M.D. by the Edinburgh University. If they could only enter on new careers, say, as civil engineers, naval commanders, or military officers: I believe they are not allowed to enter the military or naval service as officers here. There are Bengali troops and soldiers, but they generally are commanded by Europeans; perhaps the Government thinks it dangerous to place a Bengali regiment under the orders of a Bengali officer.
My book is now almost ready; you will receive it by the end of April. The Prince is now on his way back to Bombay, whence he will start for England. He is now at Indore, I think. Canon Duckworth (who was tutor to Prince Leopold) is very ill; it is believed he will be unable to accompany the Prince on his way back, as he is very weak: he will follow his Royal patron in a few weeks.
Last night we had a great shower of rain, which has freshened up the trees and flowers amazingly.
As I had been ill, Jeunette and Gentille had an uninterrupted rest of three days; on the fourth day I went out; they were beautiful to see in their eagerness to start; like a horse described in a book that I was reading lately: ‘elles étaient terribles d’impatience’; a cart stopped their way just as they started; they reared; then, the road being cleared, went off ‘comme un trait’.
Have you read any of Mrs. Barrett Browning’s pieces? I like her poetry very much. There are some verses of hers called the Wine of Cyprus, addressed to H. S. Boyd, who used to teach her Greek. When I am reading Sanskrit, some of these verses occur to me malgré moi. The Sanskrit is as old and as grand a language as the Greek.
And I think of those long mornings Which my thought goes far to seek, When betwixt the folio turnings, Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek—
Mr. Boyd was blind and she addresses him thus, in one of the last verses of the piece above mentioned:
Ah, my gossip! you were older, And more learned, and a man; Yet the shadow, the enfolder Of your quiet eyelids, ran Both our spirits to one level: And I turned from hill and lea And the summer sun’s green revel, To your eyes that could not see.
If Papa laughs when I make a mistake in my Sanskrit (which he does very rarely, but which he can do much oftener, for he understands Sanskrit better than I do), I quote the above two lines:
Ah, my gossip! you are older, And more learned, and a man!
Then her piece entitled ‘The dead Pan’ is very beautiful too. Listen:
O twelve gods of Plato’s vision, Crowned to starry wanderings, With your chariots in procession, And your silver clash of wings! Very pale ye seem to rise, Ghosts of Grecian deities, Now Pan is dead!
Jove, that right hand is unloaded, Whence the thunder did prevail, While in idiocy of godhead Thou art staring the stars pale! And thine eagle blind and old, Roughs his feathers in the cold. . . . . . . Bacchus, Bacchus! on the panther He swoons, bound with his own vines; And his Maenads slowly saunter, Heads aside, among the pines, While they murmur dreamingly, ‘Evohe—ah—evohe—!’
I shall be quoting the whole piece! It is founded on the well-known story relating to the death of the Lord; that while he was being crucified, some boatmen who were on the sea in their boat heard a great cry of ‘Pan, Pan is dead’. Her other pieces Bertha in the Lane, Catarina to Camoëns, The Swan’s Nest, The Romaunt of the Page, and others I like very much also. But I shall be quoting them, so I shall leave off the subject. Her verses entitled A View across the Roman Campagna are very good: in them she addresses the Pope in no very flattering terms. A Musical Instrument is an exquisite little piece.
I have just come in from measuring out Jeunette and Gentille’s picotin, and from peeling and cutting in small pieces a long piece of sugar-cane for them. Horses are very fond of sugar-cane, which has the qualities of the carrot, in giving them a shining coat, &c.
Do you see a small mound in front of the house in Baugmaree? Well, it is one of Mamma’s chefs-d’œuvre in gardening; it is composed of pebbles and earth, covered over with green grass and planted with shrubs and trees; it is supposed to be a miniature mountain. Isn’t this making a mountain of a molehill?
Mamma is now quite well. It was only yesterday that she came downstairs for the first time since her illness.
The weather is extremely hot now, and the punkah has become a necessity. A large banian tree which stood on a piece of ground lately bought by a neighbour (and in front of our house) has been cut down by the new proprietor. We were all sorry when we saw the men cutting its fine large branches; it was a tree of long standing; as far as Papa can remember it has stood there. It reminded us of a French poet, Laprade’s, lines on ‘La mort d’un chêne’:
Quand l’homme te frappa de sa lâche cognée, O roi qu’hier le mont portait avec orgueil, Mon âme au premier coup retentit indignée, Et dans la forêt sainte il se fit un grand deuil.
The piece is rather long but rather well written. Speaking of fine verses, I subjoin the following lines, which are extremely beautiful and which show how, with a few touches, a truly great poet can describe scenery. I came across the lines in the Revue des Deux Mondes: they are by M. André Theuriet (some of whose pieces you will find translated in my book) and entitled La vigne en fleurs. I shall copy a paragraph and the verses from the Revue: ‘La pièce était à la fois lyrique et descriptive, le poète avait essayé de rendre l’espèce de griserie produite par la fine senteur des vignes fleuries dans une tiède soirée de Juin. Il se peignait pris lui-même par cette enivrante odeur. Il remplissait son verre et buvait joyeusement aux noces fécondes des vignes et à la poésie du vin. Dans ces vers imprégnés d’un naturalisme voluptueux, on respirait l’haleine du printemps et les chauds parfums de l’automne; on entendait les rumeurs du pressoir, le bouillonnement du moût écumeux dans la cave, les rondes tumultueuses des vendangeurs, la nuit, sur les coteaux.—Puis le poète, sentant sa tête s’alourdir, laissait tomber sa coupe vide, et la pièce se terminait par cette strophe:
‘Je m’endors, et là-bas le frissonnant matin Baigne les pampres verts d’une rougeur furtive, Et toujours cette odeur amoureuse m’arrive Avec le dernier chant d’un rossignol lointain Et les premiers cris de la grive——’
Are they not fine, these lines? I have very little news to give you, so you see I have been filling up my letter with quotations; if you get tired of them, skip over without any ceremony.
About my cough, Dr. Cayley says Europe or even the south coast of England in summer would do me a great deal of good. There is nothing serious at present, but that my lungs are very delicate, and so on. I should like to go to England very much, just to see you, dear. Then I should like to go to the South of France in the vine country, to be all day long in the fresh air, to breathe cette odeur amoureuse of the vine. I am sure that will set me to rights at once. There are so many things to be done before we can go, and sometimes when I am attristée I think it would be better to live here in my own country all my life, but this thought does not occur often.
I must finish my letter to-morrow, and send it off early, for the mail goes to-morrow. I shall stop for to-day, for I have got to dress and get ready for my drive; it is already 5 p.m.
March 14th. Last night as I was thinking about you, I heard the cry of the jackals. You have never heard it, and I am sure you would be startled, if you ever come out to India, to hear it for the first time. In the suburbs especially the jackals are very numerous. In Baugmaree, how often have I been awakened by their dismal wailing in the still hours of the night. I sometimes am unwilling to go to sleep again, for fear that I should be again awakened by their lugubrious cry. It is not so bad when they are close under your window, but when the weird hurlement comes from a distance, one is filled with a sense of the loneliness of the place and the stillness of the night.
Yesterday we received two more books from Hachette and Company, books which we did not send for, but which they have forwarded to us, because there was a balance in our favour in their hands. The books are a poem, Olivier, by François Coppée, and Le conscrit, a tale by Henri Conscience. I have not read them yet, so I am unable to pass any judgement on them.
Have you been to see the Misses Hall? Please give them my love when you go to see them. I have not read Govinda Samanta; I am glad you like it. I am sure the author, Mr. Dey, would be very much flattered if I told him what you think about his book.
I shall give here for your edification the song of welcome sung to the Prince by Bengali musicians at the entertainment given to him at Belgachia. It is from the pen of an influential and wealthy Bengali gentleman, Raja Jotendro Mohun Tagore.2 He made it originally in Bengali, but translated it himself into English for the benefit of the European part of the audience.
Hail noble prince! All hail to thee! With joyous voice we welcome sing; As bursting into festive glee Bengala greets her future King.
Tho’ humble our reception be And tho’ our strains may halting run, The loyal heart we bring to thee Is warmer than our Eastern sun.
Isn’t he a promising genius?
The Prince of Wales has started from Bombay for England. The Lahore paper says ‘that he has invited Ressaldar Anoop Singh, a well-known native officer of the 11th Bengal Lancers, one of the finest specimens of an Irregular Cavalry officer that could be found anywhere, to accompany him in the Serapis to England. The Ressaldar was with the detachment under Major A. H. Prinsep, which formed H.R.H.’s escort during his tour through the Terai. We have just seen a note in which he announces the fact of his approaching departure to Europe to a European officer. He simply puts it thus: “The Prince asked me to come to England, and of course I could not refuse.”’ If this is true, it shows a high sense of obedience and discipline and loyalty in Anoop Singh, as it must be with considerable inward qualms that a Sikh made up his mind to cross the Black Waters, that is the seas. Anoop Singh is said to be a most handsome man, well made, with a striking appearance, and he will in all probability attract much attention as a sort of ‘show man’ of the Indian army.
The ex-Gaekwar of Baroda, Mulhar Rao, finding time lie heavy on his hands in his prison at Nungumbakum, has devised a means to amuse himself. Twice a week an apothecary waits upon Mulhar Rao, equipped with a suitable apparatus, and to the bewilderment of the ex-Baroda chief and family conducts experiments in chemistry. The apothecary of course receives a remuneration for his performances, but whether the chief thereby receives more instruction than amusement is a moot question.
A new Photographic Exhibition has been opened here. We have not yet been to see it, but we shall go some day. The building from the outside has a very imposing and grand appearance.
Some degrees were conferred on several distinguished men yesterday at the Calcutta Senate House. Professor Monier-Williams was one of them. Papa had a card but he did not go. And now, dear, I must say good-bye. I hope to write to you a more interesting letter next time, pour vous dédommager of this one. Give kindest regards of Papa and Mamma to your father and mother, their love to you. Love to all and especially best love to your darling self.
Calcutta. March 24, 1876.
I send along with this letter a copy of my Sheaf gleaned in French Fields. I have not had it bound in cloth, but I send it to you in its original paper cover, as it is easier for transmission thus than otherwise. Write and tell me which of my pieces you like best.
I am pretty well just now, but a few days ago my cough increased, and I spat some blood: it was all owing to a window being left open in my bedroom, on account of the extreme heat and closeness of the weather.
Our Governor-General, Lord Northbrook, is going away on the 7th proximo. He will be a great loss to this country, for he was beloved by the Bengalis, and he highly deserves to be so.
Some of the Prince of Wales’s horses were lately sold in the Punjab by auction; I suppose they were the presents of some of the Rajas here and the Prince finding them to be rather too numerous has sold them. Lord Beresford bought a few, a pair of Walers and an Arab. The Prince has taken with him, besides his three English hunters and his own horses, some more, presents from the Maharajas and Chiefs; among them are a team of small grey Arabs, a chestnut Arab saddle-horse for the Princess, and a pair of hill ponies, to improve the breed of the Shetland ponies at home. There is rather a good story going about the papers lately, which has highly pleased the Bengalis. At some public reception or other, the Prince of Wales observed a European push a Bengali gentleman roughly from the platform. The Prince immediately sent his aide-de-camp to interfere, and was highly displeased with the European official, and the Duke of Sutherland and others expressed their displeasure at the European’s conduct, who, on the other hand, seemed very much surprised at this general condemnation of his conduct, and at the interest of the Prince in favour of a ‘native!’ You see how my countrymen are treated by Anglo-Indian Sahibs!
I have lately been reading Tolla, a novel by E. About. The book is founded upon fact; the scene is laid in Italy. M. About was accused of plagiarism, but he has defended himself by saying that founding a story on a true fact is not plagiarism, &c. It is a very nice and interesting book. Olivier, a poem by François Coppée, is not bad reading; there are some very fine passages, for instance, this charming little picture: the writer is supposed to be a blasé young man of the world, and here is a description of his friend’s daughter, a young country girl:
Espiègle, j’ai bien vu tout ce que vous faisiez Ce matin dans le champ planté de cerisiers Où seule vous étiez, nu-tête, en robe blanche. Caché par le taillis, j’observais. Une branche Lourde sous les fruits mûrs vous barrait le chemin Et se trouvait à la hauteur de votre main. Or, vous avez cueilli des cerises vermeilles, Coquette, et les avez mises à vos oreilles, Tandis qu’un vent léger dans vos boucles jouait. Alors, vous asseyant pour cueillir un bleuet Dans l’herbe, et puis un autre, et puis un autre encore, Vous les avez piqués dans vos cheveux d’aurore; Et, les bras recourbés sur votre front fleuri, Assise dans le vert gazon, vous avez ri, Et vos joyeuses dents jetaient une étincelle. Mais pendant ce temps-là, ma belle demoiselle, Un seul témoin, qui vous gardera le secret, Tout heureux de vous voir heureuse, comparait Sur votre frais visage animé par les brises Vos regards aux bleuets, vos lèvres aux cerises.
The weather is very hot now; in the middle of the day it is as hot as it must have been in the fiery furnace: except in the mornings and evenings, which are pretty cool and pleasant yet. One would like to sit the whole day under a water-pipe, or in a bathing tub! One can never appreciate cold water enough till one comes to Calcutta! Instead of saying: ‘O, that I had the wings of a bird!’ ‘O, that I had the fins of a fish’ would be more appropriate here.
All my uncles and cousins have been praising my book to the skies. I am afraid I shall burst with vanity some of these days, like the frog in the fable, who tried to be big as an ox.
Our Sanskrit is going on, we are making but slow progress; I hope it is sure progress also. By the by, in my Sheaf, you will find among the notes two Sanskrit lines, from the Ramayana. They are uttered by Dasaratha, King of Ajoudhay (modern Oude), when he was obliged to send his eldest son, Ram, into exile in the forest of Danaka, on account of a rash promise given to one of his wives (Ram’s stepmother), to grant her her desire. She asks for Ram’s banishment and the coronation of her own son, Bharata. On this the king bursts in a passion of grief. His reply to the queen is beautiful. The lines in my book mean that, ‘The world may live without the sun, the corn without water, but my soul will not live in my body without Ram.’ Would you like to pronounce the words in the Sanskrit? Then read:
Thistai, loko bina shurjong, shoshong ba might live the world without sun, corn or sholilong bina, water without,
Nau tu Ramong bina dahay thistaytu momo not but Ram without (in) body shall live my jibitom life.
I wonder what the papers will say of my book. Of course there will be for and against, and I have already armed myself with stoicism.
When Jane Eyre was first brought out, of course there were some papers which cut up the book. Thackeray, who was a friend of Miss Brontë, went to see her the day after, to observe how she read and took an attack on her book which had appeared in one of the leading daily papers.
Please write and tell me M. Boquel’s address, as perhaps I shall send him a copy of my Sheaf.
Have you seen the Halls lately? Do Mary and Lizzie attend any of the lectures?
We do not go much into society now. The Bengali reunions are always for men. Wives and daughters and all women-kind are confined to the house, under lock and key, à la lettre! and Europeans are generally supercilious and look down on Bengalis. I have not been to one dinner party or any party at all since we left Europe. And then I do not know any people here, except those of our kith and kin, and some of them I do not know.
The remainder of Lord Northbrook’s horses are to be sold on the 28th. I have asked Papa to go and have a look at them.
The life we lead here is so retired and quiet that I am afraid you find my letters dull.
Bishop Milman is dead; he succumbed to an acute attack of dysentery, and congestion of the liver. Bishop Gell of Madras is now in Calcutta, a guest of Lord Northbrook; he is temporarily officiating as Bishop of Calcutta, and it is said he is likely to be permanently so.
Jeunette and Gentille are well, so are all my pets.
Have you read a book by Frederika Richardson, published by Macmillan and Co. and entitled The Iliad of the East? It is an abstract of Valmiki’s Sanskrit poem Ramayana. I am sure you will like it, and I can heartily recommend it to you, as it will give a good idea of the heroes and heroines of our mythology. I have no doubt that Mrs. Cowell has one, for you know that Professor Cowell is a great Sanskrit scholar and admirer of Sanskrit literature.
28th. I hope you will excuse the shortness of my letter. It is all due to the dearth of news. Have you ever taken a young coco-nut? I daresay not. Those that we do get in England are old and over-ripe fruits, but a green coco-nut is delightful. The milk on a thirsty and sultry day is most refreshing, better than the best champagne. Water melons are coming into season now: by the by, Professor Cowell considers the water melon the best fruit in India. Mangoes are not ripe yet; the unripe mangoes we eat cooked, put into curries and sauces. Cholera has shown itself in the suburbs and in Calcutta too. I hope it will soon disappear.
I have sent two more copies of my book to Cambridge, one to Mrs. Cowell and the other to M. Boquel. I was saying to Papa that M. Girard, our French tutor at St. Leonards, would be pleasantly surprised if he were to see my book (for he dabbles in poetical translations now and then) and I should rise ten times more in his estimation. M. Boquel, on the contrary, is likely to say, that translating is good, but I would have done better if I had applied myself more to the ‘beautés de la grammaire française’, and instead of wasting my time on light literature, had learnt ‘les verbes irréguliers’ by heart!
I must ‘shut up’ now. I am really ashamed of my scrawl. Give our best regards to your father and mother, and my best love to your dear self.
Calcutta. April 24, 1876.
I received your nice long and interesting letter yesterday. Many thanks for the same; by the time this reaches you, you should have received my book. I should like to hear which of the pieces you like best, and also those you dislike most. Papa likes A Souvenir of the Night of the Fourth and On the Barricade, both by Victor Hugo, most; he thinks them the two best pieces in the volume. I agree with him. The papers have been noticing it favourably. The notices of the Hindu Patriot (edited by Babu Kristo Dass Pal), the Englishman (Mr. J. W. Furrell, editor), and the Indian Charivari, I like best. To the last-mentioned paper we did not send my book to be reviewed, and I am thankful to the editor (though I do not know his name) for his kindly and unexpected notice.
The article in the Englishman was generous and candid, pointing out some mistakes in the versifying, but altogether very favourable and sincere, with some extracts from the book, namely—To Pépa by Musset, and the last sonnet addressed to Papa. We wrote off to the editor in the well-known verses of the poet-laureate:
I forgave thee all the blame, I could not forgive the praise!
Mr. Furrell must have been quite flattered in receiving the poetic note.
Lord Lytton, our new Governor-General, arrived the week before last and has gone away to Simla on Saturday, where he will pass the hot and rainy seasons. Lord Northbrook of course is on his way to Europe. A good many people were gathered to bid him ‘Farewell and God-speed’ near the jetty. He shook hands with all who were present, taking care not to miss a single person in the crowd; he wore a sad yet genial expression on his countenance, and very suitable to the occasion.
On Friday we went to the Garden to meet the sister of my younger aunt. My uncle, as I have already written to you, my maternal uncle, that is, has got two wives. The eldest is not fair, neither very pretty (Leah in fact), so my uncle married a Rachel. My ‘new aunt’ as we call her, though she is no longer new, for she has been married about eighteen years, though she is only twenty-six now—my ‘new aunt’ is, on the contrary, very fair and very beautiful, and very good-natured into the bargain.
We wanted to see her elder sister, a great beauty, and so my ‘new aunt’ brought her to our Garden to meet us; also she brought her younger sister, a little lassie of eight, already married, and oh, such a beauty! She has been photographed, and my ‘new aunt’ gave me a copy; it is a beautiful photo and can vie with any face in an annual of beauties.
I also received a photo of my ‘new aunt’s’ father, Raja Narendra Krista, whose name I dare say you have come across among the reports of the visit of the Prince of Wales to Calcutta. He is a very nice kindly old gentleman; I have only seen him once or twice. He was a very handsome man in his youth and very ‘fast’ too; many an English beauty of Calcutta he has led out for a quadrille in Government House ‘when he was young’; perhaps he adds like Coleridge (if he has read that poet, which I doubt very much) ‘Ah, woeful when!’
I have finished La Femme dans l’Inde Antique. It is very interesting, and I liked it very much. I heartily recommend it to you. You would then see how grand, how sublime, how pathetic, our legends are. The wifely devotion that an Indian wife pays to her husband, her submission to him even when he is capricious or exacting, her worship of him, ‘as the god of her life’ as old Spenser has it. The legend of Nala and Damayanti, that of Savitri, who followed ‘Yama’ (Pluto of the Heathen) even to the lower regions, and by her wisdom, her constancy, her love, made him give back to her her dead husband alive; the legend of Sacountala and Douchmanta; that of Queen Gandhari, who, because her husband was blind, put a band on her own eyes, thus renouncing to enjoy a privilege which nature had denied her husband: ‘Lest I come to reproach my husband for his misfortune,’ said she. And last, but not least, the grand legend of Ram and Sita.
Mademoiselle Bader thus sums up the character of Sita:
‘D’ailleurs, dans quel siècle, dans quel pays, dans quelle littérature chercher un type plus admirable que celui de Sita? Quelle lyre jamais chanta plus pure et plus touchante héroïne? Quelle création analogue rencontrer chez les tragiques d’Athènes et les poètes de Rome? Et, dans les temps modernes, depuis les héroïnes de Shakespeare jusqu’à celles de Racine, où trouver ce suave mélange d’amour, de chasteté, de grâce, noble et naïve, de dévouement passionné, de dignité, de fidélité au devoir, qui font de Sita le modèle idéal de la perfection féminine?’
You ought indeed to read the book or even The Iliad of the East by Frederika Richardson, to get an idea of the nobleness of my country’s heroines….
The weather is awfully hot now, there is a very comforting and strong south wind to-day, but the sun is as hot and glaring as the fire of the fiery furnace must have been! I wish we could exchange our weather with yours: send us some of your cold weather and I will send you some of our hot!
Jeunette and Gentille are going on capitally well. I wish you could see them so sleek and fine, with their black manes and their slender black feet; they are dark bay in colour, not a single white hair have they; and they are—so beautiful! Sometimes I take them out to grass, myself, early in the morning; they never misbehave when with me, neither do they so with anybody. They know my voice and even my step from another’s; Gentille whinnies with pleasure and Jeunette turns her soft dark eyes wistfully towards me and pricks up her delicate small ears.
I am writing to you from the roof of our house. It is nearly 5 p.m. and the sun is going down in the West. It is very cool and breezy up here. Day and May, our favourite kittens, are basking in and enjoying the last rays of the departing sun. Day has jumped up on my writing table to coax out a pat and caress from me. My inkstand is in imminent danger, as well as my letter. There! Day has jumped down to run after a crow, without spilling the ink!…
Papa went to see the sale of the last lot of Lord Northbrook’s horses. There was a splendid Irish gelding, brown, bred by the late Lord Mayo, and his favourite riding-horse, aged eleven years. It was bought for Lord Lytton; there were also some nice Arabs, among which was the grey which Lord Northbrook used the most often to ride, and on which we saw him three or four days before his departure, when we were taking our evening drive. I like to hear Papa’s descriptions of the horses, and he goes, when there are likely to be excellent ones in the auction, to please me, and also himself a little, for he is very fond of horses.
So you are quite rich! Je vous en fais mes compliments! What are you going to do with your money? I should advise you to take a passage out to India in one of the P. and O. steamers and come and see us in our Indian home, qu’en dites-vous? We should be so pleased to see you; you can be quite sure of a warm welcome and of hearty friends; ‘pensez-y bien, belle Marie’ (the original has ‘marquise’).
Spelling bees must be very amusing. There are funny accounts of how Mr. Lowe, M.P., was floored by the word ‘brazier’, which he spelt with an ‘s’ though it was clearly told him, that he was wanted to spell the word which means the person who deals in brass! and the Lord Mayor also made some funny mistakes.
Have you seen, or been at, a skating rink? It must be pleasant if there were no falls! Mistress Day is teasing me again, naughty pussy.
The Sanskrit is going on tolerably well; we are now reading the Ramayana.
The census of Calcutta was taken a few days ago; I asked Papa to put in my column ‘Authoress’ as a profession, with which request he did not comply!
25th. I had the first mangoes of the season from our Garden for breakfast just now. They were delicious. I wish I could send you one with this letter!
