CHAPTER VI

LETTERS TO MISS MARTIN: JANUARY 1877—JULY 1877

12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. January 8, 1877.

MY DEAR MARY,—This is my first letter to you this year. I wonder if I shall be able to keep my promise. What a heap of letters you will have, if I am able to do so, by the end of the year!

Yesterday your letter was quite a pleasant surprise, as I did not expect one, having heard from you by the last mail. Many, many thanks for the card, it is very pretty; I showed it to Varûna, and he was delighted with it.

How jolly and gay you are of an evening! I cannot think how you can find the time to write to me such nice long letters.

If the ‘Cedars of Lebanon’ does not quite suit you, I shall send you another piece; for I have translated a good many since the Sheaf was published.

As to Lamartine’s knowledge of the Bible, very few French poets know more than he does; Victor Hugo is very vague indeed, when he likens himself leaving Paris and its festivities under the Empire to ‘le noir prophète qui fuyait Tyre’. To what prophet does he allude? Sainte-Beuve, I think, was the most religious man of all the later French poets. He was a Roman Catholic at first, but he entered the Protestant Church long before his death; he was a great friend of a celebrated abbé, I forget the name; they were college-friends and had had many a controversy on religion, which terminated in Sainte-Beuve’s becoming a Protestant, while the abbé:

Plus ferme en Saint Pierre y fonda son repos.

These very interesting facts I gathered from a biographical notice of Sainte-Beuve in one of the numbers of the Revue des Deux Mondes.

Hindus are getting more liberal in their views; there are some orthodox families who will not mix with friends or relations who have been to England, unless these make the necessary purifications ordained in the Hindu Shastras and by Pundits, consisting in bathing several stated times in the Ganges and in something else which I shall not mention, and which must be dreadfully disagreeable. But these families are becoming rarer every day. You see Hindus have to mix with Europeans here; European judges, European officials, they come in contact with them daily. Indeed, Hindus, liberal ones, will dine at a European’s table without much demur, but it is done en cachette.

As to my Christian relations, I hardly ever see any of them except Uncle Girish and his wife, my aunt; Varûna comes now and then, when his mother lets him, and he always pleases and amuses me.

The Durbar at Delhi went off splendidly, I believe; I never read the articles written by ‘our special correspondent’ from Delhi; the letters are dreadfully long and dull to me; what on the earth do we care to hear whether the Raja of Burdwan got a salute of twelve or thirteen guns or who got certificates of honour or silver medals! There was a durbar, on a smaller scale, held in Calcutta on the Maidan; everybody received a card of admittance. But neither Papa nor my Uncle Girish went. We heard from those who were foolish enough to go, that they sadly rued their loyalty, for they had to stand in the sun for three mortal hours, from eleven to two, without any tent or shelter over their heads, and there was nothing to see after all.

We went on Friday to Major Luard’s. He has taken a great interest in the Sheaf and in its author! and desired to make mine and Papa’s acquaintance. He sent a copy of the Sheaf to Trübner, the well-known publisher, and Trübner wants to get the book reviewed in one of the English papers, and so wants to know more of me and mine. Major Luard was not known to us before; he read my book and asked my cousin if Toru Dutt was a relation of his; Hem (that is my cousin’s name) of course said ‘Yes’, and that is how we came to pay a visit to him on Friday.

Have you read any of Coleridge’s pieces? ‘Christabel’ is a very fine and touching poem, and the music of the verses haunts the ear for a long time after you have read the piece. ‘Kubla Khan’ is very beautiful too, though unfortunately it is only an unfinished poem. Coleridge used to eat opium, and one morning he fell into a dose from its effects, and in his dreams he saw the ‘pleasure dome’ and the ‘caves of ice’ and other beautiful things so vividly that as soon as he was awake he began to write down his impressions; the verses flowed involuntarily, without any effort and as if inspired, from his pen. He was interrupted by a visitor, who came on business to see him, and who stayed a pretty long time; after his departure, the poet returned to his piece ‘Kubla Khan’, but to his mortification, found that he had forgotten his enchanting vision, and only after long efforts could he remember fragments of his dream.

I could not write to you by the last mail, as I did not feel strong enough, but I hope to be more regular now.

We have received several French books from Hachette & Co. They are Gramont’s Chant du Passé, Moreau’s Le Myosotis, a drama by Vacquerie, and another book of chosen bits of prose and poetry from writers of the nineteenth century.