What beautiful cold weather you are having at present! I wish I was there!
Do tell me which of the pieces in my book your papa and your dear mother like? You see I am full of my book! Entre nous, I confess I am a little proud of it! Though I see its faults as well as its merits.
I am quite as rich as you are, dear! For I have got in the Savings Bank about the same sum as you have in the Cambridge Building Society. If I was not afraid of people calling me extravagant, I would spend the whole amount in buying a splendid stud of horses!
What shall I write about? Our cow, one of our milch cows, that is, did not give any milk for two days running. Voici pourquoi: a servant had the stupidity to introduce a large owl into the dairy; the cows got so frightened that they ran out quite wild from the shed, and it was a whole day’s work catching them! and though this happened about five days ago, the cows do not on any account approach the shed, and we have been obliged to keep them in another. One of our best hens, with a pair of young turkeys which she had hatched, was run away with by a jackal, to Mamma’s great sorrow and dismay! Are not these very interesting items?
The Maharaja of Pattialla died a few days ago at Simla of apoplexy. His infant son succeeds him.
I am sure you will like Wives and Daughters. It is a very well-written and interesting book. All the Brontës were rather inclined to the sensational in their works, but they are wonderfully interesting. Wuthering Heights treats of the supernatural, I have heard, for I have never read the book; I have only read Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë. Though the moral is not very high (for the authoress favours bigamy), the work is written with a masterly power, and shows a gift of discerning characters, which is wonderful in a woman. If you once commence the book, you will not be able to sleep unless you finish it! Have you read any of Thackeray’s works? They are very good.
I must stop my chatter for a while to read the paper.
26th. My grandfather has hired a house and garden near ours, where he intends to stay with his family for three or four months. We went to see them yesterday; they will remove to-day, and we are to go and see them this evening in their new home. I wish you knew my grandmother; a kinder, or gentler, or more loving woman never breathed. How all her dear face lights up when we go to see her! I wish she would become a Christian. She is so much better than many who profess to be Christians, but whose conduct is anything but so. And she is so fond of me and so proud of me, is my grandmother! She thinks me the handsomest, the best, and the most accomplished girl that ever breathed! She would spoil me quite, if I lived with her a week! And she is so proud of Papa! You know that Hindu mothers-in-law generally do not talk with their sons-in-law. Isn’t that funny? When Mamma was ill she came and stayed with us, keeping awake two nights running….
I have just been turning over a collection of Shirley Brook’s poems, which have been chosen out from his contributions to Punch by his son. I have come on a piece which I cannot help writing out for you. It is entitled ‘Dagon’ and is on the death of Nicholas, the Emperor of all the Russias, in 1855. It appeared in Punch and created a great sensation at the time. It is finely written and is full of spirit.
Smitten—as by lightning—smitten Down, amid his armed array; With the fiery scroll scarce written Calling myriads to the fray.
There—but yesterday defying Europe’s banners, linked and flying For her freedom—see him lying Earth’s Colossus—earth’s own clay.
Let no triumph-shout be given, Knee to earth and eye to heaven! God hath judged the day.
Ark of Freedom! lightly-spoken Vows to thee vain kings have said, Many an oath thy priests have broken, Many a flight thy guards have fled:
But thine ancient Consecration Sealed as oft by stern libation, Lifeblood of a struggling nation, In the foeman’s doom is read.
Still, O Ark! the hand that gave thee Strikes, in peril’s hour to save thee Here lies Dagon—dead!
Have you read any of Bulwer Lytton’s novels? The Last of the Barons is very interesting and well-written, in the Walter Scott style. He once attacked the Laureate in a satire in Pope’s style, calling the Tennyson school, ‘Miss Alfred!’ The Laureate answered him in verses which were anything but school-girlish and which appeared in Punch. Lord Lytton attacked him under the nom-de-plume of the New Timon, and the Laureate, after alluding to Shakespeare’s Timon of Athens says:
———here comes the New, Regard him: a familiar face; I thought we knew him. What, it’s you, The padded man that wears the stays;
Who killed the girls and thrilled the boys With dandy pathos when you wrote; A Lion, you, that made a noise, And shook a mane en papillotes. . . . . . . What profits now to understand The merits of a spotless shirt, A dapper boot—a little hand, If half the little soul is dirt?
I quote from memory, so you must overlook mistakes if you find any.
It’s dreadfully hot to-day, even the crows seem oppressed by the heat and keep silent, except now and then, when a very thirsty one utters a parched ‘caw!’ The grass on the lawns has assumed a dry burnt-up appearance, which is never seen in England. In the streets, horses are often falling down, smitten by heat apoplexy. The other day we saw one: poor animal! it seemed to suffer terribly; it was unable to rise, and dashed its head against the pavement in vain efforts to do so; water, large bucketfuls, was thrown over it to relieve its pain, but to no purpose. I am afraid and never allow my Jeunette and Gentille to be driven during the middle of the day for fear of their getting sunstrokes.
Please give my love to A. L. when you write to her. I am sorry to hear that your dear father has not recovered quite from the effects of his last illness, but I hope he will with the warmer weather. I am keeping well myself; so is Papa and Mamma. My grandmother has made lots of chutnies, Indian jams, &c., which are exceedingly palatable, I can tell you, notwithstanding their extremes of being either too acid or too hot, &c. Best love to your dear self, and love and kindest regards from all to your father and mother.
Baugmaree Garden House. May 3, 1876.
I am sitting down to write to you, not that I have anything new or special to say, but because I know each letter from me is sure to make you write an answer to me; and your letters are such a treat, never mind whether they seem to yourself short, dull, long or stupid, they are always very welcome things to me. If you could see how eagerly I tear open the envelope, after first reading my address in your dear well-known hand, and looking at all the postal marks, you would write oftener, I think.
You see that we have removed to the old Garden House. We came away from Calcutta on Monday last (to-day is Wednesday), it is so much more pleasant here than in the town.
Mamma got a very bad fall yesterday, but she is all right now. At 2 p.m. (you cannot imagine how hot it is at that hour), she went downstairs, notwithstanding our protests, to give some orders about her poultry house. She was sitting on the steps, when all at once she fell down—the sun and the heat were too much for her—she was so dazed after her fall, that she could not remember anything that had happened the minute before. We thought she had received a sunstroke, and it was very like one; however, eau-de-Cologne, cold water, and an unripe mango, boiled and made into a sherbet, soon set her to rights. She is quite herself to-day; I hope this will prevent her for the future from going out of doors during the heat of the day, malgré nous.
I am very well, so is Papa. Pets also are thriving.
I make the horses go through their morning exercises myself; I generally take Jeunette, and one of the grooms takes Gentille. Jeunette trots along the long walk (see the photograph), I running by her side, both enjoying ourselves immensely. Gentille and the groom bring up the rear. To-day after the trot, Jeunette’s beautiful eyes fell upon the bunch of roses I had at my belt. She smelt them, took one daintily, and ate it with relish; then she took another and allowed me to keep the rest! I see them dressed and cleaned before me, except when I am inevitably prevented from being present.
One of our cows was delivered of a fine dark red calf a few days ago. Plenty of fresh milk and butter are the happy consequences.
Our Sanskrit is getting on well enough; our Pundit will from to-day come here to give us our lesson.
Mangoes are coming now, but those of our Garden are not fully ripe yet. Lichees are still in season, but they will soon disappear, as they are like the strawberries in England, very short-lived. I must stop here for the present, as I am going out to measure my horses’ pittance. It is already hot now. Excuse this scrawl; the next sheet, I hope will be written more intelligibly.
I wish I could send you one of these champa flowers which are on the table in a glass of water. They are of a pale yellow colour, with six petals, three outside and three inside, and they have a beautiful strong fragrance which fills the whole room. The glass of water also contains one Gunda-raj (literally, king of fragrance). It fully justifies its name; its odour is a little fainter than that of the Champa, but very sweet. It is a snow-white flower. I wish you could see our Indian flora. Our Garden in the early morning is full of sweet sounds and fragrance. Just in front of the window, by which I am sitting, is the great Banian tree or Indian Oak, which was planted by my grandfather (paternal grandpa) before I was born, more than twenty years ago. Is it visible in the photo I have sent? I am afraid not. We have received our first basket of Jum-rools of the season this morning. They are a boon this hot weather and are of a whitish colour, with just a shade of very pale green, very luscious, large as a nectarine and a great thirst-quencher.
Several days ago, we paid a visit to an old friend of my father’s and of my grandfather, too, Mr. Manickjee Rustomjee, a Parsi. This is the second time that I have paid a visit to any friend since our return to India! We only stayed half-an-hour, as Mr. Rustomjee himself was unfortunately out, but his son received us very cordially and introduced us to his sister; his mother also came in; she knew us while we were in Bombay in 1863. They wear the Parsi costume. Mrs. Rustomjee does not know English and spoke to me in Hindustani, and said: I was that height (indicating a certain height with her hand) when she last saw me in Bombay. Her daughter is rather handsome and very fair. She spoke English very well. I was rather amused by her abruptly asking me if I had any children! Was not that amusing? I had to confess that I was not even married. Marriage, you must know, is a great thing with the Hindus. An unmarried girl of fifteen is never heard of in our country. If any friend of my grandmother happens to see me, the first question is, if I am married; and considerable astonishment, and perhaps a little scandal, follows the reply, for it is considered scandalous if a girl is not ‘wooed and married and a’ ’ before she is eight years old! The other day one of my Grandmother’s cousins was not a little taken aback on my replying to his question if I were not married, that I was now going to, since I had his permission, for it was only his permission that I had waited for! He was the more surprised, as I was looking over a picture book, like the meekest and humblest of human beings!
There is something about me in the paper to-day; Papa is reading it aloud, so goodbye for a moment.
It is now 2 p.m., and the sun is at its height; it is quite dazzling to look on the scene before me, tanks, lawns, and trees. There is nothing for us to do, but shut up all the shutters, and se tenir coi in the room with just one south window open, for the south wind is here always welcome.
I was lately reading Charlotte Brontë’s Life by Mrs. Gaskell: indeed it is only to-day that I have finished the book. To think of those three young sisters in that old parsonage, among the lonely wild moors of Yorkshire, all three so full of talent, and yet living so solitary amid those Yorkshire wolds! The quotation in the beginning of the book from Mrs. Barrett Browning is very appropriate, at least so it seems to me:
Oh, my God, Thou hast knowledge, only Thou, How dreary ’tis for women to sit still On winter nights by solitary fires And hear the nations praising them far off.
How sad their history is! How dreary for the father to see one by one all his children die, and to live on alone and infirm, in that solitary parsonage in Yorkshire! In truth there is no greater tragedy in fiction than what happens in our real, daily life.
To-day Papa and I saw a large snake, about six feet in length, just below the steps of our front door; its movements were so rapid that it had disappeared in the round garden plot in front of our house (vide photo) before we could kill it: fortunately it was not of a very venomous kind. We caught a small wild hare in our Garden lately; we are going to let it go free this evening, as, poor young thing, it seems home-sick or rather warren-sick! When I told Uncle Girish about it, he was in raptures, a live wild hare! he is a keen sportsman, and fond of guns and fowling-pieces, &c., &c. He means to try and bag a couple of hares in our Garden some day, for Baugmaree is full of them! One of our guinea-pigs is afflicted with a goitre. It is very hideous and distressing to look at, the poor animal has got quite thin; it will soon die, I hope, for existence in its present state is a calamity.
Last night Papa and I, sitting out in the verandah, were expatiating on the calm beauty of the scene before us. I am but a poor hand at description, but I shall try to tell you what were then before us. The night was clear, the moon resplendent; one or two stars glimmering here and there; before us stretched the long avenue bordered with high Casuarinas very like the poplars of England; dim in the distance the gateway; around us the thick mango groves; the tall betel-nut trees, straight, ‘like arrows shot from heaven’; the coco-nut palms, with their proud waving plumes of green foliage, and all wrapt in a sweet and calm silence. Papa said the scene was as lovely as any we have seen during our sojourn in Europe. I agreed with him.
The papers are still noticing my book; the Indian Mirror has, it seems, noticed it. I have not seen the notice yet; I must go to town to-morrow and buy yesterday’s issue.
This letter is very meagre; please excuse it; it is only to get an answer out of you, that I have penned this; I am going to prepare my Sanskrit lesson, the pundit will soon be here. Kindest regards from all to your father and mother, and best love to your dear self.
Dear! dear! what a smearing.
Baugmaree Garden House, May 13, 1876.
Your long-expected and welcome letter came this morning. Many thanks for the Easter card; it is very pretty and has pleased me very much, the ‘Forget-me-nots’ too are very welcome and pleasant to me. They brought to my mind some French lines:
Lors que je serais mort, oh je vous en convie, Si vous vous rappeliez une heure de ma vie, Amis, où d’amitié j’ai oublié la loi, Oubliez-moi.
The piece is of about eight verses; I should have copied it out for you, but unfortunately I have not got the book with me. It ends with the poet’s saying that if some one of his acquaintances were to say that he (the poet)
——était un bizarre égoïste, Un damné misanthrope, un pédagogue triste, Pas plus qu’en son génie en quelque autre il n’eût foi, ——Oubliez-moi.
But if some other—
——se lève et dit,—Mensonges! Il croyait au grand Dieu qu’il voyait dans ses songes,— Et quand il était seul, il priait à genoux, ——Souvenez-vous.
But truce to quotations and poetry!
Mamma thanks you very much for the photo; you know how she will value it.
Some bits of your letter brought tears to my eyes; I do not deserve all your kind affection. Papa is so pleased to read your letters; after reading them, his invariable remark is: ‘Let us return to England; where in Calcutta will you get such warm-hearted friends, Toru?’ ‘Where indeed,’ say I. And it is four years since we last met! How swift Time passes. I was about sixteen then, ‘in my life’s morning hour, when my bosom was young’—now I am getting quite old, twenty and some odd two months, and with such an old-fashioned face that English ladies take me for thirty! I wonder if I shall live to be thirty.
Don’t fear that I shall resort to any rinks, if they come in use here. I am not very social, or rather, I am somewhat shy of a large company of ladies and gentlemen ‘enjoying themselves’; whenever there used to be a dance on board (on our way from and to England), I used to beat a hasty retreat into the saloon or in our cabin as soon as I saw preparations going on for it, such as removing benches, lighting lights, opening the piano, &c.
A few days ago, we went to see my Grandfather in his new garden. My uncle gave me a bouquet. Among the flowers were two I did not recognize, but as soon as I smelt them their
. . . . Odour, like a key, Turned noiselessly in memory’s wards, To set a thought of sorrow free.
‘Why, Grandmamma,’ exclaimed I, ‘this flower used to grow in your old house at Connaghur, near your seven Hindu temples!’ She was astounded. ‘Can you remember it all, dear?’ quoth she. ‘Why, you could not have been more than four years old when you last came to see us at Connaghur, sixteen years ago!’ I was myself surprised at the power of the fragrance of the flower. I did not even care to look at first at the flower, never recognized it even, and when I smelt it nonchalantly, the whole picturesque scene of Connaghur came upon me suddenly and vividly, like a flash of lightning: the seven temples on whose pinnacles the parrots used to build, the old half-ruined house, the vast and placid Ganges flowing smoothly by—I saw it all in a moment!
I wish you could see our date-palms. They are so beautiful now. The dates of a rich orange colour, hanging in immense clusters among the leaves, stand in striking contrast to the green plume-like leaves. If a painter were here, a ‘landscape painter’, that is, he would revel in this world of variegated foliage. There are so many shades of green; from the light, yellowish and bright one of the tamarind tree, to the dark blue, sombre, green tint of the mango or the dusty brownish green of the sky-reaching Casuarina. Such a deep breath sweeps across the Casuarinas in the still evening. It is like the heaving of the sea, and brings St. Leonards to my memory.
The Life of Charlotte Brontë, by Mrs. Gaskell, induced me to read some more of Miss Brontë’s works; Shirley is well-written and interesting; Villette is a failure; there is one character which is interesting, a French ‘professeur’, M. Paul Emanuel; he sometimes reminds me of M. Boquel.
By-the-by, I suppose you received a letter, which I wrote some months ago, and which enclosed a note to Mrs. Baker; as the old lady has not yet given an answer, I am doubtful if you received it.
How vividly you recollect old times! Do you keep a diary that you even remember months and dates? I remember the first visit I paid you, after dear Aru’s return to Regent House. It was in the morning, at about ten; you had a sprained ankle, and obliged to keep at home. How you fretted at not being able to take walks with me. The Fishers came in, and I came away soon, rather ‘contrariée’ I confess it, for not being able to have a longer chat, tête à tête. You accompanied me to the door, notwithstanding the bad foot. I wish, I do wish, I were with you again.
About our next-door lodgers. We do not know them except by sight and hearsay, and what we do know, does not incline us to be friendly or even courteous with them. They are quiet as neighbours.
Gentille had a slight attack of heat apoplexy the other day. I was so distressed. Papa had been obliged to go out on business, during the middle of the day; I accompanied him, it was a distance of some nine or ten miles, the sun was fiery; when we came back, the poor horse was panting, with her nostrils,
like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for her eyesockets’ rim.
I was almost afraid she’d drop down: such a sight is very frequent in the streets in this tremendously hot weather. However Gentille was cooled, buckets of cold water were poured over her head, as well as wetted cloths applied, and she is quite well now. Jeunette bears the heat admirably.
There was a very good and favourable criticism of my book in the Madras Standard a few days ago, only the critic had taken me for a gentleman, and used ‘he’ and ‘his’ every time! I was rather amused and (shall I confess it?) perhaps a little flattered at this mistake.
The nights are dark now, but soon they will be as moonlit as they were four days ago. The moonlight nights are so beautiful and silent and peaceful in the Garden. It is a beautiful sight to see the moon rising large, serenely bright, full, behind the tall palm trees. She seems a peaceful watcher sent to watch over our lonely Garden; for Baugmaree is a little lonely and very quiet. At nights when I wake, it is so strange and beautiful to look at the moonlight on the floor of my room. Our windows have got bars, iron ones, it is safer; and how bright the shadows of the bars fall on the floor in the faint yet clear beams of the moon. It reminds me of convents of nuns. I rise very early, at half-past four a.m., I generally take my bath with the moon benignly looking in through the iron bars; at five, I am ready dressed and going out for a turn in the Garden with my cats, or for a trot with my horses. I go to bed at half-past nine; you see I follow the sage proverb:
Early to bed and early to rise Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.
Punch says that, ‘early to bed and early to rise, is sure to give a man red eyes!’
It is dreadfully hot just at present. If you could see me now, quite wet with perspiration, you would really pity me. Oh for a cool nor’easter!
That was rather an amusing verdict, which is now going about in the papers, in the case of a sudden death, when the learned jury declared, after deliberating solemnly for a long time—‘Died by the visitation of God, under very suspicious circumstances!’ This reminds me of one of my uncle’s stories about his father-in-law, who was a judge in the Small Cause court. At some trial or other, the witness, a Bengali (you see I wrote ‘native’, but I have scratched it out), was asked by the opposing counsel what his profession was? ‘A teacher in the missionary school.’ ‘What do you teach?’ (Witness). ‘The Bible. I read one chapter to the pupils daily.’ ‘What did you read to-day?’ No reply. ‘Speak.’ Still the witness kept silence. (The judge, a Hindu, and who did not know a word of the Bible, encouragingly), ‘Answer the question.’ (Witness, scratching his head and dubiously), ‘I read to-day about—about Jesus plucking the fruit and giving it to his disciples!’ My uncle was clerk and a Christian, the judge cast a sidelong glance at my uncle, to see if what the witness said was all right and if such an incident is really spoken of in the Bible.
I am glad that ‘Maddy’ [^3] as you term her (what is her name? I do not remember it, though I remember her very well indeed) is at last able to come to you. I am sure you would show her my book, I should like to know what she thinks about it; she knows English as well as French; I am not vain yet, but I am afraid I shall soon be with all the praises showered on me!
I have sent a copy of the Sheaf gleaned in French Fields to Mary and Lizzie Hall by this mail. While I am on the subject I must tell you that the Madras Standard article ended by saying: ‘as the taste of the pudding is in the eating of it, we append one of the pieces, a translation of Hugo’s well-known satire.’ Then followed ‘Napoléon le petit’. If you should want any of the originals, I can copy it out in my letter, to compare with the translation.
I wish you were here to see the wild monkeys. You would enjoy the sight immensely. A couple of days ago there were about fourteen of them, in front of our windows, gambolling and eating plantains; how delicately they peeled the fruit and with what relish they ate it! There were young and old ones; quite baby-monkeys there were too; the leader of the band was an immense brute almost as big as a man; such are very formidable indeed to encounter when they are irritated; they are so powerful and fearless too.
Tupsee-fish, or rather mango-fish, are come into season now. They are a very fine-flavoured sort of fish and are greatly relished by Anglo-Indians; one old gentleman’s remark after tasting them (I mean the fishes not the Anglo-Indians) was, that it was worth a journey to India to taste the tupsee. He was an enthusiast, an épicurien, wasn’t he?
Our Sanskrit is going on but slowly. We are now reading extracts from the Mahabharata.
Sometimes I wish I were out of Calcutta; especially this feeling comes upon me when in our town-house; Calcutta is such a horrid place, socially and morally; backbiting and scandal are in full swing. But the Garden, dear old Baugmaree, is free from every grievance, so quiet and peaceful; I asked Papa which was the place he would like to live his days out in; he answered, ‘Baugmaree or St. Leonards’; I quite agree with him.
As I am writing, I am taking a look now and then at Villette. I was just now quite amused at a description of M. Emanuel’s bearing ‘en classe’; it is like M. Boquel.
The Prince is at last home again in merry old England; the Princess boarded the Osborne with her children while the vessel was in the Solent. She must have been anxious about the Prince and quite happy to see him again.
Lord Lytton is gone up to Simla. He had been suffering severely from a bilious attack, but is recovered now, I believe.
I am at a loss how to finish the two pages which are remaining. I am very glad that Cambridge has won this time; also there only remains one victory of Oxford to pay. Cambridge, I know, will pay it next year and then the two Universities will be square.
I have no idea who that Bengali gentleman may be, whom you describe as a boating man; don’t you know his name?
I liked your father’s ‘Address to a young lady’ very much; it is very amusing.
Do you like the Misses Hall? We used to very much, when we were in Cambridge; they were such a nice quiet sort of girls and very handsome too; whom do you think the prettiest and whom do you like most? As for you, you are ‘my friend’; do you know, since you sent me your last photo, you seem to me more ‘like me’. I mean no disparagement; before, I looked quite too old to be a friend of yours, you looked so young and girlish; now there is a kind of fellow-look in your face, which pleases me much.
I must close my letter now, as I have really nothing to write about. I send you a few dried leaves from the creeper from which I take my name. Mamma sends you her love, as does Papa; our kindest regards to your father and mother, and best love to your dear self.
How carefully and neatly my letter begins and with what a scribble it ends! On inspection of the leaves, I’d better not send them; they are pitiably dried—shrivelled would be the word.
Baugmaree Garden House. June 1, 1876.
I received your welcome letter about five days ago, and as to-morrow is mail-day I must try and write an answer to-day.
I shall gladly send you copies of any of the originals of my translations that you may like to compare with them. Several of ‘Roland’s’ verses are very fairly done, though I say it myself, who should not, but I am afraid I have not been able to keep up the spirit of the original throughout. The ‘Wolf’ is one of Uncle Girish’s favourites, but Papa and myself consider it very mediocre. ‘The Rose and the Tomb’ is, we (Papa and I) think, smooth and literal. Here is a translation of the same piece done some years ago by a Civil Servant, Mr. Hodgson:
With those bright tears of limpid dew, Which on thy leaves each morn I view, What dost thou, flower of beauty, do? One day demands a Tomb.
The Rose replies: In stilly night, With those sweet tears of pearly white, Are fed my flowers of rich delight, That all around perfume!
And what awaits, demands the Rose, Those at the eve of life’s last close, Who with their weight of sins and woes, Are cast in thine abyss?