Our barouche has come at last; it is beautifully done up and looks quite new; it is so comfortable driving in it, after the close palanquin carriage of my cousin.

This letter will be very short and dull, as I am not in a letter-writing mood; so please excuse its dullness.

Sir Richard Temple, our Lieutenant-Governor, has been gazetted Governor of Bombay, and Sir Ashley Eden has been created Lieutenant-Governor in his stead. Sir Bartle Frere, you have no doubt seen in the papers, has been made Governor of the Cape.

We have not yet gone to the Garden, you see. Mamma and I want to go very much, but Papa is averse to our going even now to Baugmaree; ‘If you should fall ill there,’ he says to me; and of course I cannot promise not to fall ill, can I? But I think the place is now dry enough, and that there is no fear of fever there now.

I sometimes wonder, if you ever should come here, how Calcutta and its inhabitants would impress you—favourably or otherwise. I think it would not realize all your ideas about the ‘city of palaces’.

I have got a splitting headache to-day, owing to our having gone out for a drive in the middle of the day. It is now getting warmer, and the sun is almost unbearable during the afternoon: we must change the hour for going out.

Papa’s and Mamma’s kindest regards to yours, and their love to you. With best love from me to your dear self

Believe me, yours very affectionately,

TORU DUTT.

12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. January 13, 1877.

I have commenced this letter, partly to keep my promise, and partly in anticipation of your letter, for I expect one by this mail. I have nothing to write about, but as I have neither anything to do, I have taken up my pen.

I feel very dull and low-spirited to-day. Perhaps it is the weather that makes me so, for it has been raining all day, without the sun showing himself even for a minute, and the sky is so dark and gloomy! There will be no going to Church to-morrow if this rain continues.

We have changed our hour for driving out, and instead of twelve, we go now at nine, just after breakfast. The morning is pleasant and cool and the air fresh and reviving without being cold, and the sun warm but not hot. I greatly enjoy the sight of the horses being broken to harness and saddle on the Maidan. As the course is generally free and without any people during the forenoons, the horse-breakers are generally doing their business during the mornings. There are daily thirty or forty horses, waiting their turn to be put in the brake; some of them are very fine and spirited animals, but the majority look fine; and Papa and I are congratulating ourselves for having had the brilliant idea of indenting all our French books from England.

Gramont’s sonnets are often so full of deep thought and meaning that they remind me of Milton and Wordsworth.

I have not yet finished Les Misérables, but I am nearly at the end; there are only about a hundred pages more. Gavroche, the Paris gamin, his life, his death, are all vividly and very cleverly described. Gavroche is killed at last at a barricade during the revolution of 1832.

My Uncle, Mamma’s brother, who lately went to the North-West has come back. He has brought for me a beautiful little model of the Taj Mahal at Agra. He was telling us about it, and his description reminded me strongly of ‘Kubla Khan’s’ ‘pleasure dome’. I would like to see the Taj very much; would not you?

Lord Lytton arrived in Calcutta this afternoon; he has had a nasty wet day to cheer him, after all the beautiful weather up at Simla.

I have sent another poetical contribution to the Calcutta Review; it is a translation from the French of Sainte-Beuve, entitled Les Larmes de Racine. The original is very fine and beautiful; and Papa says the translation has also been done very well and creditably. I have done almost thirty pieces more since the publication of the Sheaf; a goodly number, is it not? We shall get, at least we expect to get, a volume of Theuriet’s poems by the next mail, which is due on Monday, that is, the day after to-morrow.

15th. I have been hearing an account of Dakhin Shahabazpoor, recently visited and almost depopulated by the storm-wave, from an old family servant, who had accompanied our relative, Mr. Romesh C. Dutt, to that district. Our cousin has been placed there as Joint-Magistrate. The servant, Sampad, said that on the first night of their arrival, his master told him to get down from the boat and find a suitable place, for cooking his (Sampad’s) supper. He went down with a lantern, and a sight met his eyes which made him soon return to the boat: dead bodies of men and of cattle were lying about. He said that all the village was strewn with corpses and dead cattle. Bodies were seen hanging on the trees, as if in the last struggle to grasp at some branch; bodies lying clasped together, as if in the desperate last attempt for life; mothers with their babes in their arms. He said that no putrefaction had set in among the corpses, but they were dried and blackened, like ‘dried and salted fish’, that was his expression. No Englishman would stay in the place, so our cousin was posted there. There were no dogs or jackals prowling about, not even any vultures, only now and then a raven was to be seen, with its ominous croak; all the animals had perished in the storm-wave. The tanks and reservoirs of water were almost filled with dead bodies; there are so few men alive, and so many dead, that the work of burying the bodies goes on but slowly, in spite of the efforts of Government officials and men.