All pass my portals, Death replies, For every mortal being dies, But from my womb they all arise, Angels of love and bliss!
Which do you like best? Do not flatter me, but say frankly which you like. I shall copy the original out also, so that you may compare both the translations with it:
La tombe dit à la rose: —Des pleurs dont l’aube t’arrose Que fais-tu, fleur des amours? La rose dit à la tombe: —Que fais-tu de ce qui tombe Dans ton gouffre ouvert toujours?
La rose dit: —Tombeau sombre, De ces pleurs je fais dans l’ombre Un parfum d’ambre et de miel. La tombe dit: —Fleur plaintive, De chaque âme qui m’arrive Je fais un ange du ciel!
The other pieces you mention are among the first I did. Here is the Principal of the Benares College (Griffith’s) rendering of the Sanskrit lines which I have quoted in my book. He has translated the whole of the Ramayana:
The world may sunless stand, the grain May thrive without the genial rain, But if my Rama be not nigh, My spirit from its frame will fly.
To-day’s telegram is that the Sultan of Turkey has been dethroned and his nephew is to reign as Sultan in his place. What does this ordering of the ten ironclads to Besica Bay mean? Is England going to ‘fight it out’ with Russia single-handed? If there is a war, the seas will become unsafe for travelling.
We shall have to leave the Garden soon. There have been several preliminary showers and the rains will soon begin. A week ago there was such a thunderstorm. It began at 6 p.m., and lasted till three the next morning. The night was pitch dark, the sky was covered by thick black clouds. It was a sight worth seeing. The trees swung their boughs to and fro with a weird moaning sound, the rain fell in torrents; suddenly a bright dazzling flash of lightning darted across the heavens in fiery zigzags, lighting up the gloom for one moment, then it became dark as ever, you could hardly see a yard before you, a loud peal of thunder followed, then other flashes and other peals. It was a tropical storm, a sort of cyclone, such as one would never dream of seeing in Europe. It was a grand sight.
So poor Mrs. Humphrey has broken her arm at the rink. I am sorry to hear this; but her husband, being one of the best surgeons in England, has, I fervently hope, set it all right long ere this. We all liked Dr. Humphrey very much; he was so attentive and kind during dear Aru’s severe illness at Cambridge.
I got a letter from Mrs. Cowell along with yours. Such a nice kind letter! It seemed as if Mrs. Cowell had suddenly come before me in flesh and blood and talked with me in her warm impetuous way.
The papers are, as I said before, noticing the book more or less favourably. Nine newspapers in India have already noticed the book. I cut out the ‘critiques’ and paste them in a book. The Madras Standard noticed the book very favourably and selected ‘Napoléon le petit’ as a specimen.
The monkeys in our Garden have been exceedingly troublesome for the last few days. One, a very large one, five feet on its hind legs I should think, frightened one of our cats (May, a half-Persian) so much that the next day it gave birth prematurely to a dead kitten. Poor May was in such a plight! She ran to me and then to her little dead kitten, licked it, and then looked up at me, mewing most piteously. Luckily she has got another kitten to-day and has evidently forgotten the dead one. The monkey would not run away, though Papa and I both threatened it with shouts and loud clapping of hands! It sat bolt upright, grinning and showing its teeth in the most fierce manner. We were obliged to shut the door, and after a minute I saw it leap down to the ground and disappear among the trees. This morning I was in our dining-room (There! just now as I write, I hear the cry of the monkeys, a deep ‘Whoop! whoop! whoop!’) playing with a cat. (The dining-room is the first room beginning with the right-hand side, which has a glass window, and which belongs to the second storey.) Well! I was sitting in the dining-room, when all of a sudden I heard a loud step, descending the stairs leading to the third storey. I looked up. A black face was peering over the banisters at me; I gave a startled cry of: ‘Hunuman!’ (that is the Bengali name for monkeys), and ran to our sitting-room. My voice frightened it and it fled. A quarter of an hour after, we saw five just under our windows; some had young ones in their arms. They would not go off in spite of our threatening gestures, till at last I brought out Papa’s revolver and pointed it, unloaded as it was, as though I were going to shoot them, when they all scampered off in the greatest hurry. It is, in my opinion, very heartless to kill a monkey for the mere pleasure of using one’s gun: the poor animals, when wounded, look so fearfully human in their agony, and in their vain efforts to staunch the blood of their wounds.
The weather is dreadfully hot now. Here go a few verses by the late Mr. Parker, B.C.S., which seem very appropriate and which exactly describe my own present sentiments. It is entitled:
CALCUTTA STANZAS
For May
Happy the man whose hair and beard Are glittering stiff with ice and snow, Whose purple face with sleet is sear’d, His nose also.
Happy the man, whose fingers five Seem to have left him altogether, And feet are scarcely more alive In wintry weather.
And happier he, who, heavenly cold, From warmth and sunshine far away, Lives, till his freezing blood grows old, At Hudson’s Bay.
He in a beauteous basin, wrought Of frozen quicksilver, his feet May lave in water down to nought Of Fahrenheit.
The whole year round too, if he pleases, Far from the sun’s atrocious beams, He may unbaked by burning breezes Live on ice creams.
And if for comfort, or for pride, He wants shirt, breeches, coat or vest; Let him but bathe, then step outside, And, lo—he’s drest,—
Drest in habiliments of ice, More bright than those of old put on, At royal birthdays, by the nice Beau Skeffington.
Happy the man, again I sing, Who thus can freeze his life away, Far from this hot blast’s blustering, At Hudson’s Bay.
Oh, that ’twere mine to be so blest, For while my very bones are grilling, The thoughts of such a place of rest Are really thrilling.
Instead of jackets, I would wear A coat of sleet, with snow lapelles, Neatly embroidered here and there With icicles.
Snow shoes should brace my burning feet, And how I should enjoy a shiver, While snow I’d drink, and snow I’d eat, To cool my liver.
I’d tune my pipe by icy Hearne, By frozen Coppermine I’d stroll, And now and then, might take a turn Towards the Pole.
But all in vain I sigh for lands, Where happy cheeks with cold look blue, While here, i’ the shade, the mercury stands At ninety-two.
June 2nd. Such a large fish has been caught by our coachman to-day. It is a Roheet, and is often called the Indian salmon. The one that has been angled to-day weighs fully twenty-five pounds. The other day, also, another was caught by our coachman, but it was smaller than the one of to-day; it weighed sixteen pounds only. Every morning for breakfast I have whitebait (that is, Indian whitebait) caught fresh from the tank. Sometimes we call in a fisherman, who, with his net, once caught a big eel from one of our tanks, and a large Bata, a very sweet-flavoured fish, somewhat like the English bream, besides some Indian whitebait. Our Baylay or sand-fish is very like the English whiting; it is highly relished by my countrymen, as it is considered a very clean fish, feeding only on sand, whence its name.
The mangoes are in full season now. How I wish I could send you some from our garden! Our Baugmaree mangoes are famous for flavour and beauty. A basketful is now before me, emerald green, or vermilion red, some beautiful and radiant with all the colours of the rainbow; and oh, so delicious! The leechies are over now, they are very short-lived; one month, at the most, are they to be had at the shops.
Our new Bishop of Bombay is an Oxford man; I think his name is Mylne, but I forget. He was consecrated only a few days ago to the See of Bombay in St. Paul’s Cathedral, and has not yet left England. By the by, this reminds me of a certain German missionary of our ‘connaissance’, who spells ‘abbey’ with an ‘e’—‘ebbey’—and who, however, aspires, and even firmly hopes, to be created Bishop of Calcutta some time or other! Voilà ce que c’est que l’ambition!
One morning last week, as I was trotting Jeunette up and down the walk (she had been out of work for two days), a dog crossed our path: Jeunette leaped aside and reared. Oh! she looked so spirited and beautiful with her ‘front hoofs poised in air’. I was a little taken by surprise by this sudden action of hers, but I was not a bit frightened, and quite as cool as ever. I continued trotting her till she quieted down. This coolness on my part raised our coachman’s opinion of my presence of mind and courage a good deal.
Poontoo (the coachman) is rather afraid of horses when out of harness; he keeps always at a respectful distance from a horse’s hind-legs! But he is a capital driver, and very careful in driving, using the whip rarely; and he once broke a horse, known to be vicious, into single harness, after it had been given over as quite unmanageable by the cleverest horse-breakers. Papa bought the animal for a song, it was so perfect in form; and by force of kindness and good management it became within a month the gentlest and the quietest horse ever seen. We sold it when we went to England, and it is still working hard under its present owner. Poontoo is a very old servant; he came into Papa’s service long before I was born: I think it is twenty-six years that he has been a coachman to Papa.
The Zoological Gardens of Calcutta are now open to the public, but they are far from being complete as yet. Its menagerie at present consists of a jackal, an otter, a pair of leopards, a black bear, and a wild cat!
Five of Mamma’s best hens were devoured by a wild cat a few nights ago. We did not see the animal, but by the footprints and the scratches of the claws on the ground we knew that it was a wild cat.
A young wild cat was caught several years ago; it was so fierce one could not approach it; at last one of our servants wrapt a blanket round his hand and arm and body, and so caught it. We kept it for some days in an iron cage, but it would not eat anything and moped so much that we were at last obliged to let it go free.
I am very glad to hear that you see Mary and Lizzie so often; they are such nice girls. Reginald was a great favourite of my mother’s. He is such a bright intelligent-looking boy. I hope the Misses Oakes are quite well, and their mother, kind Mrs. Oakes. Please give them my kindest regards when you see them.
Is Blanche A. L.’s younger sister? Give my love to A. if she comes to see you. I have written three letters by this mail—one to your dear self, another to Mrs. Cowell, and another to M. Boquel. I enclose a small little flower; it bears my own name, Torulota or Creeper-Toru, and I know you would be pleased with it. Please give our kindest regards to your father and mother, and Mamma’s and my own love to your mother and yourself.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. June 26, 1876.
Your nice long letter of the 22nd May I received on Saturday, that is, the day before yesterday. I could not answer it sooner as I had just recovered from a slight attack of fever and felt very weak.
Your letter is very interesting indeed. Of course the Rama of Sita is the same whose name occurs in the Sanskrit couplet inserted among my notes. Do read La Femme dans l’Inde Antique, or even The Iliad of the East. I should so like to hear what you think of my country’s legends and heroes and heroines. I am glad to hear that you are enjoying the May gaieties of Cambridge.
As for the state of demoralization of English society, I shall neither be surprised at nor afraid of it. Calcutta is a very sink of iniquity. Not only among the Hindus (in the midst of whom there are many respectable and nice people), but even among the Bengali Christians, the moral is so execrable. And the saddest thing is, that Hindus have a very bad idea of Christianity and only think it a cloak which some people take to commit under its cover a multitude of sins. But let me stop here; the manners of Bengali Christian Society (with a very few exceptions) are such as would sadden the merriest heart and dishearten the most hopeful.
Did I ever tell you about the Syrian gentleman on board our vessel when we were coming to India? He only spoke French, and knew English very imperfectly indeed. Well, one day, dinner was over, and the dessert had just been put on the table; he helped himself to some fruit; and as the steward in taking away his plate asked him if he would take ‘anything else, sir?’ he answered ‘Nothing’, but he pronounced it ‘Nutton’. The next minute the steward (a little surprised at the request) brought him a plateful of roast mutton and potatoes! Our Syrian was a good deal taken aback; but as he saw that explanations would only make matters worse, he contented himself with muttering below his breath, in a sad desponding manner, ‘Est-ce là qu’on appelle “nothing”’?
You are indignant at the way some Anglo-Indians speak of India and her inhabitants. What would you think if you read some of the Police reports which appear in the Indian daily papers? I shall tell you of a case which I read some months ago, and which impressed me then very much. I do not remember the details, but I shall tell you all that I can remember about it. Several soldiers went out for a holiday, having their guns with them. In a village they chanced to spy some peacocks, and they began shooting at them. The birds were the property of a Bengali farmer; of course he protested. He was told to ‘be off and be ——!’ He called his neighbours. From words they came to blows; one soldier was severely beaten; the others decamped, leaving nine Bengalis dead and some seven Bengalis wounded. The case was brought before the magistrate; and what do you think his judgement was? The villagers were fined each and all; the soldiers acquitted: ‘natives should know how precious is the life of one British soldier in the eyes of the British Government——.’
Yesterday a horse of one of our neighbours was struck with heat apoplexy. It had been taken out to exercise in the afternoon (when it was very hot), and when it came home the groom turned it into the stall without dressing or cooling the tired animal. The consequence was it rushed madly out of its stall and fell in a neighbouring tank (or pond), just behind our house. After a great deal of trouble it was got out. I saw it this morning from the roof of our house. Poor animal! It had been left lying on the damp mud, behind the owner’s stable, with not a single man nigh to allay its sufferings. Isn’t this cruel and inhuman? After some twelve hours it was lifted up by bamboo props (and a free use of the lash and administration of buckets of cold water into its nostrils and eyes!) and conveyed inside the stable. It is a Waler, that is, an Australian horse. I do not think that it will live. Jeunette and Gentille are well and in excellent condition. Jeunette is very fond of bread; she would follow me about anywhere in the hope of getting some. Gentille prefers sugar cane and other sweet things. They have just thrown off their winter coats and are now sleek and ‘satin-skinned’ in their new summer ones. I wish you could see them!
Papa was telling me of some of the events of the Mutiny of 1857, the other evening. I was only a year old then. Papa and my uncles enrolled themselves as volunteers, and each bought a gun, the first they had ever handled. He remembers one evening, at some entertainment at Government House, as he was going up the broad staircase, the sort of ‘saisissement’ he felt as he looked in at the large hall, where a small English guard was going through the evolutions, ‘Shoulder-arms!’ &c. We had an old Sikh porter, who had formerly been a soldier. It was he who first brought us the news of the outbreak at Barrackpore. We were at that time in the Garden. When questioned about it he used to shake his grey head and say sadly, ‘Ah! the English have mismanaged the whole affair! If they had explained and smoothed away the matter, all would have been well. But now—they have all gone’ (meaning the Indian troops), ‘all gone! the best, the bravest, the strongest!’
27th. The poor horse over the way! During the night it had somehow or other got out of the stable, and is now lying in the mud, all covered with dirt, and with not even a kindly hand near to frighten away the crows which come to pick its quivering flesh! The eyes are very intelligent still. When it hears the pawing of its stable companions in their stalls it turns a wistful eye towards the stable, as if it longed to get in there. It should have been shot, and put out of this misery. It is sad to see it lift its head as if to rise; then, seeing the attempt vain, let it fall hopelessly on the ground. It was a fine animal, of a dark grey almost turning to black. Australian horses suffer very much from the heat; hundreds die of congestion and sunstrokes during the hot season of Calcutta. The stud-breds are more inured to the climate, being born and bred in India. If the horse, which is now dying, had been properly and kindly treated from the first day of its illness, it might have lived.
You see we have removed from the Garden to our town house. The reason is, the rains have commenced. To-day it rained in the middle of the day, and so the late afternoon has turned out cool and fine. It pours continually for weeks sometimes. I was very sorry to leave the Garden; I used so to enjoy exercising Jeunette and Gentille.
We shall be going to Baugmaree again at the end of the rains, that is, in the beginning of November.
I have not read much lately. The Revue des Deux Mondes has been my only solace for the last week. I was reading an article on Baron Stockmar’s book, by Saint-René Taillandier. A very ably-written article it is, and gives you the whole of the Stockmar memoirs in a condensed and interesting form, truly delightful.
The papers say that Lord Lytton will resign and return to England by the end of the next year. It is said that he thinks India is very unhealthy. He has been suffering from constant bilious complaints since he has gone to Simla. He liked Barrackpore pretty well when he was there, for he wrote in a telegram to Lady Lytton that he found the above-mentioned place very charming indeed, just like an English country seat.
We were so amused the other day with reading in the Illustrated London News that the Prince of Wales created ‘Bullen’, ‘Smith’, ‘Degember’, ‘Mitter’, as Companions of the Order of the Star of India. ‘Bullen-Smith’ is one gentleman, and not two, as ‘Bullen’, ‘Smith’ would seem to imply, and ‘Degember Mitter’ is ditto! By the by, we saw Babu Degember Mitter to-day as we were taking our morning drive at five o’clock.
The afternoons now turn out generally wet and cloudy, so I am going to take my drives in the morning instead of the evening. I got up at half-past three this morning to be ready for my drive before five. The morning was cool and fine, and I enjoyed the fresh air very much. I wish you were with me, bowling smoothly along at the rate of fourteen miles an hour, with the fresh breeze blowing in your face, and Jeunette’s and Gentille’s wavy black manes glancing in the sun, just visible if you lean forward to look at them. The streets were very quiet; not a soul, except the policemen, was to be seen.
Where shall you go this summer? To the Lakes again? I am sure you would enjoy a trip to the Continent, and who knows if you venture as far as Italy that you might not embark at Brindisi, and just lengthening your voyage a little come to Calcutta! Ah! dear, I long to see you again. I feel a little lonely sometimes. In England life was so much more active and free; here, on the contrary, I lead a rather solitary and sedentary life, but not in the least do I feel it dull, au contraire, it is a quiet peaceful sort of life.
28th. The poor horse is dead. I am glad it is out of its misery at last, for the way it was maltreated by the wretches (I mean the grooms) was simply atrocious.
One of our relations, a second cousin of mine, is going to England very soon; I think he starts on the 11th of next month. He is a very studious lad; his parents are poor and with a large family. He studied hard and has won the Gilchrist scholarship, which provides for him for life as it were. All Gilchrist scholars have to go to England; the funds left by Dr. Gilchrist provide them with money for the passage and for expenses in England. They have to study five years in either the University of London or that of Edinburgh, and then to choose a profession for themselves. This relation is a Hindu, so is his family; there will be a sad break-up of their home circle when the boy goes away.
I am keeping house alone to-day. Papa has gone out and Mamma has gone to see my grandfather and grandmother. She will not return till late in the evening, and I don’t expect Papa till four in the afternoon.
Our Sanskrit is going on rather slowly. It is a difficult language and it takes one a long time to master it thoroughly.
29th. I have just returned from my morning drive. I got out of the carriage and walked a little on the Maidan; but I had to get in the barouche again, as one feels very soon warm and perspiring in this hot weather.
Papa brought yesterday some French books for me. Among them are two volumes of Sainte-Beuve’s Causeries de Lundi. They are standard works, and I have read extracts from them in various books. I am sure I shall enjoy reading the Causeries; you know of course that they are principally critical essays on French prose-writers and poets, in the style of Lord Macaulay’s
It is very hot to-day, though there was a heavy shower last evening.
There was rather an interesting letter in the Daily News yesterday on the superstitions concerning natural history which prevail among the peasantry of Bengal. The bears are said to be born thus: the she-bear vomits clots of blood, which are subsequently hatched, shapen, and developed into perfect animals by the warmth of the mother’s body. The porcupine is regarded as an animal of ill omen, and a quill stuck in the thatched roof of a hut is considered sufficient to ensure domestic discord. The common water-snake, the most harmless of all Indian ophidians, is said to be extremely venomous on certain days—Friday for instance. A curious story is attached to the green tree-snake, known in India as the nowdanka. It is said that after biting a person the snake ascends to the topmost branch of the loftiest tree in the neighbourhood, and there establishes a look-out and refuses to descend until he beholds the curling wreaths of smoke from the funeral pyre of his victim. Those who are acquainted with this feature in the habits of the animal proceed to light a fire in the neighbourhood the moment anybody is bitten, and with the descent of the snake abate also the baneful consequences of its bite, and the patient recovers. Another most popular belief is that the tiger is always attended by an animal, called a phao (but which I take to be nothing else than a superannuated jackal, whose dismal and solitary howls may often be heard in the outskirts of our own city), ‘a kind of nasty awkward customer who is always getting into the tiger’s way and warning off his intended victims.’ My aunt had a maid-servant, whose sister, with three children, were bitten by a nowdanka. She was personally present at the funeral rites of her sister, who was quite dead, as well as two of the children bitten; but the third, a little girl, had a spark of life in her. My aunt’s maid-servant asserted that she saw with her own eyes the serpent descend from a cocoanut palm. The girl survived, she said, but the mother and the two other children were too long dead to revive. The serpent, I believe, was caught, put in an earthen vessel, the opening of which was shut and sealed, and was thus committed to the bosom of the Ganges to sink or swim as it pleased the goddess of the river, Ganga. Sometimes at nights we have heard in our own Garden the weird cry of the phao. The howl is quite distinct from that of the jackal, and can be recognized at once. One of our servants, newly arrived from his native place, hearing the phao, immediately said, a little frightened, that ‘some tiger must be near, for there was the phao’.
Our bishopric seems to be going a-begging. Nobody apparently will take it. The Rev. Mr. Milman, a cousin of our late Bishop, is said to have refused the offered See; so has another reverend gentleman, I forget his name. Everybody seems to be afraid of the climate of Calcutta.
Have you read Victor Hugo’s grand speech in the French Assembly for the release of the French communists? I should like to read it in the original.
My little cousin, Varûna, came the other day to see us. He has got a new brother and is of course a little jealous of the ‘baby’, with whom his Mamma is consistently occupied. Varûna is so interesting. I wish you could hear him sing ‘ ’Ock-of-Ages cleft fo’ me’ (Rock of Ages cleft for me), slowly and in a solemn way keeping excellent time, with his small hands clasped behind his back (great Napoleon fashion), and walking about with small quick strides.
I must stop now. Thank you again for your very interesting letter; mine seems insipid and dull beside yours, but I live so like a recluse.
Papa’s and Mamma’s and my own kindest regards to your father and mother, and their love to you. Best love to your dear self from me.
P.S. I send you some flowers picked from our garden. Unfortunately they have lost their vivid purple colour in the process of drying.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. (No date, probably July 1876.)
I was very glad indeed to receive your nice long letter of the 30th May. It was quite an unexpected pleasure. Dear, how good you are to treasure up my good-for-nothing letters; they do not deserve to be made so much of; yours are very precious to me.
As I have nothing new to write about, I shall comply with your desire and copy out fragments from the notices of my book, which have appeared in the Indian papers. The Englishman says: ‘There is evidence of rare ability, promise of great achievements, in this volume of poetry by a young Bengali lady. To expect translations made from one foreign language into another by one so young, as we understand Miss Toru Dutt to be, would be to expect a miracle. Yet, there are pieces in the work before us, which, though they must have presented considerable difficulties to the translator, are almost perfect. “To Pepa” from Alfred de Musset, is one of these, and the concluding sonnet shows not only true poetic feeling but an artistic touch and delicacy of finish, which would do credit to a much older poetess writing in her mother tongue. Miss Dutt’s metre often limps, her grammar is not always faultless, and her expressions are sometimes quaint or tame. But faults of this kind were inevitable; and it is in the highest degree creditable to her that they are not more frequent. If the translations were arranged in the order in which they were written, they would probably show a rapid progressive improvement in all these respects. The last piece in the book, a sonnet, which, from its subject, we take to be also the latest in point of time, is faultless’ (then follows concluding sonnet, ‘À mon père’). ‘The other piece to which we have referred is hardly less successful, though in a totally different style.’ (Then follows ‘To Pepa’.)
The Friend of India says: ‘We cannot pretend to have read the whole of this volume, but we have dipped into it here and there in leisure moments and have never seen reason to change the opinion formed from the first few snatches, that it deserves very high commendation. It contains a hundred and sixty-five translations in verse from French authors, besides a dedication and concluding sonnet. The versification is generally good, and the translations, we believe, intelligent and faithful. We might have dismissed the volume without further remark, had it been the work of an Englishwoman, as we could easily have believed it to be; but what would have been ordinary commendation, in the case of an Englishwoman, becomes very high praise, when we state that the lady who gathered this Sheaf is a native of this country, and that this Bengalee lady has given us a really good book of translations from French poets in highly creditable English verse. Those who have seen the Dutt Family Album are aware of the taste and talent for poetry that characterize the family, and we cordially commend to their attention the present volume by a young lady of that family. The lady was, we understand, educated in Europe, but that fact, though it may lessen our surprise at the excellence of her workmanship, does not detract from the very high praise that is justly due to her. We take the book as a good omen for the future of women in India. We have been told that the fair sex in India is gifted, not only with a strong love of poetry but also with a love for poetical composition, and that in some parts of the country the women are the song and ballad makers of the districts. When child marriage is abolished, and young girls are properly educated, and woman once more assumes her rightful position in India, we may expect that the influence of the sex on literature, and through literature, on the elevation and refinement of the people, will be great indeed. We trust Miss Toru Dutt’s high example will not be without effect on her countrymen, and we trust the book will be widely circulated among native gentlemen, that they may see what education may do for their wives and daughters.’