8 p.m. I received your welcome and very interesting letter this morning. Indeed, I should be very happy to see Miss L. H., if she ever comes out to India. I would ask so many things about you, and I should welcome her very heartily indeed for your dear sake. Oh, if you were coming instead of L. H.!

Yesterday morning, at about nine, I heard the wheels of a carriage on the gravel; a wild, queer thought passed through my mind: ‘It may be Mary!’ Then I thought of you and my welcoming you here, in Calcutta, in our own house, and our mutual joy at meeting again. Shall we meet here on earth again? And if so where—in England or in India?

Your account of Bishop Johnson interested me very much, as also the speech of the Rev. Mr. Jacobs. There is a Bishop’s Palace in Calcutta, near Garden Reach. Mr. Jacobs has an article in the last number of the Calcutta Review about Bishop Milman. I have not yet seen the Review. In it has also appeared one of my Sanskrit translations, entitled ‘The Royal Ascetic and the Hind’. I shall send you a copy of the poem, if the twelve copies of my piece due to me, as a contributor, are sent in before this mail leaves.

How fast you are getting on with the Ramayana. I would advise you to read La Femme dans l’Inde Antique; you will find there a great variety of tales, and almost all the standard Hindu legends and stories; I am sure you would like it. I am keeping in pretty good health now. There is a little blood-spitting off and on in the cough, but nothing to speak of; I feel much better, only I get rather out of breath getting upstairs, and of course I cannot run a mile, but I can walk one easily, I think. The doctors advise a change; I wonder if we shall go anywhere. I myself do not relish the idea of travelling about in search of health; travelling in India is no small matter; there are many comforts and conveniences in travelling about in England which are not to be had here for love or money. Dr. Cayley says England would be a very nice place for me in July or August; what would you do, if you saw me one warm sunny August morning knock at No. 11 Parker’s Piece! and I wonder what I should do?

If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee! In silence and tears.

16th. How provoking of Miss Yonge to refuse your notice of the Sheaf on account of want of space! Please send me the notice to look at, if you can, for I should very much enjoy reading it. Is it long? I do hope you have cut me up savagely! I heard from Mr. Dey the other day; you know he is the editor of the Bengal Magazine, in which several of the pieces in the Sheaf first appeared, and to which I still continue to contribute often. Mr. Dey wrote to me about Sir W. Herschel, son of the well-known astronomer, who is Commissioner at Hooghly. Sir W. Herschel spoke with warm praise to Mr. Dey of the Sheaf, and of my other recent contributions to the Bengal Magazine.

Jeunette and Gentille are getting on capitally. They are as fond of me as ever. Jeunette is very hardworking; Gentille gets tired after a journey of twelve miles, at the rate of ten or twelve miles an hour, but Jeunette can do twenty-four miles; I think Gentille is sprightly and full of fire in the beginning of a journey, but she feels the sun when it is very hot; Jeunette, on the contrary, gets more and more impetuous as she gets warm; she gets almost wild with delight when we come to drive on the Maidan; the fresh breeze and the green grass send joy and energy into their hearts, and Jeunette and Gentille trot away in the open and free Maidan. How I wish I could have you with me! If you come here, how many things I shall have to show and tell you! Uncle Girish and Auntie, Baugmaree with all its treasures, my horses, my cats, and then all the things to be seen in Calcutta!

I must not make this letter longer, as I have received copies of my piece, one of which I enclose within this letter. Please tell me what you think of it.

Papa’s and Mamma’s kindest regards to yours, in which I join, and their love to you, and with best love to your dear self from me.

12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. January 22, 1877.

How very kind of you to write to me by this mail! I received your letter of the 12th December, 1876, last week, and this week I did not expect any, of course, but I was so very happy to have it; it was very interesting. I am quite well now, dear, that is, I mean I am a great deal better; so please do not be anxious about me. I am very sorry I made you so anxious with my short note enclosing the Christmas card. What a lot of presents you have got!