The Indian Charivari writes thus: ‘I should like to draw your attention to a little volume of poems called A Sheaf gleaned in French Fields. It is a series of translations by a Miss Toru Dutt. But for the name of the author I should not have dreamed that it was the production of a native of this country. The versions are most graceful, and show a knowledge both of English and French which would not disgrace the most polished of British-born translators. Miss Dutt seems specially to enter into the spirit of Béranger; witness her version of “My Vocation”:
Le bon Dieu me dit: Chante, pauvre petit.
I recommend every one to procure a copy of this new addition to the Lays of Ind.’
Mark that I did not send a copy of my book to the editor of the Indian Charivari, and I think it very good of him to notice the book so kindly, merely from reading about it in other Indian papers. The only little funny mistake in the notice was that ‘Toru’ was printed with a ‘Z’—Zoru. Are you tired or shall I go on with a few more notices? The Madras Standard says: ‘A Sheaf gleaned in French Fields is a title of a volume published in Calcutta, containing translations in English of various French authors, most of whom are familiar to students of French literature. Toru Dutt, a member of a well-known literary family in Calcutta, has furnished in this volume to English readers some of the brightest efforts of the French muse in a neat, elegant, and attractive English dress. The poets of France, whose compositions she has translated, are many, from Leconte de Lisle, a creole born in Mauritius, to that noble and eccentric genius, Victor Hugo. There are one hundred and sixty-six translations in the volume, and Toru Dutt has contrived to give the spirit and the life of the originals in a remarkably successful manner. As the proof of the pudding is in the eating thereof, we give in another column her version of Victor Hugo’s famous poetic satire, “Napoléon le petit”.’
Lastly I shall take the notice of the Bengalee and then I shall stop. ‘There were learned ladies, like Gargi, Khona, and Lilabati in ancient and mediaeval India. But from the dark days of Mohammedan invasion, ignorance and seclusion became the lot of woman in this country. It is only of late that people have come to perceive the necessity of educating her; and though very little has yet been done to improve her mind, some result of the intellectual movement has already become perceptible. Some Bengali ladies have betaken themselves to the field of literature, and written poems and dramas of considerable merit in their native tongue. But Miss Toru Dutt has not only surpassed them all, but has shown a culture very rare even amongst our best-educated men. The Sheaf gleaned in French Fields which she has presented to us is an octavo volume of 234 pages, containing poetical pieces mostly translated from modern French writers. The extensive knowledge she displays, and the command she shows over the English tongue, appear to us simply marvellous when we learn that the accomplished authoress is yet in her teens. Miss Toru Dutt belongs to a family distinguished for its literary talents, the Dutt family of Rambagan, in this city. Her father, Babu Govin Chunder Dutt, is the editor of the Dutt Family Album, and she resided with him for some years in England and learned French while she was in France. Occasional quotations and references in the book under review show that she has some knowledge of German and Sanskrit. We doubt whether there is any young man of her age in this country who has learnt so much. The work of translation has been so well done that the spirit of poetry breathes through every line. While the original has been followed very closely, there is no slavish adherence to the letter at the sacrifice of the true spirit of song. The following extract will show that we have not exaggerated the beauty of the translation.’ (Then follows Victor Hugo’s ‘The Ocean, an address to the people’; afterwards the notice continues:) ‘The authoress appears to be endowed with no mean poetical powers. We hope she will try to write original poetry in her native tongue, and following the footsteps of the greatest poet of the Dutt Family, Michael M. S. Dutt, enrich our vernacular literature with the wealth of her contributions. In a note at the end of the volume, the authoress adds, “the pieces signed A. are by her dear and only sister Aru, who fell asleep in Jesus, on the 23rd July, 1874, at the early age of twenty years.” To show what loss our country has sustained by the premature death of this accomplished lady, we give below one of the pieces, to which her initial is attached.’ (‘The Captive to the Swallows.’)
Now, dear, I hope you have had quite enough of it. You see I have become quite a public character, like L. E. L. or Mrs. Hemans!
The M. S. Dutt mentioned in the last notice is not related to us in any way, though the critic seems to think so. I have only taken notices from some of the papers, to give you an idea of the criticisms that have been written on the Sheaf.
To-day is mail-day, but I do not expect any letter from you, as I received one by the last mail.
I am adding some more translations to the Sheaf and revising it, in case there should be a second edition; for Mr. Knight, the bookseller, told us the Sheaf was in great demand, and that he had received several orders.
Last week there was a great storm with thunder and lightning; one house was struck, two persons were killed and part of the house was destroyed.
To-day there has been some rain in the early morning; then the sky cleared up, but it is looking cloudy and threatening again. The thunder peals so loudly that the houses are shaken to their foundations, and the flashes of lightning are blinding.
I am now reading articles from the Revue des Deux Mondes; the more I read this periodical, the more I like it. The articles are very ably written and the style is beautiful; I never tire of reading the magazine.
Aru’s pet canary died the other day: I buried it under an arbour in our small back garden. Poor thing, it had been suffering from asthma for the last few days. I am sorry for it. Now there are only two left of the thirteen birds we brought from England, a canary and a goldfinch.
A skating-rink has been opened here since yesterday. I have not been to see it, nor do I think I ever shall.
I was very sorry to hear from Mr. Clifford, a Cambridge man and a friend of ours, that Mrs. Babington3 has been suffering very much from some affection of her spine, that she is unable to get up, and that there is scarcely any hope that she will ever rise from her bed of illness. Poor lady! We used to know her very well indeed in Cambridge, and we all feel very sorry for her. By the by, how is the Orphanage that she planned and instituted getting on? There was a very interesting little inmate of this Orphanage, whom we all used to pet, little Bertie. I wonder if she is still there.
I heard from Mr. Clifford that Mr. Jones (who occupied the ground-floor rooms at Mrs. Baker’s while we were at Regent House, and whom and whose family I am sure you have not forgotten), is going from Ceylon for good. Mrs. Jones has been very poorly since they have left England, and it is her delicate state of health that obliges Mr. Jones to leave his mission work and return to Europe. Their daughter, Jenny, is now with them in Ceylon.
The day before yesterday there was a very interesting letter in the papers from the Captain of the Alabama (I think that is the name of the steamer), which was nearly wrecked, but which, thanks to the efficiency of its captain, reached Bombay in a broken state, it is true, but with no lives lost. The Captain, George Hamlyn, we knew very well indeed. He was Captain of the Arabia, in which steamer we returned to Calcutta from Bombay. He is a very religious, and grave, serious man. He used to be very fond of us, especially of our brother, with whom he used often to play chess. I speak of things that happened twelve years ago. His letter is so graphic and modest, yet so terrible in its simplicity.
The ship sprang a leak, and they encountered stormy weather for two days; they gave up all hope, for the water increased in the hold, overflowed into the engine rooms, and so of course the engines became useless.
Baguette, my first favourite cat, is come to interrupt me, and divert my attention; her name is derived from Bâg, which means a tiger in Bengali. You know that the Bengalis say that cats are the aunts of tigers, because of the resemblance that a cat bears to a tiger.
There is a sort of serpent in India, very harmless, but which the Bengalis say suck the milk of cows from their udders, winding themselves round the animal’s hind-legs in order to keep it still, for of course the cow fidgets, and gets restless. I do not know if this is true, but naturalists say that the serpents are unable to suck, by the formation of their mouths. …
I have nothing to write about, so please, dear, excuse this scrawl. Mamma’s and Papa’s kindest regards to your father and mother, and their love to you. With best love to your darling self from me.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. July 15, 1876.
Your very interesting and welcome letter I have just received. I was going to write to you when I received your letter, so I shall answer it at once. I do not know of any French book of rules for composition both in poetry and prose. I once lighted upon the name of a book, such as you want, in one of Hachette & Co’s catalogues; if I chance to find it out again, I shall tell you the title. Here is a French translation of the ‘Hindu wife to her husband’ from the Dutt Family Album, by one of my friends, le Chevalier de Châtelain. I give it, because I think you will like to read it:
Pour des yeux étrangers, oh! non, je ne me pare De bijoux précieux—lumineux comme un phare! Ni pour les yeux d’autrui n’entasse les splendeurs De mes longs vêtements aux si riches couleurs, Ne souhaite non plus que se soit vu mon sourire Par tout autre que toi—que toi seul que j’admire.
Sans les plaisirs du monde, on me dit que mon sort Est triste, est archi-triste, équivaut à la mort; Comme un oiseau captif qu’à gémir condamnée De ce vaste univers je suis l’abandonnée, Et que les diamants, que l’esprit, la beauté, Enfouis à jamais, ne valent jours d’été!
Oui, l’on me dit aussi qu’en un festin assise Être le point de mire est une chose exquise, Que de trôner suprême est le bonheur parfait, Que là seul est la vie, et son plus grand attrait! Que se poser enfin la plus belle des belles Est le plaisir des Dieux n’ayant de parallèles!
Oh! loin qu’un tel avis ait accès dans mon cœur, Je le repousse ainsi qu’on repousse une erreur! Pour moi je la méprise, et la danse et la foule, De ces plaisirs mondains me préserve la houle! Comme une reine heureuse, avec simplicité, Aux seuls miens je m’impose, avec bénignité!
Pour aller d’autres yeux guigner les étincelles, Dans leur triste logis, à leurs foyers, ces belles N’ont elles su goûter le charme de la paix Et d’un chaste bonheur les séduisants attraits, D’admirateurs nouveaux pour s’en aller en quête, Et chercher sans vergogne en faire la conquête.
Pour toi, mon seul amour, je porte ces bijoux, Pour toi seul, mon aimé, pour toi, mon cher époux, Un gentil mot de toi,—de toi, cher! que tant j’aime Est le roi des plaisirs, fait mon bonheur suprême. A toi seul mon sourire et mon plus doux regard, Le trop-plein de mon cœur—de mon amour le nard!
You must know that the Chevalier de Châtelain is the well-known translator of several of Shakespeare’s plays, of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, and many other poetical works.
The short legends at the commencement of F. Richardson’s Iliad of the East all belong to the Ramayana, which epic poem contains in the original Sanskrit many such episodes, in no way relating to the chief subject of the poem.
I know the hymn you mention, I have never heard it sung in choir; the air is, as you well say, splendid, and in full choir it must be something magnificent.
Serpents generally prefer warm and sunny corners; Heber says:
Child of the sun, he loves to lie ’Mid nature’s embers, parched and dry, Where o’er some tower in ruin laid, The peepul spreads its haunted shade, Or round a tomb his scales to wreathe, Fit warder in the gate of death!
Some parts of your letter have gladdened my heart so much, dear, that I read them over and over again. How good you are! By my last I told you in detail, what the papers were saying about my book. Only one notice has appeared since then. The Calcutta Quarterly Review says: ‘A collection of charmingly light and tasteful translations from French Lyrics, selected from the works of Béranger, Sainte-Beuve, Victor Hugo, and other poets. The translator is, we understand, a young Bengali lady, but she uses the English language with all the facility and grace of a skilled English writer, and we cannot but conclude that she has received much of her education in Europe. In any case, however, this book of short poems is a most interesting and pleasing one—pleasing by its intrinsic beauties, and interesting as showing the high degree of natural taste, improved by culture and refinement, that may be found amongst the daughters of the country.’
I think I shall give up Sanskrit. It is very difficult, and the grammatical rules are legion, and so minute. We have finished the three parts of the Riju-Pât, and we are now going to begin Sakuntala by Kalidasa. Have you ever read it in any translation, and do you know the story? It is a charmingly written drama. One of my cousins is called Sakuntala after the heroine. The Bengalis are very fond of the name. Sita is a name which no Bengali will give to his daughter, because Sita was so unfortunate and had suffered very much. It is an unlucky name.
I have had another attack of fever a few days ago, it is only since yesterday that I have come downstairs. We went to drive this morning at 4.45 a.m. We got down on the Maidan to take a walk, but we had hardly gone a quarter of a mile when it commenced raining, so we got into our carriage again.
I feel very complimented indeed that you call your doves by my horses’ names; I am glad you like the names—I am sorry to hear that the cock dove has flown away, but it has been so long in your house that I think it may return.
Jeunette and Gentille are doing exceedingly well. Gentille is the better trotter, she can do her fourteen or sixteen miles within the hour in capital style; Jeunette is good at a gallop, she would have made a splendid riding-mare; she is a grand jumper, there is nothing, I believe, that she couldn’t climb or clear; once she got loose in Baugmaree, and the way she cleared the tall fences was beautiful; she never touched them even with her hoof, but leapt clean over; she must have been taught before, I think, by her trainer.
Papa has hired a piano again for me, as I was getting out of practice. This is a beautiful instrument and quite new. I shall do nothing to-day till I have finished this letter, for the mail leaves on Tuesday and this is Saturday.
From the first of this month, the postal arrangements have been altered a little, and the charges have been lessened; now a letter not exceeding ½ an ounce costs only six annas, formerly it was eight annas. The charges too for newspapers and parcels have been decreased.
Here is a small police case which appeared in yesterday’s papers. A magistrate sent out for an afternoon airing, in charge of a boy, four or five amiable dogs, who seem to have been taught by him to snarl and bite at everything that comes in their way. During their promenade, they saw an old woman’s goat, and flew at it straightway and worried it almost to death. A lad (a Bengali schoolboy, of some seventeen years), generous and brave, rescued the goat, and hit one of the dogs so, in the struggle, that it died. He was told by the dog-keeper that they were the dogs of the Magistrate-Sahib; our spirited boy said, he would go himself to the Magistrate, and tell him about the affair; so he did. Well, what do you think he received; commendation, praise, for his pluck in fighting with five dogs, for his humanity in saving a poor old woman’s goat (on which she depended for her livelihood) from being worried? Nothing of the sort. He received sentence of three weeks’ imprisonment with hard labour. The unjust, nay, the unlawful sentence was confirmed by the Sessions Judge. The High Court emphatically reversed it, that is true, but it was too late, for the boy had suffered the term of imprisonment awarded him already. The Magistrate, Joint Magistrate, and Sessions Judge were of course all Europeans. The papers are speaking against this crying, scandalous shame; the Magistrate and the Sessions-Judge ought to be dismissed for so monstrous a perversion of the law. Imagine the row that would have been made in England at a Magistrate sending a boy to the treadmill under such circumstances.
Calcutta has no Bishop even yet; the Daily News had some funny verses on the subject a few days ago by a correspondent.
‘Conference of eminent divines in London.’
First eminent divine loq.:
‘Although I love all heathen souls Far more than I can utter, They can’t expect me in such A climate as Calcutta.
Second ditto:
‘Salisbury tried it on with me; Said I, “My lord, no butter Of course can draw me to a town Unhealthy as Calcutta.”’
Third ditto:
‘Well, for my part,’ a third was heard, Full dubiously to mutter, ‘I’d like the pay, but lack-a-day! Just fancy hot Calcutta.’
Fourth ditto:
‘Well, I’ll be honest and say out I’d rather have a hut, a Little hut in England, than A palace in Calcutta.’
Chorus of eminent divines:
‘We’d all be glad to go, but then, Since life at best is but a Span, we fear to risk it by A sojourn in Calcutta.’
My maternal uncle is ill with the fever, so Mamma has gone to see him to-day.
I do not correspond with Miss Ada Smith; I only wrote a letter to her when I sent her my Sheaf which Papa had promised her, and got a nice answer in return. She is somewhat older than I am, thirty or thereabouts. She seems to like Amritsar pretty well.
Our relation who is going to England has been unavoidably delayed. He does not start till the 25th. Pity he is not going to Cambridge, as then he would have been soon acquainted with our friends there, who would have been able to help him a little.
There’s Papa calling out to me to rest a little before the Pundit comes!
I have found out the name of the book I mentioned in the commencement of my letter: it is Traité de versification française; I have not seen the book myself, so I cannot give my opinion on it; the title seems to indicate the book to be such as will suit you. But I think the better plan is to do away with all ‘traités’ and rules, except of course the very essential ones, and only read the French poets, enter into their spirit, understand and appreciate them thoroughly, see how they manage their rhymes, metres, idioms, &c. I can recommend to you several good French poets, modern or ancient, but you must not read all their poetry, for they are sometimes very loose and vulgar. Lamartine is always to be trusted. Victor Hugo’s poems have nothing very bad in them, as far as I know, though there are a few rather bad ones; his recent works are better. Then there is Béranger, but you must be very particular about reading his good ones, for he and Musset, though both were greatly talented and full of genius, are often, sad to say, immoral. Vigny, too, is not always what his Moïse would seem to indicate. His Le Cor is splendid. Then there is a host of rising and living poets, first of whom is Theuriet, then there is Leconte de Lisle, Baudelaire, Augier, Autran, &c.
As I am writing to you it is raining, ‘For the rain it raineth every day’ here now.
Dear, your letters are such a comfort. The 23rd July is indeed a sad anniversary for us; the 9th too of July, for my brother, Abju, fell asleep in the Lord on that date in 1865. How hard it seems sometimes, but we have our hope in Christ: what should we become without His blessed promise of the life eternal? There we shall see them again. We were reading this morning the fifteenth chapter of the 1st Corinthians. It is a beautiful chapter, isn’t it?
I wish you many happy returns of your birthday, for by the time this letter reaches you, it will be the 21st August. I wish I could tell you all that passes through my mind, when I think about you and our friendship, face to face; I wish I could congratulate you on your birthday in person. But, dear Mary, though we may never meet again here below, we shall meet again in our eternal home. At times, when at night I cannot sleep, I think of you, of the pleasant intercourse we have had together, of your bright face and sunny smile, and then I long to see you again; sometimes, I think the best thing to be done is to sell off the Garden, at any cost, and go off to England. But that cannot well be accomplished. I shall write to you often, merely for the sake of writing to you, and getting your dear good letters. I feel so much better after reading them: it brings back our pleasant former life so vividly before me.
The Pundit has just gone after giving us our lesson, so I have taken up my writing again.
Do you know that hymn, beginning with the words: ‘Toss’d with rough winds and faint with fear?’ It is a very beautiful little piece and was often sung in St. Paul’s Church. The air too is very pretty. I sometimes sing it, for I am not allowed to sing often, and even when Papa does permit me, he adds that I must sing very gently. Papa is so careful! I tell him, he should keep me under a glass case, for I am not half so delicate as he makes me out to be, or as he is afraid that I am. He says we must go to Europe for my health’s sake; and the slightest cool breeze makes him order me to wrap something about me! I told him laughingly that I would not go to England for the life he’d lead me there! what with the wraps and flannels and no going out when it should become a little cold!
The worst of Calcutta is that it is so damp. The atmosphere is sultry and yet moist and damp. I am perspiring, but I am afraid to open the window, because of the wet atmosphere.
We shall not be very sorry to lose our present Lieutenant-Governor; he is not at all an energetic sort of man. I do not know who his successor will be. The Daily News said to-day that Sir John Strachey is likely to succeed our Governor-General and Viceroy when Lord Lytton retires, which he will do by the end of next year, as his health has been suffering very much since he has come out to India.
The rink, which has been opened only a few days, attracts a great many people. I have not seen it, nor ever shall.
Do Mary and Lizzie Hall attend any of the lectures? Lizzie used to attend the German, French, and Latin lectures. Mary used to go to the two first ones, and instead of the Latin, she used to attend the lectures of Dr. Garrett on harmony.
I am now reading Maître Gaspard Fix by Erckmann-Chatrian. It is a well-written book enough, but not in his usual vein; it is a tale of the coup d’état of the late Emperor Napoleon.
We have sent for two books from Hachette & Co. by this mail, namely, an illustrated edition of Hugo’s Les Misérables and a new work, Son Excellence M. Eugène Rougon, by M. Zola. The latter work treats of the flourishing days of the Second Empire; we saw a review of it in the Pall Mall Gazette, which interested me very much. I have been reading lately Pusey’s Commentary on the Minor Prophets. I liked that on Hosea exceedingly.
There! Jeunette and Gentille have just finished their evening pittance. I must stop one minute to go and give them some dainties, bread or sugar-cane. They are so handsome, my horses! I wish I could show them to you! I ordered the grooms to take off their blankets, and such sleek, shining coats, such beautiful proportions, were displayed to my delighted eyes! It reminded me of a picture in one of my ‘Horse’ books, entitled ‘Unclothing the beauties of the stud’.
I am glad you are getting warmer weather now; I remember you never could like the cold weather, or a fall of snow.
M. Boquel has not written to me yet; I suppose he will as soon as he receives mine.
I should not like to live in that drawing-room at Regent House. The dining-room with its bay-window looking towards Parker’s Piece was very comfortable and cheerful, but the drawing-room! No fire on earth could make it warm and comfortable. It was such a chilly room, I suppose because it was rather large; the piano used to be kept there and of course we were obliged to practise, but our fingers used to be quite benumbed and stiff!
The fall in the price of silver is the general topic now in Calcutta. Newspapers are full of the subject. I do not take much interest in it. A new Municipal Act has been passed which dictates that the members of the Calcutta Municipality are henceforth to be elected by the ratepayers. So elections are going on, but the general public does not seem to take great interest in the subject, as only as yet some hundred and fifty persons have applied to be qualified as electors in the eighteen wards of Calcutta.
The Zoological Gardens of Calcutta are not advancing much, as to the menagerie: a fox, an otter, a few birds, that is all.
Give Mamma’s and Papa’s best regards to your father and mother, and mine too, of course. Papa and Mamma send their love to you. I have nothing else to write about. But it is such a pleasure to write to you, dear, and to hear from you.
Does not Maddy intend to pass a few days with you this year?
The guinea-pigs and pigeons are thriving. So are the cats. May has now got two kittens; nice playful little things they are. Dear, I must say good-bye now.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. August 7, 1876.
Your letter of the 26th June has been lying unanswered for the last week, though not unread, for I have read it over and over again. Yes, by all means write a review of my book; how can you ask my permission? you can do whatever you like with my book and with myself. I shall only be too glad to see it reviewed in some of the English papers. Cut it up savagely s’il vous plaît. A little rough handling will, I think, do me an immense deal of good.
I have already sent you some of the articles on the Sheaf. After I had posted that letter, I felt a little compunction, thinking that reviews of my book would be rather dull reading for you, though of great interest to myself. But now I am glad I sent off the letter, as you write to me in your last to give you an idea of the manner in which my book has been criticized.
One of the pieces in the Sheaf, ‘My Vocation,’ by Béranger, has been inserted in the ‘Course of English Reading’ for the use of candidates for the Entrance Examination in Calcutta.
The compiler of the Selections is the Rev. Mr. Macdonald of the Free Church mission.
Mrs. Macdonald died a few days ago of typhoid fever. She once called here, and we of course returned her visit. Papa attended her funeral, by desire. There was a great concourse of mourners, about three hundred or more.
I am so glad you like the Ramayana and that my country’s heroine has won your heart. Don’t you like Laksmana? I like him immensely. Such a bold impetuous warrior he was. Is not the sad tale of Dasaratha’s fault about the hermit youth, whom he killed by accident, beautiful? The description of the feelings of the king, when he discovered that he had killed a human being, instead of an animal, is vivid and thrilling, and the sorrow of the blind old father of the hermit-youth is most pathetic. I also like very much the episode about the nuptials of Ganga, ‘the fanciful, dripping and bright’; and the charming description of the nymph Menaka. Are not Sita’s conversations with the old hermitess, Anousuya, beautiful? Her description of her own birth and of her marriage with Rama are exquisite.
We are now reading Sakuntala in Sanskrit. It is very difficult but very well written, and describes the calm, peaceful, and rustic life led by the ancient anchorites and devotees. If you can get hold of Sir William Jones’s or Monier-Williams’s translation, you will have some idea of what I am reading.
Saturday was mail-day. I have not got any letters from England by this mail. I expected one from M. Boquel, as you said in your last letter that he had received mine. I am afraid that one of my letters to you has been lost, as my impression is that I wrote to you by the same mail as to M. Boquel, and you do not mention having received any letter from me. It may be that my impression is wrong (I do hope it is), for in your last but one you acknowledged receipt of one from me.
I have not been keeping very well the last few days. I have been suffering from fever at night for the last fortnight. I feel well enough during the day. These night-fevers have weakened me a good deal. I am writing in bed, so you must excuse the bad writing. Dr. Cayley comes to see me every other day. I am now taking by his orders Dr. Churchill’s newly discovered hypophosphate of lime along with my cod liver oil. It is very sweet and thick, just like honey. I hope I shall be able to get up and run about as usual in a few days.
The newspapers have been crying out against Lord Lytton for a certain official letter of his; and ‘thereby hangs a tale’. I shall tell you the affair from the commencement: A certain Mr. F.4 an English pleader, at Agra, one Sunday was about to drive to Church with his family. When the carriage was brought to the door, the syce (groom) failed to be in attendance, but made his appearance when sent for. For this cause, Mr. F. struck the syce with his open hand on the head and face, and pulled him by the hair, so as to cause him to fall down. Mr. F. and his family drove on to the Church, the syce got up and went into an adjoining compound, and there died almost immediately. Mr. F. was placed to take his trial. The medical officer, who conducted the post mortem examination, stated that the man had died from rupture of the spleen, which very slight violence, either from a blow or a fall, would be sufficient to cause, in consequence of the morbid enlargement of that organ. The Joint-Magistrate, Mr. L., found Mr. F. guilty of ‘voluntarily causing what distinctly amounts to hurt’ and fined Mr. F. thirty rupees (£2), and let him off scot free! The High Court of the North-West Provinces did not find that the sentence was open to any objection. You see how cheap the life of an Indian is, in the eyes of an English Judge—£2! Lord Lytton immediately wrote a severe official letter on the subject. The Governor-General in Council had no doubt that the death of the groom was the direct result of the violence used towards him by Mr. F. The Governor-General found that besides his error of judgement, Mr. L. had evinced a most inadequate sense of the magnitude of the offence of which Mr. F. was found guilty. The Governor-General considered the sentence wholly insufficient and that to treat such offences with practical impunity was a very bad example and likely rather to encourage than repress them. For these reasons, the Governor-General in Council considered Mr. L.’s conduct with grave dissatisfaction; he should be so informed, and should be severely reprimanded for his great want of judgement and judicial capacity. Mr. L. should not be entrusted even temporarily with the independent charge of a district, until he had given proof of a better judgement and a more correct appreciation of the duties and responsibilities of magisterial officers for at least a year. The Governor-General could not say whether Mr. F. would have been convicted of a more serious offence, such as that of causing grievous hurt or that of culpable homicide, had he been charged with it. But this he could say, that in consequence of Mr. F.’s illegal violence his servant died, and that it was the plain duty of the Magistrate to have sent Mr. F. to trial for the more serious offence. Mr. L. had framed the indictment under Section 323 of the Indian Penal Code of ‘voluntarily causing hurt’. That was an offence which varied infinitely in degree, from one which was little more than nominal to one which was so great that the Penal Code assigned to it the heavy punishment of imprisonment for a year, and a fine of Rs. 1,000. The amount of hurt and the amount of provocation were material elements in determining the sentence on such an offence. In Mr. F.’s case, while the provocation was exceedingly small, the hurt was death. The class of misconduct, out of which this crime had arisen, was believed to be dying out, but the Governor-General took this opportunity of expressing his abhorrence of the practice of European masters treating their native servants in a manner in which they would not treat men of their own race. This practice was all the more cowardly because those who were least able to retaliate injury or insult had the strongest claim upon the forbearance and protection of their employers. The Governor-General considered that the habit of resorting to blows, on every trifling provocation, should be visited by adequate legal penalties, and those who indulge in it should reflect that they may be put in jeopardy for a serious crime. Vive Lord Lytton! say I. All the papers are crying out against ‘such an unprecedented interference’ on the part of the Viceroy. Lord Lytton in his letter says he ‘regrets that the Local Government (of the North West Provinces) should have made no inquiry, until directed to do so by the Government of India, into the circumstances of a case so injurious to the honour of British rule, and so damaging to the reputation of British justice in this country’.
Miss Tucker, better known as A. L. O. E., who has written a great many small tracts (and who gave some time ago a prize for the best Bengali poem by an Indian girl on the subject of Jesus Christ), is at present at Amritsar. Though I do not know her personally, she must have heard about me from Miss Ada Smith and seen my book, for she wrote me a very nice letter a few days ago and sent me a small book of religious poems of her own.
What is the name of the young lady who ‘helped you in cutting up the buns and rolls’ at your school-treat and with whom you ‘fell in immediately’? I cannot make out her name. Please write out the name very distinctly when you mention her next; I should like to know it.
Do you know I keep a boîte à part for your dear letters only? They are all tied up in packets, ticketed, and dated, so that I can take out any I like and read them over and over again. It seems sometimes as if you were there speaking with me. I do like your letters so much, dear; they are such a pleasure and comfort to me.
Have you read The Newcomes? It is one of the best of Thackeray’s novels, and in my opinion stands next to Esmond. I have been looking over it again during my illness; I have read it through many a time.
Jeunette and Gentille are going on very well. They have had a long rest, as I have been unable to go out on account of my own illness and also that of Poontoo, our coachman, who has taken leave for a week as he is ill. To-day, I am going out for a drive if I can. You should see Jeunette trot up, with playful curvets, to the manger at the hour of her evening meal, in spite of the efforts of the groom to maintain a stately and decorous walk. Gentille is gentler, as her name implies; she is a little older than Jeunette and is always quiet and meek.
I have not been able to read much on account of my illness. I have only been reading some of Prosper Mérimée’s short tales. ‘L’enlèvement de la redoute’ is very graphic and spirited.
Among Saturday’s telegrams was the news of Sir Salar Jung’s return to India by the end of this month. He has stayed a very short time in Europe, hasn’t he? I suppose this hasty retreat is owing to the near approach of winter.
Have you read Thackeray’s funny poem on the visit of the Nepaulese ambassador, Jung Bahadoor, to England, several years ago? If you have not, do so; I am sure it will amuse you and that you will thank me for telling you about it.
August 8th. I had no fever last night (though I perspired a good deal towards the morning) thanks to the eight grains of quinine which I took in one dose last evening.
The new drainage works, which were finished in the Bengali quarter of the town last winter, have not succeeded thoroughly. At the first heavy showers of the rainy season many of the streets gave way and went four or five feet below the level. There were several accidents, in consequence, of carriages and men going down with a plunge. We were almost afraid to drive in the narrow streets during the commencement of the rains. Now, however, all damage has been repaired and the roads are safe again. How I wish the rainy season were over! November with its cool winds and sunny days would be a real blessing. It is so delightful driving about at noon during the winter in Calcutta. The sun is then warm without being hot, and the wind is refreshing ‘like that of England’s June’.
There is a new Albert Hall opened here. Such a ruinous paltry building with small windows and broken panes! It is a shame to call it by such a high-sounding name. The new Government Telegraph Office on the contrary is a most grand and majestic mansion.
The Hon. Mr. Justice Phear, brother of the Master of Emmanuel College, is about to retire soon. He is a great advocate of female education in Bengal and is generally liked. Of course he is being overwhelmed with farewell addresses before his departure for England.
Papa has bought for me, from a bookseller ambulant, a beautiful edition in eight volumes of Victor Hugo’s works. I shall, I am sure, find great pleasure in reading them.
As the mail goes away to-morrow, I must finish this letter to-day. I am afraid I must stop here, dear, for I feel a little tired. Papa’s and Mamma’s and my own kindest regards to your father and mother, and their love to you, and best love to your dear self, from me.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. August 26, 1876.
Your welcome letter has been lying unanswered for more than a fortnight. I do not feel strong enough yet to be able to sit up and write, so you must excuse this delay in answering you, dear. I am better than I was a week ago, but not quite well; the fever at nights has abated but not quite gone.
Many thanks for the two beautiful photo scraps. Just like your kind self to send them to me. I am highly pleased with them, especially with that of the horses. Mine (my horses, I mean) are as well-conditioned as ever. They are bay with black legs, you know; the white one in the photograph resembles Jeunette a little, but Jeunette’s head is finer and her eyes are more spirited.
I am translating some small Sanskrit pieces. I would have copied one or two for you, but they are too long for that. I have sent one to the Calcutta Quarterly Review which the editor (Mr. Lethbridge5) has accepted. Papa is very pleased and so am I, for the Calcutta Review is the best of its kind in India.
As I am too weak to be able to go downstairs, I have had my piano brought into my bedroom, for I am allowed to play a little now and then, by Dr. Cayley, to amuse myself, that is without getting tired.
Calcutta is now taken up with the Municipal elections. Papa has given his vote to the Hon. Baboo Kristo Das Pal, the editor of the Hindu Patriot.
Lord Lytton had a very bad fall recently from his horse, as he was riding at Simla. He went down the khud several feet, but luckily escaped with a few bruises. Colonel Burne, his private secretary, was present at the accident, and was terribly frightened, it is said, on seeing the Viceroy fall. He was private secretary to Lord Mayo, and was a witness of that Viceroy’s murder by the convict.
How nice to have A. L. with you. You are enjoying yourself to your heart’s content. Give my love to A. L. Is she as fond as ever of Byron? I like Byron’s ‘Siege of Corinth’ very much. There are some very fine and spirited lines in it, especially at the end: the description of ‘Alp, the Adrian renegade’ who is known by ‘his right arm bare’ in the battle fields; that of the fight within the Church:
Where the last and desperate few Would the failing fight renew.
His ‘Verses on attaining my thirty-fifth birthday’ are highly pathetic, and there is a ring of sincerity in them, very rarely to be found in Byron. ‘The death of the gladiator’ is well known as one of the best pieces among his poems. Papa was saying the other day that he had heard that once Professor Wilson (‘Christopher North’) reading aloud the piece, broke down at the line:
There were his young barbarians all at play,
and was so moved that he could not read further.
28th. Your dear letter of the 26th July arrived yesterday. I was at first a little surprised at the writing of the address. Papa suggested that it must be a letter from M. Boquel, but I soon guessed that it was Miss A.’s hand, and your letter confirmed my suspicions. Indeed, dear, I shall write to you as often as possible when I get well again. I am very weak, you see, and am apt to get soon tired, if I exert myself ever so little. I hope you will excuse me my faults and delays in not writing to you as long as I am ill. I was thinking of you, dear, the other night. It was a Sunday night, and I could not sleep because of the fever, and I kept awake for two or three hours. I heard the clock strike one, and then I thought you were perhaps at Church, at evening service, and then I wished I could be with you and
Hear once more in college fanes The storms their high-built organs make, And thunder-music rolling shake The prophets blazoned on the panes.
Your last letter was very nice, dear, I read it several times over.
If our Garden could be sold, we could start for England immediately. It is a pity, Papa says, that it is so difficult to sell off. Of course, it would be very nice to be able to go to England, but the Garden is so full of past recollections, that when it comes to the point (as it very nearly did two months ago) to sell it off, one feels a pang; and I was rather glad than otherwise when the intending purchaser, who had come to see the Garden, said that the place did not suit him quite.
You see I have been more than a month ill, and I have not been to church for such a long time; a short drive even tires me now. Papa and Uncle Girish say the hypophosphate of lime has done great things for me (though it is hardly a month since I began taking it), and that it will do more. I feel stronger, as I said before; and if the fever goes off completely I shall be on my legs again, and writing long letters to you.
The weather is much finer now. There is always a soft northern breeze, indicative of the near approach of our pleasant winter. The rains too have abated, though sometimes of an afternoon there are heavy showers. I hope the rains will soon be quite over, for already there has been more rain than the average. The skies are beautiful now, serene and blue, dapple with white silvery clouds. I must make this letter as long as I can, but it must go by this mail, and I hope I shall be able to write to you again next week. It will be quite a task for you to make out this scrawl, but you see I am lying in bed, and writing in that posture in a legible manner is rather a difficult thing.
I heard that Mrs. Cowell has had my book noticed in some English paper, the Christian Gazette or some such paper. Have you heard anything about it?
I am glad you see the Halls pretty often. Is Lizzie as shy as ever? I suppose not, for you say she sang, and I remember she was so shy before, that she never played even before Aru and myself. Does she or Mary attend any of the lectures? I suppose you do not go now to the French lectures, as you never mention them.
Shall I describe to you the bed-room in which I am now lying? As I have nothing better to write about, I had better I think. The room has four windows, two to the east, one to the south, and another to the north, and two doors looking west, so we can have plenty of fresh air, you see; it is smaller than Mrs. Baker’s drawing-room, but larger than her dining-room. It is furnished very strangely, half in the English and half in the Bengali style. A large cushion or guddee of white linen, in the centre, furnished with smaller cushions and pillows, very tempting to a sleepy person. A few chairs, a rather small bed in a corner with muslin mosquito curtains, my piano at its foot. Over the piano hang our family likenesses, namely those of Papa, Mamma, and my brother, Aru and myself. A small desk at one corner, covered with sundry English, French, Bengali, and Sanskrit books; my box of veterinary medicines in the opposite corner; near the bed on a small side-table, the canary and goldfinch in a roomy cage. The window on the north commands a view of the busy street and the neighbouring houses, and below is our small front court-yard; just under the window are the wooden mangers of Jeunette and Gentille. The east windows look towards Uncle Girish’s house, the south one overlooks our back-garden, and then beyond our wall there are several huts and a tank, a most dirty and unhealthy affair. The east windows are closed just now, the north and south ones are open. The sky is so blue and so peaceful. The sun is not very hot, a cloud is over it at this moment; the north breeze is so soft and refreshing; a very calm and quiet hour this is (2 p.m.).
I have been reading one or two of Victor Hugo’s plays, Cromwell and Hernani. He is not always pure in his writings as Lamartine was, but Cromwell and Hernani are interesting; the latter, however, is not to be recommended. Papa is reading Carlyle’s French Revolution. I told him to read it; he now reads it to me sometimes (I have read it through before); he is a very good reader, and if he had taken lessons in elocution, I am sure he would have become a second Bellew. Have you ever heard poor Bellew read? He is dead now. I heard him once while we were at St. Leonards. I never passed a pleasanter evening. He read selections from Shakespeare, Dickens, and other well-known authors; but the best was his rendering of the ‘Vagabond’, a poem by an American author; I forget the name, but I have the piece in one of our books.
By last mail we heard that Madame de Châtelain, wife of the Chevalier de Châtelain, had died in July. Le Chevalier de Châtelain is, you must know, the translator of Chaucer and Shakespeare, and of other English and German poets. We have never seen him, but we know him very well by correspondence. He was very fond of his wife, for he says that ‘pendant 33 ans, et plus, elle fut l’ange de la maison’. He is a friend and schoolfellow of Victor Hugo.
I have been obliged of course to give up my Sanskrit lessons. I shall resume them as soon as I am a little stronger.
It will be very pleasant for you to go again on a visit to old Malvern and see the dear well-known faces; I am sure you will enjoy yourself. I should have liked to be with you when you visited the Royal Academy, for though I cannot draw even a dog-kennel (that seems the easiest to me), I am very fond of paintings. Aru used to draw very well latterly.
I have been thinking and thinking to write to you about something more interesting than my own self! My letter seems full of myself! So selfish it looks, but you see I have nothing to write about, except of ourselves, as I do not go out much, especially now.
Our winter skies are so beautiful and variegated in colour, that dyers and weavers try to imitate them in the colouring of the borders of saris, but of course they never succeed in giving the rich, splendid, soft, and harmonious tints of the sky.
As it is past six, Papa tells me to leave off, and not tire myself, because of the slight feverishness at night. So good evening, dear, for the present, and ‘au revoir’ till to-morrow morning.
Jeunette and Gentille are eating their evening meal under the window.
29th. Papa and I were talking last evening about the number of my books that we have sent to our friends in England and from whom we have not received any acknowledgement. The number amounts to sixteen; the friends are of our most intimate ones, and not likely to let a letter remain unanswered. This makes us half-afraid that the letters and books have been lost, or that some of the post-office men must have tampered with the stamps, taken them, and thrown away the letters and books; for we sent three or four at a time, which amounts to ten rupees more or less, a great temptation to poor men. Such things are very common in India, more so than in England. Some years ago a postman was caught in the very act of throwing several packets of letters into the river! It was proved that he was in the habit of doing so, to save himself the trouble of going his rounds! So you see we are rather in a fix to find out where those books and letters are gone. Will you kindly ask Mary or Lizzie Hall if they have received the book and letter which I sent them in May last, and will you please write and tell me if they have or not in your next letter?
I have made a slight mistake about the pages of this letter; the reason is that I blotted a page frightfully, and was obliged to tear it off; if you follow the numbers on the corner of the pages you will find it all right. I only hope that you will be able to make out this illegible scrawl.
To-day’s telegram announces that the English press approves Lord Lytton’s minute on the F. case; the Indian Daily News has a most whimpering sort of article on it this morning, trying to unsay all it had said against Lord Lytton and his minute before.
Sir Salar Jung has arrived at Bombay. He will be glad to be home again, I am sure. I must close here, dear, as I feel a little tired. I shall write again as soon as I feel a little stronger.
Papa’s and Mamma’s and my own best regards to your father and mother, and their love to you, and best love from myself.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. September 6, 1876.
I thought of writing to you last week, but was prevented. I hope to make this letter long, for I have got plenty of time before the mail leaves.
On Monday there was such an accident in my Uncle Girish’s garden. One of our neighbours had very recently bought a pair of Walers; they were a very vicious pair, at least one of the pair was in the habit of biting and kicking his grooms. Well, the day before yesterday, my uncle and I were sitting on the perron of his house when we heard a hubbub, and in a second we saw the cause. The pair of horses were rushing madly towards my uncle’s house. His porter was on the point of shutting the gate; Mamma, from our house, called out to him to step aside, or he would be crushed. On they came, furious, the carriage was almost overturned by a garden seat, but it rose straight again, the pole was pushed between three tall betel-nut trees, and all the three were snapped in two; one fell on the haunch of one of the horses. They would have rushed on again, but the chain of the pole broke, and each turning in opposite directions they thus pulled against each other, and for one minute seemed bewildered and stood still, but trembling with excitement. The grooms gathered round and secured the animals. One of the horses had been severely injured, but it was very fortunate that no lives had been lost. We are so often walking about on my uncle’s and our own grounds, that I felt very thankful that no one was run over, and that we were not walking about at the time of the accident.
Jeunette and Gentille are as well-behaved and as spirited as ever. One day when they came all harnessed, just before they were put to the carriage, I called Jeunette; at first, she looked at me rather suspiciously, and made a step or two, then stopped again, peeping at me through her blinkers, uncertain whether to come or not. I took out a piece of bread from my pocket, and she came at once. Now I have only to call and she obeys me at once, whether I have a slice of bread or not.
8th. I could not write this letter yesterday, as I received a letter from the editor of the Bengal Magazine, asking me earnestly to come to his help, in the shape of an article for the October number of his Magazine. I was busy yesterday copying out three pieces of poetry from my MSS., but I am at liberty to-day.
I received a small book from Mrs. Cowell by the last mail. It is entitled Oliver of the Mill and is beautifully got up. It is written by her sister, Miss Charlesworth, author of Ministering Children and a great many other books. I have been reading it and I like it very much. Have you ever seen Miss Charlesworth? We used to meet her very often when she once came on a visit to her sister in Cambridge. She is such a good Christian lady. We all liked her greatly.
I received also by the last mail a letter from Mrs. Hutchinson in acknowledgement of my book and letter. So all my books, at least, are not lost. I was very much pleased when I got her letter.
Here is a little story quite true for you. The place where this happened is Lucknow. A Mohammedan kept a school. One of the pupils, a lad of twelve, absented himself for a day or two. When he came to school again, the master shut him in a dark room (where a snake had been seen some days ago, and which had not been killed) as a punishment. Presently the lad cried out that the room was very dark, and that he was frightened; the Mohammedan did not answer him even. Soon the poor boy called out that there was a snake in the room, and he begged hard to be let out. The inhuman master told him to open the door himself if he could; but the door was shut from the outside. Some minutes afterwards the child said they might as well let him out now as the snake had bitten him, but the brutal man did not even open the door to see. When the lad’s father came in search of his son, he was told that the boy had been shut up, as he had been absent for two days. The father asked the schoolmaster to release him now. They both entered the room. The boy lay dead on the floor, a snake was coiled round his throat; he was bitten in three or four places, near the ankle and foot. The schoolmaster has been hanged.
I am now quite well, but I have been obliged to give up Sanskrit for the present till I am stronger. We have just come back from a drive, I enjoyed it very much. The morning was cold and sunny. I have not been reading much lately.
I have just received a letter from you, dear. Such a duck of a letter! Mr. Knight’s address is:
Messrs. W. Newman and Co. Booksellers, Dalhousie Square, E. Calcutta, India.
Little Varûna has been ill, but is now quite well. He is so intelligent. He knows all about Moody and Sankey. Some months ago he had a book about them in his hand; I was looking at their likenesses on the cover, when he explained to me: ‘this is Moody, he preaches; this other one is Sankey,—he sings,’ and then he breaks forth into one of their well-known hymns: ‘F’ee f’om the law’ (which means ‘Free from the law’) or ‘Ho! my comwades!’ (Ho! my comrades).
How you must have enjoyed seeing your school companions again! I suppose it will be some time that you will be away from Cambridge, at least four or five weeks. I shall always send my letters to Cambridge, as that will be safer.
I hope I shall be able to bring out another ‘Sheaf’, not gleaned in French but in ‘Sanskrit Fields’! If I succeed, then I shall follow your advice, and send two copies to Professors Max Müller and Monier-Williams, respectively; as it is, I have only as yet gathered two ears, and my ‘Sanskrit Sheaf’ is far from being gathered and complete.
We shall go to the Garden by the end of next month. I wish we were able to go earlier, but that is impossible on account of the recent rains. The Garden is so beautiful! I wish you could see it. And then it is so quiet and peaceful there. It is not perfect:
Ce n’est pas le séjour des dieux, Mais ce que j’aime encore mieux, La paix que l’on y trouve est grande.
I am glad you like Pendennis. Read Newcomes next. You will, I think, like it better still. All Thackeray’s works are delightful. One never feels dull or tired with any of his books. The Book of Snobs is very amusing, and, sad to say, very truthful.
Would not the contemplated Channel tunnel be a grand thing, if it could be made successful? I remember the trajet from Boulogne to Folkestone. Aru and I were so dreadfully sea-sick; we remained all wrapped in our cloaks, with our faces buried against the cushions of the miserable little private cabin; the steward shook his head, I recollect, on seeing our woebegone attitude! I have heard that very few people cross the sea from France to England without feeling sea-sick.
I do not know whether Anglo-Indian officers’ wives are in the habit of horse-whipping the Indian soldiers, but it is not unlikely, as I have heard of Anglo-European ladies (?) beating, whipping their Indian servants.
We have no real English gentlemen or ladies in India, except a very few.6 People generally come out to India to make their fortunes, you see, and real gentlemen and ladies very rarely leave home and friends for the ‘yellow gold’. M. About has a very true remark on French and other people of foreign countries who come to make their fortunes in Egypt; his remark is highly applicable to Europeans who come to India with the same motive.