We went yesterday afternoon to Baugmaree; at least, I went with Uncle Girish and Aunt. We had such fun gathering the Indian plum (they are called Indian plums); the Bengali name is kool, and they more resemble the English cherry than the plum, I think. I brought such beautiful camellias from Baugmaree for Papa; one is pale red, and the other pure white; they are in water just before me as I write. How I wish I could send them to you, as fresh and beautiful as they are now.

We went the other day to Baboo Shib Chunder Bannerjee’s house. He used to teach us English when we were quite young; he has been our English teacher ever so long; we, as children, were very fond of him; and older, that affection grew, mixed with esteem. He was so gentle, and yet so firm during lessons. He is such a truly Christian man, and sympathizes so sincerely in all our joys and sorrows. Mrs. Bannerjee, too, is a very nice and amiable person. How we used to try to while away lesson time, by chatting and talking about trifles! But he never allowed us to chat long. We used, I remember, to ask, one after one, about the health of everybody employed in the Financial Department! How interested and anxious we used to get all at once about Mr. So-and-so’s doings, health, and affairs! We used to read Milton with him latterly, and we read Paradise Lost, over and over again, so many times, that we had the first book and part of the second book by heart. He has got a large family of children. He showed some letters that he had lately received from his niece, who is in England. His niece is the wife of his brother’s son, Mr. W. C. Bannerjee, who is the most rising and the most clever Bengali barrister in Calcutta. Mrs. W. C. Bannerjee and her children went to England some time ago; she has been baptized since she has been there, but her husband has not yet become a Christian. He sent his wife and children to England, to have them educated well and thoroughly.

I went with Mamma to see Grandmother, who is ill with persistent, intermittent fever; she has consequently become very thin and weak. My Grandfather hopes to be able to give her a change soon. They will probably go to Benares.

24th. I think our Bengali language is very rich in words. Now take, for instance, the word uncle. Uncle in English may either mean paternal or maternal uncle, and one’s father’s or mother’s sister’s husband is alike one’s uncle. Now in Bengali, Mamma’s brother is Mama (Mamma or Mother is simply Ma or Mata), Papa’s elder brother is my Jayta, and younger one Kaka, and so on, for each one we have a different appellation. Is it not nice and convenient?

We went to-day to see an old friend of ours, Miss Pigot, who has just returned from Europe. She went there on account of her health. She had a dreadful cough before she went, but she has now got quite rid of it, she said. She had tried many places in England and Scotland without feeling any better, and at last she went to Germany, somewhere near Wiesbaden. She got back her health there; she said she felt quite a new person, and got back all her strength again. She told us about the beautiful scenery around. She also spoke of the Bridge of Allan as a very nice and warm place; but it did not suit her.

I got a letter to-day from Monsieur P. Girard, acknowledging receipt of my book. He was our French teacher at St. Leonards. He used to come twice or thrice a week, to give Papa and me lessons in French; Aru, of course, did not read with us. He is very fond of poetry, and translated some two or three pieces from the Dutt Family Album into French verse. He speaks with warm admiration of the Sheaf, but says that it deserves ‘une étude plus sérieuse que celle que j’en ai faite; étude intéressante et profitable, que je me promets de faire pendant mes vacances’.

I wonder if M. Boquel will reply to my letter. Do you ever see him now? I suppose not often, as you have given up the French lectures.

M. Girard has also opened a course of French lectures for ladies at St. Leonards.

I could not write yesterday, as I got a little feverish during the evening, and it is generally after dinner that I take up my pen to write to you.

We continue our morning drives; they are very refreshing, and I think do me great good. We saw the other day a gentleman riding a white pony; the pony had such a beautiful tail; it was hardly an inch above the ground and so thick too; the poor little animal could hardly move it, to drive away the flies.

The Viceroy held a levée yesterday, and Lady Lytton will hold a drawing-room on Friday. There was a great question amongst the women-folk concerning the order issued some time ago that all ladies going to Government House would have to wear trains. Now trains cost a great deal, especially as they are generally brought out from England; but fortunately yesterday’s paper announced that trains were not absolutely necessary, and that ladies might do as they liked. There were so many letters and articles on the subject, it was quite astounding! ‘Much ado about nothing!’ People who could not afford trains might as well have stayed away from the lordly parties at Government House. What a fuss one makes about nothing!