He says: ‘Oh, l’étrange racaille! et faut-il que l’orient nous juge sur de pareils échantillons! Je me rappelai malgré moi qu’un jour, à Scutari, comme je me promenais seul sur la rive asiatique du Bosphore, mon attention fut attirée par un long rouleau de choses mortes, brisées, corrompues, à moitié détruites, que le flot apportait, reprenait, et abandonnait enfin. Cette épave sans forme, sans couleur, et sans nom, ne ressemble-t-elle pas un peu à l’émigration de rebuts humains qu’un courant invisible pousse à l’est de la Méditerranée?’
It is so dark and cloudy at this moment. It has been raining, though the morning was very fine and sunny, and there was not a cloud in the sky. The room (library we call it, for it is furnished with six almyras, or glass-shelves of books) in which I am writing has only two windows, which makes it rather dark on a cloudy day. It has four doors; two have been shut up by the two book-shelves, and two are open; one leads to our dining-room in the east, the other is the door of exit. We are rather hard up here for rooms, there is no regular drawing-room; old Baugmaree is much more comfortable with its sunny rooms and halls. I wish you were with us at Baugmaree; would it not be pleasant going about the dear old place with you, feeding the ducks and pigeons, angling, having the cow milked before you? are you not fond of milk? ours is the best of its kind, thick as cream, and we make such rich butter from it. I am not fond of milk at all. Mamma’s cows are such beauties, though they are a little fierce; they never made friends with me or Aru, though we used to try hard to get into their good graces by dint of dainty newly-grown cusha grass. And then how I would enjoy walking with you in the Garden! Come this cold season; there are no snakes out among the grass during the winter in Calcutta. Oh, if you really could come! writing about it makes me, for the moment, believe it possible, nay, very likely; but the reaction comes soon after; and I feel sad when I think of the impossibility of such a thing. I wonder shall I ever see you again. If not here on this earth, have we not the sure hope of meeting in a better and a far happier home?
I must rest a little as it is nearly 4 p.m., and Papa is calling out to me from upstairs not to tire myself.
I saw in the papers to-day the narrow escape of Archdeacon Emery (of Ely) and his family. I suppose you have seen it in the Cambridge local papers.
There has been a dacoity near our garden. (I suppose you know what that is?) I hope the dacoits will be well punished, for they have been caught by the police.
I think I had better stop here, dear, as I have nothing to write about. Kindest regards from Papa and Mamma to yours and their love to you. Best love from me to your dear self.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. September 16, 1876.
Your letter of the 15th August came to hand this morning. Many many thanks for it; I need not repeat how welcome it was.
A terrible accident happened last Sunday. We were taking our usual morning drive when, in a very crowded part of the street, a very infirm old man ran against our horses, and was knocked down. It seems he was running away from another carriage and ran right against our horses. We did not think he was seriously hurt at the time; he seemed only a good deal bruised; Papa had him immediately carried to the Medical College Hospital, which was not far off. The surgeon in attendance did not find the man much hurt, but the old man has since died; isn’t this dreadful? The man was so infirm that he could not have been less than seventy or eighty years old. We were going at a very moderate pace, and Jeunette and Gentille behaved in the most exemplary manner, stopping the moment they were checked. The carriage wheels did not pass over the man, I believe; perhaps one of the horses’ legs might have struck him. We shall know all the particulars as soon as the inquest comes off, which is to be held on the 18th instant (Monday). Our coachman is very much frightened; he has never had an accident since he has been in our service, and that is more than twenty-five years. He is a very cautious driver; if there is a carriage just before ours, he is in the habit of slacking the pace of our horses, and following in the wake of the carriage just in front; of course when the road is perfectly clear he drives on.
Papa will have to give his evidence; he has never given evidence, though he has taken many a one, when he was Deputy-Magistrate many years ago. The old man, it seems, had no relatives or near kinsmen; there is an old woman in whose house he used to lodge. She said to our coachman that the old man was subject to fits of trembling, and that on the very morning of the accident she had begged him not to go out as he might drop and die in the street. Poor old fellow! He should have kept on the pavement and not tried to cross just as so many carriages were crossing each other. I hope the affair will soon end satisfactorily, as Papa is rather anxious about the poor coachman, lest he be punished unjustly. The inquest was to have been held yesterday, and Papa went to the Coroner’s office, but one of the jurymen was absent, so Papa came back. The course of law is very tardy in India and not very impartial. I have not been out for some days, as we think the coachman will be a little nervous till this coroner’s inquest is satisfactorily over. I have covered a whole sheet with this accident, but as it is a subject which engrosses us all most at present, you must excuse me, dear.
Papa and Mamma have gone to see Uncle Girish, who is ailing a little from a slight attack of feverishness. I am going there, so good-bye for the present.
Little Varûna has not been to see us for some time. He is a very delicate child; with his intelligence, his affectionate ways, he wins every heart. He knows more about the British Pharmacopoeia than I do! He has only once to be told the name of a medicine, and he never forgets it. He pronounces the hard names of the medicines so charmingly; ‘anisee vate’ (aniseed water), ‘essence’ (with an accent on the second syllable) of peppermint; ‘swandy’ (brandy) is the funniest; then there is ‘nit’ic etho’ (nitric ether). He will never own that the smell of any medicine is disagreeable to him; even cod-liver oil, he does not hesitate to say that he likes. Several days ago he was handling my phial of cod-liver oil; I told him to leave the bottle alone as it was sure to make his little hand smell terribly. He denied this, and wanted to smell it; so I opened the stopper, he took a long breath, his little nose shrunk up in spite of his efforts to keep a good face. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘how do you like it?’ ‘Very much’ was the reply, with a shrewd naughty little smile. He is very fond of the piano, and used to be very good friends with me, because I allowed him to play (?) on mine sometimes, when he came here. I wish you could see him; I am sure you would like him; are you fond of children and do they easily come to you? I am a very bad hand at making friends with children and babies; the latter I am quite afraid to take on my lap, for fear of hurting them. Aru was a better hand with children in general; they took more kindly to her sweet face and gentle manners; she used to be extremely fond of babies, but like me, although in a lesser degree, she was afraid to handle the very young ones. But with Varûna, I made friends the very day of our arrival. He was pronounced not very pretty by Mamma on the first evening, but I quite disagreed with her, and now she agrees with me that his little face is the most intelligent we have ever seen. If he sees us dassing in the street, from their house, his triumphant cry of ‘Uncle!’ or ‘Toru!’ as the case might be, is the most gladdening and joyous sound that can be heard. You told me to write to you about him; I hope you are not yet tired of hearing about his little winsome ways. The other day his mother forbade him to bother Papa about his gold watch. He came to our house, and the first thing he said was, ‘Mamma said that I am not to ask you for the watch, but that I may take it if you give it yourself without my asking. Now give it of yourself, I am not asking!’ Wasn’t this fine logic?
I must go now and dress for dinner. In India, Bengalis and some Europeans, too, take baths twice a day at least, one in the morning and one in the evening, in consequence of the heat. I know how hot the weather has been this summer in England. All the correspondents of the Indian papers complain of the dreadful heat in England this year.
I received a letter from Mary Hall 7 on Saturday afternoon. It had been directed to Baugmaree and so was a little delayed. She speaks about you and says what a good correspondent you are; indeed you are a very good correspondent. You know I generally receive a letter from you every fortnight, and as I got one by the mail before last, I did not expect one by this mail; it was quite an unexpected pleasure, and I was so glad to receive it; you are a faithful friend indeed; when I am asked by Uncle Girish if I have received any letters from England by the last mail, my invariable answer is, ‘Yes, from faithful dear Mary.’ Yours is indeed a rare and warm affection for me, and, dear, I feel at times such keen pleasure when I think about it. God bless you, dear, for it; and though we may not meet in this world, perhaps we may through His grace meet in that happier and far better home.
Mary Hall says they have received my book, so all are not lost, and it was wrong of us to think that the post-office men were to blame! What is your whole name, dear? I found that one of the very first letters you wrote to me is signed ‘Mary E. Rodd Martin’—so please tell me your full name in E. It is quite a shame not to know my best and only friend’s name, is it not?
Have you read Thackeray’s Esmond? I had read it long ago, before we went to England, but I read it over again a few days ago and it is very interesting. Papa thinks it is Thackeray’s masterpiece, and I quite agree with him.
Miss Thackeray, whom we met at Cambridge at Trinity Lodge,8 told us, I remember, that her father took the greatest pains with Esmond, more than with any others of his works, and that he, too, used to think it his best work.
There was a good deal of rain on Saturday, but to-day the weather is very fine.
Mamma has caught a cold; it is all owing to her having the window of her bed-room open, in spite of our remonstrances. The dews are now very heavy during the night, and, whatever poets or bards may sing in praise of them, dews are very unhealthy, and one is apt to catch a bad cold, if one stays out late in the evening without a hat. This reminds me of Pope’s lines in his ‘Elegy on an unfortunate lady’ and how they (the couplet, I mean) were parodied by Catherine Fanshawe, and applied to the then newly-opened Regent’s Park. Pope wrote:
Here shall the spring its earliest sweets bestow, Here the first roses of the year shall blow.
Catherine Fanshawe only altered one word of the first line and a single letter of the second, and made the couplet run thus:
Here shall the spring its earliest coughs bestow, Here the first noses of the year shall blow.
I must stop here for the present, though I have very little time to finish this letter, as the mail goes on Tuesday. From the week after next the mail-day will be changed from Tuesday to Friday, on account of the monsoons on the Indian Ocean, which grow less during the cold weather.
Dr. Cayley called to see me the other day. I am quite well now. He recommended us to go to Hazareebag or Bangalore for a change; he would have recommended a sea-voyage, if he had not been told that I get sea-sick. He said we ought not to go to Europe before March, so as to have the spring before us when we land in England; as if we were going so soon or, who knows, perhaps at all! The return to England is becoming a very vague and shadowy thing; it grows fainter and dimmer every day almost. Travelling in India by rail is rather unpleasant, especially for Bengalis; there was a meeting yesterday at the Town Hall on the subject. We did not attend the meeting, but we shall see the report, I suppose, in the papers soon.
18th. Little Varûna came to see us yesterday evening. The child was so glad to see us; he kept talking, laughing, and jumping about, in his delight. We were also very glad to see him. His joy reached its summit when I opened the piano, and played some of Sankey’s hymns; he would not at first touch the piano for very joy, but I begged him to play (?) just a little before the servant came to take him away, and he touched one note, laughed out gaily, and then ran to his servant and went home quite happy. Poor child! he has got very thin on account of his recent illness; he is now taking ‘Pepysine wine’ (Pepsine wine) he informed us, and ‘Hunjarian wine’ (Hungarian wine), but the latter was very ‘hot’, he said, so he does not take it any more. He constantly asked, sure of the reply, if we were not very glad to see him. He is very fond of all of us.
The afternoon has been rather cloudy to-day. I hope it will clear up to-morrow morning. The London correspondent of the Indian Daily News writes by this mail that the weather had been much cooler in England for the past week, the thermometer having gone down forty degrees. Do you find it cooler? I suppose you’ll not be back in Cambridge when this letter reaches you, as you are going to stay six weeks at Guildford, and it does not take more than three weeks for a letter to go to England, via Brindisi. I must close here. Papa’s and Mamma’s kindest regards to yours and love to you, and with my best love to yourself.
P.S. Our coachman has been discharged; the jury found that he was not at all to blame. Papa simply related what had happened to the Coroner. The Sub-assistant Surgeon of the Medical College Hospital said that the old man was stone blind. Poor old fellow! It was very rash to venture out in a crowded street without a guide.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. September 25, 1876.
This letter will be very short, for I am going to enclose a translation from the Sanskrit, which I have contributed to the Bengal Magazine for October. There are, of course, one or two mistakes in the printing. The thirteenth line of the poem is too close to the foregoing one; does it not seem as if the thirteenth line, like Dhruva, whom it describes, also ‘longed to clamber up, and by his playmate sit’. You must tell me if you like the piece. I have not received any letter from you by this mail, but I did not expect any, as I got one by the last mail but one.
I received a very nice Recueil Choisi from the Chevalier de Châtelain. Poor old gentleman! his wife has lately died, as I wrote to you before. Inside the book on the flyleaf he has written ‘À Miss Toru Dutt, de la part d’un cœur désolé’ and then lower down—‘À bientôt’ which means, I suppose, that he will write soon. There are several translations from French into English and vice versa, of poetical pieces by himself and his late wife.
The cold weather is coming on slowly, the mornings are already cool and pleasant, and at night the dews fall heavy. You are now in the warm autumn season of dear old England.
There were few people at Church yesterday, owing to the Durga Poojah holidays. Every one is going from Calcutta for a change; this is the longest vacation of the year, extending to more than two months.
Varûna came to see us last evening. I made glad his heart with the present of a small ‘Dolly’s photographic album’. I at first feared that he would refuse to take it, for he has a shy sort of pride which disdains any favour; but the small album was too tempting. ‘Was he to take it home?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And not return it again?’ ‘No, it was his property now.’ He was so delighted with it, showing it to everybody. Some time ago he was sharply rebuked by a not very good-tempered gentleman. The child burst into tears, and Papa and I took him away. ‘He is a very naughty man,’ said Varûna, as he walked sobbing between me and Papa. ‘Yes.’ Then in a burst of revengeful indignation, ‘We will charge a gun with small shot and shoot into his eyes,’ he cried. We could not help laughing outright at this most sanguinary proposal.
The din of music at nights from the houses of our Hindu neighbours is something awful. During the Poojah they have theatrical representations at their own houses, much to the annoyance of quieter neighbours like ourselves.
The Garden is much more retired and quiet during the Poojah. There are very few rich men’s houses near Baugmaree, and these, too, are mostly visited from time to time by the owners, who very seldom like to live for a long time in such a secluded spot. The only wealthy family who do live there permanently are the Mullicks, who are our very next door neighbours. Their grounds are separated from ours by a high wall.
Mr. J. Wilson, the editor of the Indian Daily News, has been summoned for libel against the Chairman of the Municipality, Sir Stuart Hogg. Mr. Wilson in his paper said, that he (Mr. Wilson) had votes enough to have been a Municipal Commissioner, but that Sir Stuart had tampered with them, and so prevented his being elected. Now this is a very serious charge, and Sir Stuart has very rightly asked the magistrate to issue a summons against Mr. Wilson. The magistrate said that Sir Stuart had been libelled, and granted the summons. Sir Stuart Hogg has borne with Mr. Wilson’s invectives long enough, and the editor does want a lesson. Every day he used to abuse Sir Stuart most unjustly and for nothing at all. But he has already commenced apologizing and whining in his paper for his ‘misapprehension’.
There will be a great Durbar at Delhi during the cold season, when the Viceroy will proclaim Victoria, no more Queen, but Empress of India.
Sir Bartle Frere, the papers said on Saturday, was likely to come out as Governor of Bombay again.
So Murad V has been deposed on account of his insanity, and his brother Hamid reigns in his stead. I am afraid it will take a long time to have a permanent, just, and powerful government in Turkey.
I have not read anything lately. Since my last illness I have got to be very idle, I think. A whole month passed in laziness in bed is very bad, and apt to make one idle and good-for-nothing, even when one is strong and well again. I have got three more letters to write by this mail. I hope I shall be able to do so, as there is plenty of time before me. The mail does not leave till Friday; they have changed the mail-day from Tuesday to Friday on account of the monsoons.
Lord Lytton had a son born to him at Simla; this is rather a new thing, as no child had been born to any of the Viceroys while they held that position. The baby-boy is to be named Victor Alexander, by the Queen’s desire, who has wished to stand as one of his sponsors.
There is another skating rink opened at the Calcutta Zoological Gardens; very few ladies, the papers say, venture on the rink, but there is always a good company of gentlemen. A French company of actors is coming out to India in November, so we are going to have French plays acted.
Our relation, about whom I wrote to you, has no doubt by this time reached England long ago. As he and his family are Hindus, we are not on visiting terms. His father comes now and then to see my Uncle Girish, for they were in the same class when they were boys at school. Mamma had a slight attack of fever, but she is now, I am happy to say, quite well.
Last night we had a heavy shower. But this is the last of the rains. The days now seldom turn out rainy and soon the rains will cease altogether. The mornings are pretty cool now, but the days are warm; even now I am perspiring profusely as I write to you.
Jeunette and Gentille are going on very well.
A few days ago I lent Jeunette for the evening to one of my cousins. His coachman harnessed her to a light carriage along with one of my cousin’s own horses, a heavy and rather stupid Waler, with no paces and no speed. My cousin’s coachman drives rather too fast, and Jeunette went off at a rattling pace. Fortunately there was no accident. The Waler could not keep pace with Jeunette and she had to draw the carriage and the heavy Waler into the bargain! She came home rather essoufflée, but neighing and impatient to see Gentille.
There is not such another for speed as Jeunette, and she is as sound as a bell, never been laid up even for a day.
I was reading your last letter over again, dear. It is such a nice letter, and the first page has pleased and comforted me especially. Yes, indeed we may firmly hope to meet in that happy Jerusalem, if we may not meet here on this earth. Do you know a hymn about that new Jerusalem, beginning with the words:
For thee, O dear, dear country, Mine eyes their vigils keep; For very love, beholding Thy happy name, they weep. The mention of thy glory Is unction to the breast, And medicine in sickness. And love, and life, and rest.
It must be a grand and beautiful city, indeed, that new Jerusalem:
With jasper glow thy bulwarks, Thy streets with emeralds blaze; The sardius and the topaz Unite in thee their rays.
The last two chapters of the Revelation I read often, they are so beautiful.
I must close here, dear. Kindest regards from all to your father and mother, and love from Papa and Mamma to you, and with best love to your dear self from me.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. October 2, 1876.
Your very welcome letter arrived on Saturday. Many, many thanks for it. You must have learnt by this time through my previous letters that I had been unable to write to you on account of illness. I am now resolved to write to you by every mail unless I am prevented by illness or anything very serious; else I shall not be able to be square with you; you are such a good correspondent! I wrote to you by the last mail and I wrote three letters besides by the same mail, so I have been very busy last week, you see.
We did not go to Church yesterday, as Gentille has been laid up for the last four days with a bad foot. She is better to-day, but not quite well; I am afraid I shall have to get a new horse, and sell Gentille off, as she is not a very hardy animal. Jeunette is never unwell, and she is forced to remain idle during all the time that Gentille is laid up; we must get an animal as healthy as Jeunette, as soon as the horse-sellers come down to Chitpore, which will be about the end of this month. I have not gone out for the last few days on account of Gentille’s bad leg. I shall be very sorry to part with Gentille, for she is a beautiful animal, such fine proportions she has, and she carries her tail just like an Arab; we shall not part with her unless we find it absolutely necessary.
We received the two books sent for from Messrs. Hachette & Co., and I am now reading Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. It is very interesting, but there are some wicked parts in it (as there are in almost all French books), which would have been better left out or not written. But the book is powerfully written, and one feels the touch of a master-hand on each page. Do you know the story? Hugo, you know, is a rank democrat; he has his own opinions about human justice, and the book is mainly written to show the baseness of society and the injustice done by human laws. Jean Valjean, the hero of the tale, was first ‘émondeur’ at Faverolles. He used to maintain his poor widow sister and her seven children with his paltry earnings. When he used to come home, tired, of evenings, after a hard day’s work, and take his place at the meagre supper, his sister would take the best pieces of food from his plate and give them to her children, and he bore all things; the little ones one day stole some milk from the milkmaid’s can, and he paid the milk-woman without telling about this matter to his sister, for he knew that the children would then be punished. There was ‘disette’ at Faverolles, and one night, made desperate with the pitiful cries of the children, he went out, and breaking the pane of a window in a baker’s shop, put in his hand and stole a loaf of bread. He was caught and tried for ‘vol avec effraction’ and was condemned to five years in the galleys at Toulon. He tried to escape three or four times, and for these attempts his term of imprisonment was extended to nineteen years. Nineteen years ‘pour avoir cassé un carreau et pris un pain!’ He was set free, but with the ‘passeport jaune’, and, of course, the police kept a surveillance over him. On his first day of freedom, wherever he went he was turned out; the ‘passeport jaune’ designated him as a man ‘très-dangereux’. He had walked ‘douze lieues’ that day, and in the evening he stopped at a village; but no one took him in, even the innkeepers turned him out with a ‘Va-t’en’. At last as he was lying on the pavement near the Church, an old lady came out from the edifice, and learning the state of things, told him to knock at a small house, which she pointed out to him. It was the house of the bishop of the place. The bishop was a very good man, and received him and treated him as an equal, calling him ‘monsieur’, much to the surprise of Jean Valjean. ‘Un forçat! vous m’appelez monsieur! vous ne me tutoyez pas!’ But at night when the whole household was asleep, the old instinct awoke within the ‘forçat’. He stole the silver plate of the bishop, was captured in the morning by the police, and brought to the bishop, who told the ‘gendarmes’ that he had given the silver plate to the man, and also two silver candlesticks, which the man had evidently forgot, and he took these from the table, and gave them to the ‘forçat’, who stood stupefied and motionless; the bishop assured the police that they had made a mistake, and they departed. Then the bishop (Monseigneur Bienvenu) said to the man, ‘Jean Valjean, mon frère, vous n’appartenez plus au mal mais au bien. C’est votre âme que je vous achète; je la retire aux pensées noires, et à l’esprit de perdition, et je la donne à Dieu.’ The story is very long; it tells how the ‘forçat’, Jean Valjean, prospered, but was again and again tracked and hunted down by the police. His character is powerfully drawn, also that of Javer, the police ‘mouchard’. Monseigneur Bienvenu and his sister Mademoiselle Baptistine stand out in pure clear outlines. You should read extracts, not the whole book, for as I said before it has some bad parts. The character of Gavroche, too, the Paris ‘gamin’, is drawn to the life; nothing is new to him, anything you show him as a surprise elicits only a phlegmatic ‘connu’; brave he is, and would stand before the mouth of a cannon as the bravest soldier. Victor Hugo’s French too is so grand. Have you read any of About’s novels? He is called the Thackeray of France. You should read his Roi des montagnes, which book I dare say you have heard of, if not read. His Trente et quarante is very amusing too. I have not read the other book which we received also by the last mail, Son Excellence M. Eugène Rougon.
As you say, it would indeed be very nice to have readings together on our return to England. (Will that ever be?) Papa and I often read together. Before I got my cough, we used to read aloud to each other, by turns, from any French book. Papa is a great authority on poetry. Now of evenings, as we do not read much by candle-light, we repeat together pieces of poetry, English or French, or else it is a stray Sanskrit line. Do you know Victor Hugo’s lines, entitled ‘Guitare’ simply, and beginning with
Gastibelza, l’homme à la carabine, Chantait ainsi: Quelqu’un a-t-il connu doña Sabine? Quelqu’un d’ici?
and the refrain is:
—Le vent qui vient à travers la montagne Me rendra fou!
The song is very musical, and beautiful. We lately bought from an itinerant book-seller a Life of Napoleon the Great, by M. de Narvins. It is finely illustrated with coloured plates besides the wood engravings. It will be interesting reading to me, for I am a great admirer of the ‘bronze artillery officer’, as Carlyle styles him.
October 4th. Gentille is quite well to-day, but I mean to give her a rest to-day, and commence working her from to-morrow. Papa and I went out in a hired carriage to the city, shopping. The hackney cabs are so miserable in Calcutta, that I am always afraid of their breaking down in the way.
We bought Ginx’s Baby, for I had heard of its marvellous popularity. Papa read it and declared it was nothing better than Dame Europa’s School, and that it was a catch-penny.
Les Misérables is one of the most difficult French books that I have read. Victor Hugo seems to prefer hard and unusual words to words more in use; for instance, instead of saying, in describing a man, that he was getting ‘chauve’ he would say ‘qu’il ébauchait une cavitie’. However, the story is very interesting.
We shall, I hope, soon go to dear old Baugmaree. There are few showers now, and, very likely, it will be in November that we shall move out of our town house.
I do not require the piano any longer, so we desired Harold & Co. yesterday to take it away to-day; the men are now taking it away. The hire of a piano costs two pounds ten shillings monthly. Is it not dear? As we are going so soon to Baugmaree, I thought I had better dispense with the piano for the present.