I send you within this letter two pieces of translation: the printed one for your amusement and the written one for your album. If ‘La Cavale’ does not quite suit you, you must tell me, for I must then look out and send you another, more to your liking; as I promised you one in case the ‘Cedars’ should not suit, I send you ‘La Cavale’.

We did not get Theuriet’s poetical works, as we hoped, from Messrs. Hachette & Co., by the last mail; they say it is out of print, but they will try and send us a copy, if they can get hold of one, in two or three weeks. This reminds me of the story of the farmer who, going to buy a copy of the Holy Scriptures, did not find any to suit his sight exactly, and at last asked the bookseller if one could not be ‘printed’ for him in a week or two!

26th. We went to see Mr. Clifford to-day; Mr. Barry, the Secretary of the Church Missionary Society, has returned from his tour in the North-West, and was very glad to see us. His daughter has just come to Calcutta from England. She seemed a very nice and amiable young lady. Mr. Clifford, the painter, showed us a portrait of his brother (who is the rector of the Old Church) in water-colour that he is just doing. It is not yet finished, but it is a beautiful portrait in resemblance as well as in execution. The colours are so soft and blending; there is no harshness; and it took Mr. Clifford only eight hours to do it. He was very pleased with what he saw in Delhi. He spoke of the costumes and jewels of the Indian Princes and Chiefs with great admiration, especially of the necklace of the Gaekwar of Baroda. It looked in the sun, he said, like a necklace of fire.

The Mohammedan festival, Mohorrun, will take place on Friday, to-morrow. There will be no driving to-morrow, for all Mohammedans will have a holiday, and all coachmen and grooms are Moslems.

I have no more news, and as the mail goes off to-morrow, I must close this letter. Papa’s and Mamma’s kindest regards to yours, and their love to you, and with best love to your dear self.

12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. February 3, 1877.

I could not write to you last week, as I had one of my bad fits of blood-spitting. I wonder if England will suit me now, for I seem to get ill during the winter here more than in any other season, and English winters are so dreadfully cold.

It has been raining awfully to-day, and it is very cold. Uncle Girish was asking me if it was not as cold as it is in England in November, and seeing me smile, he said: ‘Well then, as cold as October’s last days?’ He was a little surprised on my assuring him that it was cold enough to remind one of a raw April day. He longs to see Europe. I am afraid his wishes will never be realized, for he is not at all a travelling man, and has never been out of Calcutta for a day.

I expect your looked-for letter to-morrow; I am longing for it; I wonder what I should do without your dear letters; there would be such a gap in my everyday life, if I did not receive them.

5th February. No letter! It is a sad disappointment, as I expected one. I hope you are all keeping well, dear.

I received the answer to my letter from Lizzie Hall. It is a nice letter, and interested me very much; it is very rarely that I hear from them.

Do you remember the games at chess we used to have together of an evening? How I look back to those days! They seem so far off. I always used to think that you made me win the game knowingly; and I am of that opinion still, I am such a bad player. Do you know Lord Lytton’s pretty little piece of poetry commencing:

My little love, do you remember, Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other’s eyes.

The above lines were recurring to me last night, while I lay in bed, thinking about you. You are such a true friend, dear, I think of you often with a thankful heart.

Lord Lytton is now staying here. He has been making himself popular by giving garden-parties, balls, levées, &c.

As we go to drive generally in the morning, we often see the review of troops which takes place on the Maidan. There are English and Indian regiments, and the different uniforms look very pretty. The sight is beautiful, with the bayonets gleaming in the rising sun, and the clear words of command ringing across the level plain, and the officers prancing about on fine spirited horses, and the men marching or kneeling down to fire a volley of musketry. But after seeing the French regiments in Paris, ‘les lanciers, grenadiers,’ &c., with their pennons and flags flying, the regiments here seem poor affairs. Have you ever seen a French company of soldiers?

The weather has been dreadful for the last week; it has been raining almost incessantly and the sky is never free from clouds. To-day it rained a little in the morning, but it is pretty fair now and the sky is putting on its accustomed robe of blue, but the air is very damp, and so we could not go out, but sent Jeunette and Gentille out with the carriage for exercise, for they have been without work for two days, and they get fresh and spirited after a long spell of idleness; but they are the quietest horses living, I think, they went off so quietly and gently; there is no vice in them, no kicking or biting or jibbing.