It is not yet 8 a.m., and we have not had our breakfast; but I have taken an early cold bath; Papa would not allow me taking a bath so early as 6 a.m., if I had not proved to him that I was all the better for it and that a little ‘roughing it’ was good for me. It is so hot, especially in this room. I think it must be on account of the bookshelves, I feel dreadfully warm with my hair all loose on my back; it must get dry before I venture to put it up, or else I shall have a splitting headache.
I do not take any interest in the war in the East;[^20] it is very difficult to follow minutely all its details.
I hoped to make this letter longer, but I must stop here, as I have nothing to write about.
Papa’s and Mamma’s kindest regards to yours, in which I join, and best love to your dear self.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. October 7, 1876.
I have commenced this letter with the intention of fulfilling my promise of writing to you every week unless I am absolutely prevented from doing so by something or other.
I wonder when the rains will be quite over; I thought they were, but to-day it is pouring hard. The rain commenced last evening and has never ceased since, even for a moment. The sky is of a dull leaden colour. I hope the weather will clear up during the afternoon, though it hardly looks as if it will.
There was a terrible torpedo accident on the river on Wednesday last. There was a wreck which required to be blown up, so a torpedo boat with fifteen men on board was sent to clear up the wreck. Sergeant Harrison, the commander of the other ten Hindu sailors, most thoughtlessly poured some melted wax round and over some of the plugs of the cask; and the immediate effect was of course the blowing up of the cask; it contained 2,000 lb. of gunpowder. Sergeant Harrison thought that the plugs were not fitted tightly enough and that the cask would leak. His remains have not been found; he was bending over the cask when it blew up. Many men who were walking in the vicinity of the river have been wounded by large pieces of iron and wood. The streets presented a horrible sight: parts of human bodies, charred and burnt, were lying about; a large piece of iron and the breast and arms of a man fell on the roof of the Calcutta Public Library.
A new disease has recently made its appearance in the suburbs of Calcutta. It is called Kotkotea, and many cases have been fatal. It is a sort of sharp pain which first attacks one of the feet and gradually mounts up, if not arrested, till the person dies. The remedy is to bind the foot at one of the joints tightly, just above where the pain is felt, and so arrest its progress, and then take other medicines. It is likened to the pain felt by a person bitten by a venomous snake, and its progress is very rapid. One of our maid-servants has bound pieces of string tightly over all the joints of her legs for fear of being attacked by this disease. ‘Prevention is better than cure.’ She follows this advice rigidly, you see!
Mr. Wilson, editor of the Indian Daily News, has been committed to the next Criminal Sessions of the High Court, which open on the 20th proximo. Sir Stuart Hogg is not at all to blame for having taken such a step against Mr. Wilson. For the Indian Daily News was sure to say something every day against Sir Stuart.
To-day’s telegram says that the venerable Archdeacon Johnson of Chester has accepted the Bishopric of Calcutta. I am glad of this, for the way that Calcutta was going a-begging for a bishop was too bad.
We have given our barouche to be thoroughly repaired, as it had got to be somewhat ‘seedy’ in appearance. We shall not have it for at least two months.
We shall receive our mail letters to-morrow (Sunday). I wonder if I shall get one from you. I do not think I shall, for I received one by the last mail
Have you seen the notice of my book in the Examiner of the 26th August? I have just seen it, and both Papa and I liked the review exceedingly. It is rather a long notice, full two columns, and very generous and frank and a little funny too. It is the best notice that has been written on the Sheaf, and I thank the reviewer, whoever he may be, most heartily.
Have you seen any notice of my book in the Standard? I have not, and I do not think that I shall, for no one takes an English daily paper in Calcutta, though many do the weeklies. The notice in the Examiner is very good. If you chance to see any notice in any English paper, please let me know, or send me a copy of the notice.
I have plenty of time before me, as this is Saturday, and the mail does not go till the next Friday, 9th October. I received your welcome and very interesting letter yesterday morning. I see from it that you have not read or met with the notice of the Sheaf in the Examiner. As I have said just before, it is a most generous yet discriminating review. I also received yesterday a copy of the Courrier de l’Europe with a small notice of my book in it by the Chevalier de Châtelain. It is a very short notice, in which he remarks that the English is ‘de bon aloi’ and that the translator is a very young lady of Calcutta, ‘qui vient d’atteindre sa vingtième année.’
I have not been ‘photo’d’ since the last likeness I gave you; I would have sent you a copy if I had been taken again. I do not think I am very much changed ‘since last you saw my face’ (the line is, you know, ‘since first I saw your face’), a little more oldened perhaps; you see I have three years more than when you saw me; I am past twenty; next March I shall be twenty-one. Grandfather often deplores my not having married! His impression is that I have turned une nonne! In Hindu families, one is almost a grandmother at the age of twenty-four. One of my cousines who is a Hindu and who is only about thirty-two has already four or five grandchildren!
My horses are now getting on capitally. I took the loan of a carriage of one of my cousins, and had Jeunette and Gentille driven in it, for it would not do to keep them idle. Jeunette would get too fat; she is now in prime condition, as well as Gentille. They are so very quiet yet spirited; ‘Elles sont douces comme une fille, elles vont comme le vent!’ In the open country, when there are no people about, I let them have a freer use of the rein; they will go fifteen miles an hour, ‘au grand trot’, and be pulled up quite fresh.
I do so want to learn to ride, but I do not think that my wish will ever be gratified, for Mamma was afraid of allowing any of us to ride. Papa was telling me the other day about his riding-horses, which he used to have when he was young. He had once a fall from a half-caste Arab that he had purchased two days before at an auction. He had ridden some way, when he found out that he had forgotten his whip; he came back for it, and returning for a ride, when before the stable (which he had to pass), the horse showed an inclination to enter; Papa pulled the other way, and the horse reared up suddenly; Papa fell from the saddle, and the horse, unable to keep his balance (he had reared so high), fell on Papa’s ankle. He was laid up for six months, and was unable to get up from bed all that time. He had to sell off the animal; it was an incorrigible rearer. Papa used to have Burma ponies. They are a race of very small ponies, and they come from Burma, as their name implies; they are very hardy, and have a very pretty way of trotting or rather ambling, very comfortable for the rider. Their only fault is that they have almost always very hard mouths, and consequently pull a little.
Papa tells me to write to you about the notice in the Examiner. I have already done so; I am sorry I have not the paper with me, else I would have copied out bits from the article. If any of the daily papers here reprint the review (as very probably they may) I shall tell you more explicitly about the notice. Yesterday the weather was abominable, but to-day it has turned very fine, and I have taken an early bath at 6 a.m. I do not feel warm with my hair down, for it is cool to-day, and there is a beautiful and refreshing north breeze.
You speak about your difficulty in getting up French literature. Why, you know enough of it already, I should think. Without Papa I should never have known good poetry from bad, but he used to take such pains with us (though he never thought it was trouble at all, but was only too glad to help and assist us in our readings) when we were quite little ones. He has himself a most discriminating mind, and is an excellent judge of poetry. He commenced writing poetry before he was twelve; and, do you know, he left school at the age of fourteen and commenced business before he was seventeen? I wonder what I should have been without my father; nothing very enviable or desirable, I know; without Papa we should never have learnt to appreciate good books and good poetry.
12th. The Englishman has reprinted the notice from the Examiner. I shall pick out some lines for your edification. It begins with: ‘This remarkable volume seems expressly arranged to tantalize the sympathetic reviewer. It is roughly printed, and bound in paper, comes, too, from an obscure Indian press and by no smallest preface or introduction deigns to give us the least inkling of its genesis…. It is obvious, then, that to have translated pieces from the best French poets, such as might come under a pupil’s notice in any ordinary school anthology, into English prose, would have been a respectable feat for an Indian girl. What, then, is our surprise, to find Miss Toru Dutt translating, in every case into the measure of the original, no less than 166 poems, some of them no less intricate in form than perplexing in matter! This amazing feat she has performed with a truly brilliant success.’ The kind reviewer has quoted Aru’s ‘Serenade’ by Hugo, commencing with, ‘Still barred thy doors,’ &c., and says of it, that it ‘could hardly be improved by a practised poet of English birth; and when we reflect that it was the work of a Hindu girl of less than mature age, it may indeed command our admiration.’… ‘A rare virtue of Miss Toru Dutt’s translations is their absolute and unaffected exactness. An English translator will always try to smooth over an inelegance, rather than give us a true but awkward equivalent of the original. Miss Dutt is less anxious to be graceful on all occasions; she translates what she sees before her, and if it is impossible to make the version poetical, she will leave it in its unpolished state, rather than add any tropes of her own, or cut anything away from her author’s text. In consequence, her book recalls the French more vividly than any similar volume we are acquainted with; and if modern French literature were entirely lost, it might not be found impossible to reconstruct a great number of poems from this Indian version.’ Is not this high praise? Of the notes, the review says: ‘The notes supply very considerable learning, combined with some odd omissions. For instance, Miss Dutt has no idea of death concluding the lives of any of her favourites. She will grieve, we are sure, to learn that neither Charles Baudelaire nor Alexander Smith are in a position to profit by the prim little advice she gives to each. We are bound also to break the news to her, of the death of her adoration, Sainte-Beuve.’… ‘In short,’ concludes the writer, ‘her book, taking for granted that it really is what it seems to profess to be, a genuine Hindu product, is an important landmark in the history of the progress of culture.’ I wish I could have given you the whole article, but it is very long and you are already tired enough, I am sure.
I got a rather amusing packet by the post to-day, containing a small poem of some thirty pages. The packet was directed thus: ‘A Toru Dutt, poète, Bhowanipore, ou Bhowalpore, Indes Orientales.’ Within the book on the title-page was written: ‘Au Poète, Toru Dutt, hommage, Auguste Fourès, Castelnaudary, Aude, France.’ This leads me to think that my Sheaf has been favourably noticed by some French paper, most likely by the Revue des Deux Mondes. It seems to me that I have seen the name ‘Fourès’ in some French book or periodical. But I was very pleased with the ‘hommage’ though I do not know anything about the sender.
I must close here, dear, for the mail goes away to-morrow. Kindest regards from father and mother to yours, and their love to you. With best love from me to your dear self.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. October 15, 1876.
It is past seven and we have just had our dinner. As in the evenings I do not read much, and as I have nothing to do, I take up my pen to commence my weekly letter. I was busy during the whole day, what with the accounts of the washerman, the translation of a French piece, and looking for the meaning of several hard and big French architectural terms. Sometimes Victor Hugo gets rather difficult, when he goes deep into ‘claveaux’ and ‘impostes’, &c., &c., or in describing vessels, when he enters into the domain of ‘bordé’ and ‘bordages’, and ‘vaigrages’, he is ‘inépuisable’, but tiresome. Without Littré’s dictionary, it would be hard to understand all these technical terms. His description of the battle of Waterloo is magnificent; I have never read finer chapters on the same subject. The repeated charges of the cuirassiers of Milhaud to break through the English regiment are described vividly and splendidly. The last few men of the ‘vieille garde’, who died and refused to surrender, are finely drawn. I was reading this description last night; I was so interested, that I could not lay by the book till I had read all the chapters about Waterloo; the consequence was that I went to bed rather late. I was soon fast asleep, and was dreaming of what I had just read; I saw the repeated charges, the flash of cannons, the rearing and trampling horses, the dying men, vividly in my dreams; I was awakened by a noise, and the first instant I was under the impression that I was still on the scene of the battle, but soon I was thoroughly awake, and I smiled to myself; for the noise was the voice of Papa, speaking in his sleep, in the next room!
Papa has been lately busy with a small article. A Bengali gentleman is writing the life of Mr. Hare (who died several years ago), and he asked Papa to lend him any letters or papers of Mr. Hare that might be found amongst my grandfather’s papers; for Mr. Hare and my grandfather had been great friends during their life-time. As there were none, Papa, who used often to see Mr. Hare when he was a boy at school (I mean when Papa was a boy, not Mr. Hare), wrote down some of his reminiscences and sent them to the biographer.
But I must tell you who Mr. Hare was. He was the founder of the Hare School, and one of the founders of the Hindu College. He was a great advocate for education for Bengali boys, and used to take great interest in the progress of education in India. He was a very kind man, and was very fond of all the school boys.
Our large bedroom has been divided just in the middle, so that, there being now two distinct rooms, Mamma may keep her windows wide open now at nights, without any fear of increasing my cough. We are going to have a carriage-room built in our back compound; as, at the end, it is cheaper, Papa says, than hiring one for our carriage. Jeunette and Gentille are going on very well. I had them taken out for a long drive; they are in such splendid condition, with their skins like shot-silk, or satin, shining and bright.
Have you seen an article in Fraser’s Magazine, entitled ‘Taxation in India’? The writer, Babu Shoshee Chunder Dutt, is a cousin of Papa’s.
I must close now for the present, as tea has been brought in.
One of my cousins, whom we had not seen for some years, and who is just married, came to see us the other day. She is just seventeen, and is now a tall young bride; when we saw her last she was a child of eight or nine. She is a Christian and so are her parents, who have a large family of children.
It was so rainy two days before, I thought we were going to have a second edition of the rainy season again; however, the weather has cleared up for the last two days. England will be getting pretty cold by this time, and by the time this letter reaches you, you will be commencing to have fires in your rooms. My uncle Girish often speaks of the sense of cosiness and comfort that one must feel when sitting beside a blazing fire, in the heart of the winter, in England, while the wind and snow beat and howl against the window-panes. He is never tired of hearing my impressions about England. The sharp, biting wind, cutting in its coldness, yet so invigorating, the beautiful soft snow, the frozen water-pools, the ways frosty and hard as iron, he is ever ready to listen about these. He means to accompany us in our next visit to England, if that does take place. We often talk about the places we shall stop at, the things we shall see and hear, the English fruits we shall eat, the English fishes and dishes we shall taste on our next visit to Europe. My uncle is a great lover of fruits, and the tales I tell him of the luscious English peaches, the large juicy grapes, the red-cheeked apples, the delicious nectarines, and the sweetly-flavoured strawberries, and the piquante flavoured cherries, almost make him determined to sail for England by the very next steamer! Varûna’s little brother and Varûna himself came to see us the other day. I was afraid to take such a little baby in my arms, for I am not used to babies. Varûna was as talkative and lively as usual. He was very proud in showing off his little baby-brother, and laughed exultingly when he saw my inability to take the baby; but he was rather pleased than otherwise at this, as children are sometimes a little jealous. Varûna is so sometimes; it is rather tiresome that a new-comer should depose him, and reign in his place! I must stop now, for it is rather late.
17th. I could not write more of my letter yesterday, as my maternal uncle and his favourite wife (whom we call amongst ourselves, Suruchee, vide the Legend of Dhruva), and their two boys, came to see us last evening. They stayed till about nine, and saw from our windows the display of fireworks at the houses of our Hindu neighbours; for yesterday and to-day also there is the Kali-Poojah, or the worship of Kali. One feels sometimes so sad when one looks on all these processions following a graven image, offering goats, and other sacrifices to it, and bowing themselves before it. Oh, that all India should turn to the true and loving God, who is alone able to save us and cleanse us from our sins!
Have you ever seen a picture of the idol, Kali? It is the most hideous thing you can imagine. She is represented as a female as black as night, with her tongue of the deepest red, thrust out of her mouth, almost half a yard long, with a chaplet of skulls round her neck; with one hand she holds a sword, the other grasps the newly-severed head of a human being by the hair. She is said to be very blood-thirsty. I dare say you know about her, for you have read Tod’s Annals of Rajasthan, have you not?
Lord Lytton is becoming very popular among his Bengali subjects, and he deserves to be so, I think, for he has in several cases, besides the great F——— minute, shown his true and free English spirit, doing justice to the meanest deserving and wronged person.
Have you read Gladstone’s late pamphlet on the Turkish War? Is it not finely written?
Our pastor of the Old Church is going away for some time, and another missionary from Manchester (I think I am right, though I am not quite sure if it is Manchester) is coming to take charge of the Old Church during Mr. Barry’s absence.
I received no letters from you by this last mail, but I was not expecting one, as you wrote to me by the one just before; but I shall receive one of your dear welcome letters by the next mail. This letter will be short; as we live so retired we do not know much about the outside world of Calcutta.
The day before yesterday my uncle Girish rescued a little kitten from the hands of the children of the lodger next door. They were tormenting it fearfully, and when they had ill-used it enough they threw it out of the window. My uncle, taking his usual afternoon walk, perceived the poor little thing crouching in the middle of the road; on looking up, he saw the grinning faces of the cruel boys, and asked them if the kitten belonged to them; on an answer in the negative he took it up and brought it home. He gave it to his cat who had just had a litter of kittens, and she has taken kindly to the foundling and nurses it as one of her own kittens!
One of Mamma’s most promising heifers died this morning of snake-bite at Baugmaree. The gardener came to report this sad news; he said the poor young animal foamed at the mouth a good deal before it expired.
I must close now. I am rather tired, as I daresay you see by the bad and unintelligible writing.
Kindest regards from father and mother to your parents, in which I join, and their love to you. With best love from me to your dear loving self.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. October 24, 1876.
Here at the dead of night, By the pale candle-light, Weary and sad I write, Sitting alone.
Yes, I am a little sad and disappointed at not getting any letter from you by the mail this time. Are you ill? I do hope not. I feel beforehand that I shall not be able to make my letter long this time. I am not in a letter-writing humour, and I have moreover nothing new or interesting to tell you. We live such a quiet life, that one day resembles another. Do you know the song I have just quoted? It has been set to music, and the song and the air are both very beautiful and pathetic. We heard it sung by Mme Patey at several concerts in St. James’s Hall, while we were in London; I have the song and the music with me here.
The weather is getting to be splendid now; I am very glad of this, for the sooner the weather gets better and more dry the sooner we shall be able to go and live at Baugmaree. Papa says that as soon as the new coach-house is ready we shall remove to Baugmaree. That will be in a week, for the building of the carriage-room is progressing rapidly. But I do not think we shall be able to go so soon.
What atrocities the Turks do commit! Have you seen the picture of the wounded Servian soldiers tied to trees and burnt to death? Is it not dreadful? Some Mohammedan gentlemen, the Indian Daily News says, are gone to join the Turkish troops.
Last night I was thinking about you; you came so vividly to my mind; I always liked your pretty way of saying: ‘Is it not?’ when you used to ask me any question; I used to say curtly ‘Isn’t it?’ (you may often find this ‘isn’t’ and ‘doesn’t’ in my letters), but your ‘Is it not?’ seemed to me so quaint and pretty. I have been racking my brains to find out anything that might interest you, but alas! all my search has been fruitless. However, I must keep my promise; if you find my letter very dull, tear it up.
We went for a long drive to-day; I borrowed one of my cousin’s carriages. The carriage is a Palkee-Gharry or covered carriage. It is very light, and the horses rattled along at a tremendous pace; as soon as we leave the city and its thoroughfares behind, the coachman loosens the reins a bit and off they go. It is so funny and yet so pretty to watch the four pairs of legs trotting along, or rather skimming along the smooth plains. In the cold season the horses even seem to improve, and enjoy the bracing breeze; the sun is so hot during the summer that a horse soon gets tired and covered with perspiration, especially a Waler or Australian horse.
As soon as it gets dark I go at four in my uncle’s garden to play with the cats, Day and May. Have you seen a certain picture entitled, ‘My Aunt’s Airing’? I saw it in some periodical or other. ‘My Aunt’ is represented taking an airing with at least half a dozen dogs, terriers, pugs, and spaniels, as companions. Well, I resemble that ‘Aunt’ somewhat; instead of dogs I have cats! I cannot help smiling to myself when I see around me Day and May playing about on the green sward of 13, Manicktollah Street.
My aunt is having her portrait taken in oil by a Bengali artist. Lord Northbrook spoke well of this artist’s portraits, but I do not think they are very superior. I must stop here for to-night, for it’s getting late.
26th. We went out for a drive to-day; we went a good way but the sun was very hot, two o’clock in the afternoon being perhaps the hottest part of the day in Calcutta. We passed the old English cemetery. It is a dreadful-looking place, so dark and gloomy. The monuments over the graves are, I should think, a century old, and being generally made of brick by bad architects look very heavy. I should not like to lie underneath one of them. The cemetery of Ore, near St. Leonards, which we once visited, seemed to us so quiet and peaceful; indeed, our own little burial ground at Manicktollah is a much better place than this old English cemetery. A new burial ground in the European quarter of the town is now used, for the old is full. The Roman Catholic churchyard is very well kept and is very pretty.
I have made a small mosquito curtain for the canary cage; it was so pitiful to see and hear the little things flapping their wings at night, on account of the mosquito bites, that I made this curtain, and the canaries sleep the sounder for it, I think.
I am still reading Les Misérables. Its chief defect is that it diverges too much from the main thread of the story. At least four different tales might have been made from it. But it is very well written, in parts especially. The descriptions of the quiet life the nuns lead in their Convents is very beautiful; their abnegation is something so grand that it fills one with awe.
Have you read Théophile Gautier’s well-known lines addressed to Zurburan the celebrated painter? It is a long piece, but a very fine one. It is on a celebrated picture of monks by Zurburan.
Moines de Zurburan, blancs chartreux qui, dans l’ombre, Glissez silencieux sur les dalles des morts, Murmurant des Pater et des Ave sans nombre,
Quel crime expiez-vous par de si grands remords?…
Tes moines, Lesueur, près de ceux-là sont fades: Zurburan de Séville a mieux rendu que toi Leurs yeux plombés d’extase, et leurs têtes malades….
Comme son dur pinceau les laboure et les creuse! Aux pleurs du repentir comme il ouvre des lits Dans les rides sans fond de leur face terreuse!…
Deux teintes seulement, clair livide, ombre noir, Deux poses, l’une droite, et l’autre à deux genoux, A l’artiste ont suffi pour peindre votre histoire….
O moines! maintenant, en tapis frais et verts, Sur les fosses, par vous à vous-mêmes creusées, L’herbe s’étend….
Quels rêves faites-vous? quelles sont vos pensées? Ne regrettez-vous pas d’avoir usé vos jours Entre ces murs étroits, dans ces voûtes glacées? Ce que vous avez fait, le feriez-vous toujours?
Are not the verses beautiful? I must drop the subject or I shall be quoting the whole piece.
I have said before, in the commencement of this letter, that it will be a very small and a very dull letter.
27th. I have written so much to-day, five sheets of foolscap paper have been filled up by my scribbling. They were all French translations for the press. I am so tired that I do not think I shall be able to do more than fill this page.
I saw my aunt’s picture to-day; it is not half finished yet, and it will be rash to pass an opinion on it in its present state.
I must shut up now. Excuse the shortness of this letter. Papa’s and Mamma’s kindest regards and mine too, to your father and mother, and with best love to your dear self.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. October 31, 1876.
I received your duck of a letter yesterday morning. So many many thanks for it, dear; it was such a good one; I was very much pleased with it, it brought you so vividly to my mind. And what have I to give you in exchange for such an interesting letter; nothing but a very dull one, I am afraid.
I have often thought about that poem which you asked me to write for your album. The best way that we can manage will be, I think, for me to write a piece on a nice thin sheet of paper, and then you could paste it in your album. I have just finished a translation of a French piece; it is rather long, but the original is very fine, and I think you will also like the translation. I shall send it within this letter for your album, if I am unable to fill this letter up by other items of news, which I think very probable. I shall begin this letter by copying out Arnault’s ‘La Feuille’, which you want.
De ta tige détachée, Pauvre feuille desséchée, Où vas-tu? Je n’en sais rien. L’orage a frappé le chêne Qui seul était mon soutien; De son inconstante haleine Le zéphyr ou l’aquilon Depuis ce jour me promène De la forêt à la plaine, De la montagne au vallon. Je vais où le vent me mène, Où va la feuille de rose, Et la feuille de laurier!
The carriage-room is not yet quite finished, but it will be so, I think, by the end of the week, and then we shall go to Baugmaree. I am looking forward to this removal. We are so quiet and retired down there among the trees and woods, far from the dirty, busy, scandalous Bengali quarter of the town. We do not visit any people about the neighbourhood, except uncle Girish, and we cannot take any walks about, for no lady goes out except in a carriage or in a palanquin. It is considered infra dig., unladylike, immodest, to walk in the street on foot. In the dear old garden I can do anything I like, run about with my horses, feed them myself, and water them sometimes, in spite of the couple of grooms, without fear of any peering and scandalized neighbour, staring in surprise and contempt at my ‘strange man-like ways’. Oh! how I wish you were with me! Do you know, I think I am getting to love our lonely life too much, and that I want a little shaking up, before I become quite an anchorite!
Try and come to see us this winter at Baugmaree. Do you not think you could manage it?
The Rev. Mr. B.’s sermon reminds me of rather a funny story about a German missionary. Uncle Girish was sitting one evening in the verandah of his (the missionary’s) house; it was after dinner, and the missionary had taken a glass too much; soon a fire-balloon appeared in the sky, far up, red and bright; I suppose the Rev. gentleman’s eyesight was slightly dimmed by his after-dinner glass, for he said to uncle in a solemn manner: ‘Ah! behold the signs of the last times!’
Nobody takes much interest here in the Turkish War. Some Mohammedan gentlemen have set up a relief fund for the Turks, and several others have left for Turkey to join the Turkish forces. I wrote to you about this in my last.
You must send me the number of the Queen in which you propose to write a notice of my Sheaf. Please thank your father very much for taking all that trouble and going to M———’s about my book; it was very kind of him indeed, but I think he must have been prompted by you. Did I not write to you, that we sent a copy to M——— to ask if they would undertake to publish it, and that they declined on the same ground as you write in your letter?
You have not seen the notice in the Examiner; I am sure of this, because you do not mention it in your letter; I have written about it in my last.
Mr. Clifford came to see us to-day. As visits are very rare at our house, it was quite an event! His brother, a painter (and a very good one too, for his pictures are admitted in the Royal Academy Exhibitions), is coming to India next month (November). Mr. Clifford promised to pay us a visit with his brother at Baugmaree. We were very glad to hear from him that Mr. Welland (our late pastor of the Old Church, who went home very seriously ill) was much better.
The reason why I can go through a book so fast is very plain and simple, it is simply owing to our quiet and retired mode of life; the time we would have had to give to dinner, lunch, breakfast, croquet, lawn-tennis, or picnic parties, is wholly given up to reading; and then I was always a book-worm, even when I was quite a child. No, I am not above novels; why, Les Misérables is a novel, but I have not read the one you mention, Her dearest Foe. Have you read Black’s A Princess of Thule or A Daughter of Heth? They are both very readable and rather well-written novels. Far from the Madding Crowd is a very powerfully written novel by a Mr. Hardy. It reminds me in places of George Eliot’s Adam Bede.
Yes, I have seen copies of the famous picture of Napoleon crossing the Alps, by David the great painter. There is a very good piece by Béranger on David’s funeral. The painter’s remains were not allowed to be buried in French territory, as he was a follower of Napoleon. I do not remember the original French, but there is a very spirited translation of the piece in one of our books of selections: the lines referring to the above-mentioned picture are very fine:
His pencil traced on the Alpine waste Of the pathless Mount Gothard, Napoleon’s course on his milk-white horse; Let a grave be his reward.
His friends, you know, are supposed to be praying that his remains might be buried in his native country. I remember seeing that very snuff-box which Napoleon gave to Lady Holland, and on which those well-known lines were written, commencing with:
Lady! Reject the gift, ’tis tinged with gore, &c.
Are you an admirer of ‘le petit caporal’?
I quite understand, dear, what you mean about Miss ——. I have often been placed in similar situations, and even now I have to keep up appearances of friendship and politeness with people with whom I have no internal friendship, no free-opening of the heart. I hate to keep up this sort of acting, and I quite sympathize with you in your present embarrassing situation with regard to Miss ——. Do you know I cannot make out her Christian name yet! Is it Lennie or Louise?
Many thanks for the recommendation of Spigelia for Papa’s neuralgia attacks. He is comparatively free from them at present, owing to his having lost one of the bad teeth a few days ago. He is getting quite old, isn’t he? And so am I. I feel so old sometimes.
I do not know the Mr. Dutt whose marriage with a young Bengali lady of twenty years was mentioned in the Queen. He is a Brahmo or follower of the doctrines of Baboo Keshub Chunder Sen. By-the-by, Sreemutty means Miss, so it is not one of the names of the bride, as you understood it to be.
I have, on second thoughts, copied for your album a smaller piece than the one I first thought of. The piece that I send has been finished after I commenced this letter. If it suits you (I hope it will), please tell me.
I have just been to our third storey window to witness the procession of the idol, Paresnath, which is worshipped as a deity by the up-country Hindus. The procession was a very large one and a very grand one too. The small idol is as big as a two-year-old baby, and made of solid gold; his throne is of gold and silver studded with precious stones; his umbrellas, chasse-mouches, flags, &c., are all brilliant with precious stones and diamonds. His horses, four in number, one dark bay, two grey, and one white, were beautifully caparisoned with chains of pearls round their necks, and brilliant and costly aigrettes on their crests, and with saddle-cloths all chased with gold and bespangled with pearls. Oh for one of those saddle-cloths and aigrettes for Jeunette! thought I; would not Jeunette and Gentille look splendid with such aigrettes and such rich saddle-cloths! The horses of Paresnath were rather fagged-looking animals, without any spirit or action to speak of, so it seemed quite a pity that costly things should be lavished on them.
I must close here, dear, for I have nothing more to say. Papa’s and Mamma’s kindest regards to yours, in which I join, and their love to you, and with best love from me to your dear self.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. November 13, 1876.
Many, many thanks for ‘The Gardener’s Daughter’; it is beautiful. How delicately and exquisitely drawn it is! I am never tired of looking at it; it is really a most charming present, and I thank you heartily for it, dear; I shall value it exceedingly. My uncle said that it was the work of a master-hand, of a genius; he is very enthusiastic. My aunt’s portrait is progressing; I wonder how it will turn out. Mr. Bagchi showed us a copy that he had done some time ago of a portrait of Vandyck,—‘that Flemish painter, Antonio Vandyck.’ It is very well done, and does Mr. Bagchi credit.
How tiresome that the Queen refused your notice, dear. But never mind, I never thought much of the Queen. It did not notice the Dutt Family Album very favourably.
So ‘le beau malheur’! as somebody from the Right said in 1851 (when the late Emperor Napoleon was President of the Republic and meditating his coup d’état), when M. Victor Hugo, making his last speech from the Tribune at the National Assembly, said that ‘le jour où la tribune ne sera plus libre, j’en descendrai pour n’y plus remonter’.
You must have guessed by my not writing to you last week that I was unwell; I was so indeed. You know I always suffer from an increase of cough, spitting blood and congestion of the lungs, every winter since our return to India I kept pretty well last winter, but last week it all came back again. I, of course, felt too weak and ill to write. I am better now, though.
You know I sit out every afternoon in my uncle’s garden. I suppose I look very contented and absorbed, reading Les Misérables and having my cats, Day and May, frisking about me; for Papa has made a couplet on the subject!
Que faut-il pour être heureux comme dans le pays des fables? Une chaise, deux chats, et Les Misérables!
Papa makes such funny couplets on me and my doings!
We went for such a long drive to-day in the country, and saw such a number of cows and calves, buffaloes and buffalo calves at Chitpore. I suppose you have seen buffaloes at the Zoological Gardens. The domestic buffaloes are very useful. Their milk is very nourishing, and the butter made from it is very nice, and white as snow. But the buffaloes are very ugly, so coarse-looking, and seem like unfinished rhinoceroses. By-the-by, we saw the rhinoceros of the Seven Tanks. It is the only rhinoceros in Calcutta, I believe, and though it has been there more than ten years, it still attracts people to the Seven Tanks. The Seven Tanks is a large garden, as large as Baugmaree; it was there that the Duke of Edinburgh was entertained, I believe, when he visited India in 1869. It is well laid out and contains seven tanks (from whence its name) full of very ancient and tame fishes; these are so fearless that they take food from any one’s hand, and seldom quit the bank when any visitor is nigh.
Past the Seven Tanks is a very beautiful garden, the property of the Seals, a very rich family of Calcutta. There are rather nice-looking statues (which it is not very easy to find in the other gardens of rich Bengali gentlemen; statues, there are plenty, but not good ones), and a very imposing building in it.
A few nights ago I was bitten by a scorpion; I was at that time very ill with my cough. I was fast asleep in bed, within mosquito curtains, when I was sharply awakened by a sting; I clutched with my nightgown at the place where I was bitten, and then I got out of bed to see what had stung me; I half opened the handful of nightgown that I still grasped with an iron grasp! And lo and behold! I saw the wriggling tail of a scorpion! Mamma got out of bed and killed it. I felt a good deal of pain, but the appliance of a caustic pencil acted like a charm.
3 p.m. Here I am installed comfortably in my easy-chair in Uncle Girish’s garden, with my ‘deux chats’ and Les Misérables. But I am not going to read now, but write to you, dear. The sky is so beautifully blue and serene, it reminds one of the pure skies of the Mediterranean coast. The crows and sparrows are cawing and twittering away with all their will. I can see through the gate into the opposite garden belonging to a neighbour. There some fourteen children are playing and romping about. They are riding by turns on a meagre undersized country hack, without the least good point; it seems half sleepy and walks drowsily round and round. The day before yesterday one of the children had a fall, but he was more frightened than hurt, for he howled and wept in a way which showed that he was not seriously hurt, and the next morning I saw him again in the garden.
Have you seen a book of verses entitled Lays of Ind by Aliph Cheem? It is rather an amusing collection of original vers de société, chiefly on Indian subjects. The writer is an officer of the 18th Hussars and shows considerable talent. Papa was much amused with the book….
Papa is coming, I can see his tall figure through the trees, so I must stop for the present. Our coach-house is almost finished. I look forward to our going to Baugmaree, though last night Papa and I both dreamed of murders committed at, and murderers prowling about, Baugmaree and the house! Was it not a dreadful thing to dream about?
We shall have our carriage back from Messrs. Cook & Co. in three weeks; my cousin’s carriage is a great deal too light for Jeunette and Gentille; it is so amusing to watch the different sorts of conveyances and horses that pass along the street, through our north window. I have come to know almost all the horses, which pass the street constantly. Very seldom is a pair equal to Jeunette and Gentille seen. Large big pairs of Walers pass now and then; there is a very nice pair of duns which is as good as my pair. And there are some such vicious ones; they kick, jib, rear, break the traces, and do all sorts of vicious tricks; but fortunately, I have only seen two of the vicious sort, and of these, one is getting somewhat more docile and manageable.
I suppose you have already commenced having fires and wearing warm clothes. I now wear a slightly warmer dress than I wore a week ago, a light gown of mohair; and on my head, when it is near evening, if I remain out at my uncle’s, I put on a sort of hood; you see I am wrapped up as if it were freezing cold; I sometimes wonder what Papa will make me put on, if we do go to England, during the winter!
There was a terrible cyclone in Backergunge, a district some two hundred miles from Calcutta. A great many lives have been lost. Mr. B——, who is magistrate there, is doing his best to succour all who are in need; the papers are all full of the cyclone and Mr. B——. He came out in the same vessel with us; and his manners were rather rough and a little too supercilious. He would come and stand before us on board, with his arms akimbo, and his superior air, and say: ‘Wall, and how do you get on?’ in the most awful drawling way. He must be a good and able man at the bottom, as he is doing so much for the sufferers from the cyclone; but we did not much like him, and his ‘Wall, &c.’ was anything but agreeable.
The Sheaf, after that Examiner notice, is much in demand. People sometimes think that Toru Dutt is a fictitious person, and that the book is the work of some European! I have heard several of my friends say this; they were asked if Toru Dutt was really a Bengali girl in flesh and blood, and then would follow questions about Toru Dutt’s education, whether she mixed in society, or kept in the Zenana, &c., &c., que sais-je!
We are still in the dirty town, you see, but I hope we shall be able to remove to Baugmaree soon.
Do you know Francis Miles, the gentleman who has sketched ‘The Gardener’s Daughter’? Does he paint too?
The telegrams of to-day make my uncle believe that England will declare war with Russia. I do not think so, and Papa is also of my opinion, but if it does happen, it would be very dreadful, would it not?
I must close here, dear. Papa’s and Mamma’s kindest regards to yours, and their love to you. With best love to your dear self.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. December 1, 1876.
Your two dear letters have been received. I cannot answer them now, as I am very ill. This little note is only written to bear to you my best wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
I have been coughing up a great deal of blood, and am quite weak and prostrate. Papa has gone out to get a spray-producer. I am under strict orders from him and Dr. Cayley to keep very quiet and lie down, and indeed I feel so weak that I can do nothing but keep quiet and lie down. God bless you, dear.
With best love.
P.S. I hope to be able to write soon a much longer letter, and so make amends for this miserable little note.
12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. December 25, 1876.
I got your most welcome letter yesterday morning; was it not a nice present for me on Christmas Eve? I was so pleased with it. And, though this is Christmas Day, I must write to you.
I have four of your dear letters lying unanswered in my desk. Is it not shameful on my part, and after all my fine promises, too, of writing to you by every mail! But you know how ill I have been, dear, and even now I am not very strong. I again wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, with many, many merry and happy returns of the same. I envy you your snowy Christmas and your cosy fires! I was always fond of snow, do you not remember? I shall answer your letters, one after one, and then write about ourselves. I shall commence with the one dated the 16th October last.
You want to know whose son little Varûna is, among the contributors to the Dutt Family Album. He is my Uncle Hur’s, Papa’s second brother’s child; Uncle Hur wrote those lines commencing:
God in times of old communion held,
which you like so much.
The doctors are of opinion that we should go to England, as that would be the best thing for me, they say. But Mamma’s health is also to be considered, and she keeps much better health here than she used to do in Europe. And then, as you say, it is always sad to leave home, where so many happy and sad days have been passed; and after all, India is my patrie. But on the other hand, Calcutta is such an unhealthy place, both morally and physically speaking, especially Rambagan (by the way, Rambagan means the garden of Rama, a misnomer decidedly, but I suppose the place was worthier its name in the ‘days of auld lang syne’).
Dear old Baugmaree is far better; indeed, it is as good as England; in some respects, at least in my opinion, it is better. One feels more at home, and more at ease in one’s own house than in a hired one, where one is generally anxious about the cracked water-jug or the loose-stoppered mustard-pot! Only Baugmaree gets so unhealthy during the rains.
As to friends and relatives, dear, I have not one friend as true as you, and you are quite mistaken to think that we should be greatly missed by them, if we leave Calcutta; except, of course, by a very, very few.
René was a king and a great patron of the Troubadours; you will find an account of him in any book of ancient French history.
Mr. Knight has forwarded a copy of the Sheaf to you. I hope you have received it safely.
You want to know who wrote Vishnu Purana. It was Vishnu Sharma (hence the name of the book). These Puranas were written such a long time ago that one cannot be very sure as to the authors of each.
I know the song of the ‘Erl-King’ from Sir Walter Scott’s translation. Yes, it is very pretty. I have Mendelssohn’s ‘Songs without Words’. They are beautiful and are each and all so characteristic.
We do not know Sir William Hill, so I cannot say if he is a nice man. I wonder what he meant by saying that he knew us; perhaps he mistook us for some other Dutts; but from your account of him I wish I had known him.
You dear old Mary! you cannot imagine how your letters are precious to me. Every time I come to read them over I long to be with you. ‘Oh, think you we shall ever meet again?’
I have not heard from Mary or Lizzie Hall; and I think our correspondence has ended. They are very busy, I think, with their lectures and other things.
Papa says that if Miss Richardson says that Vilmiki was not a Brahmin, she must have strong grounds for saying so, and that she must be right. Griffiths, I think, has translated the whole of the Ramayana, but I am not quite sure.
Dear, what do you mean by saying that writing to you by every mail might be a tax on me? No, indeed, writing to you is such a great pleasure. I am afraid I shall be unable to join the Bible and Prayer Union, though I wish it every success with all my heart. Herewith I return the card as desired.
I quite understand, dear, all you say about your not being able to write by every mail, and I am not at all disappointed, for I never expected to hear from you by every mail; though two of my letters for one of yours is hardly a fair exchange; and I am so often prevented by illness. I have been very ill this time. Dr. Cayley was absent, so Dr. Smith of the Medical College came to see me. As no gallic acid, which I used to take in large quantities, thirty or forty grains a day, stopped the blood-spitting, and as neither digitalis did any good, he punctured my arm and injected some ergotine through my skin, but that did not stop the bleeding.
Dr. Cayley, at my Uncle Girish’s suggestion, prescribed the inhalation of tannic acid spray through an inhaler, but that did not arrest the bleeding quite, though it did some good. Dr. Cayley and Dr. Smith both recommended a change strongly.
Dr. Smith wants us to go to Davos, near the Upper Engadine, in Switzerland. He brought me several pamphlets describing the place. It is very cold there, but very dry. It has lately become the sanatorium of persons with weak chests. Have you seen a book called Our Indian Alps? The coloured pictures in it of the Himalayan scenery are beautiful. The book is written by a lady, and Dr. Smith kindly lent it to me. By the by, I must here tell you something about my Sheaf. When Dr. Smith first came to see me, he wore a very professional air, and only asked professional questions. Suddenly his eyes fell on the table, where the Sheaf lay in all its orange-coloured glory; a light dawned upon the doctor. ‘Are you the author of this book?’ said he. You should have seen his redoubled interest in my health! ‘This poitrinaire is then the author of this book!’ He was surprised, interested, and pleased. So you see the Sheaf has at least done something!
We went a few days ago to see the horses at Chitpore. We want to buy another horse, de rechange, you know, so as to have always a pair to drive whenever Gentille falls sick. But it is difficult to get an exact match for Jeunette. The day we went to Chitpore (Papa spells it Cheatpore, as persons are there cheated by the horsedealers), we first ordered to be brought out a mare, bay of course, which had drawn our attention a few days ago. Dunnet, the horsebreaker, was with us. The mare was a very fine strong animal, but of a more solid build than Jeunette; it would have made a fine brougham horse. Then came another; this one seemed to Dunnet to be the very horse wanted, but in my opinion it was a little too aged, being fourteen years old; but it was a nice animal. Afterwards was brought a country-bred, very pretty, but almost an inch shorter than Jeunette, and then when it was trotted out it stumbled three or four times, so it was rejected. Then a very young pair was brought out, but they were both very skittish, kicking, rearing, and playing all sorts of tricks; so they were out of the question; and the result was, we came away without buying a horse. Jeunette and Gentille are getting on very well at present; I gave them two extra loaves of bread each to-day, and perfect rest, because it was Christmas Day. Our barouche has not yet come home from Messrs. Cook & Co.; is it not tiresome? They have promised to send it before the 1st of January, though.
Mr. Clifford, our clergyman at the Old Mission Church, came to see us a few days ago, and we took him and his brother (who is a great painter and who has lately come here) to see our Garden. I have told you in some of my letters, I think, about Mr. A. Clifford, and that he is of St. John’s, and that we used to meet him often at Mrs. Cowell’s. His brother, the painter, showed me his album, photos of the pictures he has painted. They are mostly, in fact, almost all portraits of some of the nobility of England. Lady Brownlow’s portrait is well executed; the Queen admires her style of beauty very much, Mr. Clifford said, but she is a little passée. The portraits of the Countess of Pembroke and Viscountess Castlereagh, both as regards execution and features, were exceedingly good; the latter is decidedly the more beautiful of the two, but the Countess of Pembroke has also a very fine face, with a settled sad expression. The portrait of Mary Countess of Ilchester seems to have come down from an antique canvas, and is extremely well done. Viscountess Castlereagh might stand for Sappho; she is so beautiful. There are about fifty portraits, and a good many of them were exhibited in the Royal Academy. Mr. Clifford is such a modest nice man. He was highly pleased with Baugmaree and the scenery around, looking at everything with a painter’s eyes. Do you know what he admired most? It was the clear shadow of a tall coco-nut palm, reflected in our jheel (small lake). We passed a most pleasant afternoon at Baugmaree. Mr. Clifford is going to Delhi, where he hopes he will get a sitting from the Maharaja of Cashmere, and perhaps also from other Chiefs and Rajas. He is coming back to Calcutta in three weeks. As to my aunt’s portrait, we three do not think very highly of it. When Mr. Clifford comes to see us again, we shall show him the painting, for he is sure to see all its merits and demerits at one glance. We are not capable, we think, of passing any judgement on works of art.
27th. You have no doubt read in the English papers about the storm-wave which swept away 125,000 people in the district of Dakhin Shahabazpoor. The particulars are most terrible. Is it not dreadful?—125,000 human beings! It is more dreadful than the earthquake at Lisbon or the burying at Pompeii. One of our relatives, a civilian, has been posted there; he finds the place not very healthy, and I believe has asked for a few days’ furlough.
I have not yet finished Les Misérables; indeed, since I have been ill, I have not read much. Have you read any of Shakespeare’s plays? I daresay you have; if not, you should make haste and read some of them; you would enjoy them very much. We saw several of his plays acted while we were in London; Hamlet, Macbeth, Richard III, Merchant of Venice, As you Like It, and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The last was by far the best got-up, and it had a run of some two hundred nights; all the fairies, on the boughs of trees, sitting and dangling their small legs, looked very pretty; and Puck and Titania and Oberon, how glittering and dazzling they were in all their tinsel finery!
Dear, your friendship is so precious to me; I sometimes think I do not deserve so much from you. If you do intend coming to India, dear, some time or other, do make haste, for I long to see you.
Calcutta is almost empty now. Every one seems to have gone to the Delhi Durbar. There will be a durbar held, on a much smaller scale of course, on the Maidan here. We see the preparations going on for it, when we take our daily drive on the Course. I have made a mistake in arranging these pages; if you follow the numbers you will find them all right.
I have not seen the Arctic number of the Graphic, but as soon as the Christmas holidays are over, I shall get it from the Calcutta Public Library. Was not that a fine picture which appeared lately, on the first page of a number of the Illustrated London News, of the Alert, on her journey homeward bound? How she is cutting her way through storm and snow, all her rigging covered with icicles! Have you ever seen a poem on Sir John Franklin and his expedition, by an American poet. I forget the name; but the verses are very fine, and begin thus (I quote from memory):
‘O whither go’st thou, Sir John Franklin?’ Cried a whaler in Baffin Bay. ‘To see if between the land and the pole I may find a broad sea-way.’
Have you read any of Poe’s poems? ‘The Raven’ is the one which is sure to be met with in any selection of poetry. It is very well written, and I daresay you have read it.
The charge of defamation against Mr. Wilson, editor of the Indian Daily News, has been decided, and in favour of the defendant.
I do not think now that it was the Revue des Deux Mondes which noticed my book; for I have seen the numbers of the Revue up to August, and there was no mention of my book. I wonder how M. Fourès came to hear about the Sheaf in his far-off home at Aude. I wish something or some one would throw a little light on this mystery!
Guinea-pigs are getting so dear! Do you know we sold off two pair the last time, at the rate of six shillings for the pair; the buyer was ready to pay anything we asked. We have only three left; they have been lately dying off; which is a pity, as we should have made our fortune by the sale of guinea-pigs! Aru’s canary and goldfinch are doing well.
And now, dear, I must bid good-bye for the present. Kindest regards from Papa and Mamma to yours and their love to you, and with best love from me to your dear self.
This was a marker in cross-stitch, on thin perforated cardboard, with the words: ‘Here I fell asleep!’ ↩︎
Afterwards Maharaja Sir Jotendro Mohun Tagore, K.C.S.I. ↩︎
The wife of the late Charles C. Babington, of Cambridge, Professor of Botany, who died in 1895. He was author of the Manual of British Botany, now in the fourth edition. His widow died in 1919. ↩︎
It is thought better to use initials instead of the full names. ↩︎
Afterwards Sir Roper Lethbridge. ↩︎
Written in 1876. ↩︎
Now Lady Sandys of Cambridge. ↩︎
Dr. Thompson was then Master of Trinity College. ↩︎