Mr. Dey is, we hear, going to start a weekly newspaper. He wrote to Papa about it, and he says in his letter that he will have a Poet’s Corner in his paper, which is to be set apart for me, and which he hopes I shall fill up every week!

Mamma’s cow has got a calf, and we are enjoying fresh home-made butter every morning. Mamma has got two grown-up cows, and two heifers. The cows are very fierce and bad-tempered, but they are very pretty and rather small in size; they are so nice to look at, as they graze around the jheel, or go to drink water at the tank.

Papa has received a book about the use of the hypophosphates, by Dr. Churchill, the discoverer, from Longmans & Co., this mail, and he and my uncle are deep in reading it.

Dr. Watt, who is Professor at the Hooghly College, and who was a fellow-passenger with us on our return voyage, called on us the other day. He had travelled all over lower India, or rather Bengal, on foot. He was telling us about his adventures. He said he had seen real wild men of the woods; they were quite naked, and at the approach of himself and guide, ran up the trees and began chattering like so many monkeys. His guide said to him that he (Dr. Watt) was lucky in getting sight of these men of the woods, for they never came near the towns and villages, and only lived on fruits and roots. Dr. Watt said that they were not higher than three feet. They must have been a species of the monkey or ape tribe, I think; and Dr. Watt’s taking them for wild men of the woods was simply because he and his Indian guide did not understand each other well. For Bon-manoush is the name in Bengali for the Ourang-Outang, and may also stand, when speaking of a large-sized ape; so the guide must have told Dr. Watt that they were Bon-manoush, meaning apes, and Dr. Watt must have understood him literally, for Bon means wood and Manoush means men!

I do not think I shall be able to make this letter long, or interesting; we are so quiet and retired here that there is nothing new to tell you about; and then the non-receipt of your fortnightly letter has made me more dull-headed than usual. I am sure you are very busy, or perhaps my letter made you anxious, and so made you wait till you had heard from me again. I am quite strong again now, so don’t be anxious.

My grandfather and grandmother came to see us this afternoon. Grandmamma gave me a beautiful ivory comb which my ‘new’ aunt (Suruchee) had brought from Delhi for me. It is a long time since I saw grandmamma, and I was very glad to see her again. It is not yet nine o’clock, and I feel so tired and sleepy that I must shut up and go to bed. So good-night, dear, and God bless you. Kindest regards to your father and mother from mine, and their love to you, and with best love to you.

12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. February 12, 1877.

Your welcome letter of the 10th January last came to hand on Saturday. Many thanks for the same. I have nothing new to tell you, and if you find this letter dull, I should advise you not to read it to the end. I warn you beforehand, because ‘forewarned is fore-armed’.

Ada Smith came to see us with Mrs. Dyson. Miss Smith has taken a holiday of three weeks and come down to Calcutta for a change. She is probably on her way back to Amritsar, for she is going to start this evening. She said that it is very cold in Amritsar during the winter, and very hot during the summer. They are obliged to have fires till May, she said, in every room; there is a good deal of frost, but no snow. She lives in a bungalow along with A. L. O. E. (Miss Tucker). She is going to stay in India seven years, then take a year’s holiday, to go to England.

I am quite well now; at least, much better. I have left off cod-liver oil, hurrah! Papa read in Dr. Churchill’s book that giving the hypophosphates along with the oil was like yoking a railway engine with a jackass. Papa and Uncle Girish have both a very high opinion of Dr. Churchill after this perusal of his book; and, thanks to him, I see brighter days dawning for me, days with no cod-liver oil to take (ugh!) before every meal!

I am busy now writing the notes of my later pieces of translation. These keep me occupied during the most part of the day; but I am almost at the end now, and in a couple of days more I hope to finish all.

Uncle and aunt have just been here. Mamma, I and aunt fell to talking about England and Europe. Auntie wanted to hear again of our English friends; I assured her of the warm welcome she would assuredly receive from you and your mother, dear, if ever Uncle Girish and she go to Cambridge. Then she exclaimed: ‘Why, all your best friends seem to be those at Cambridge, the Halls, the Cowells, the Babingtons, and now the Martins!’ ¹

13th. We went for a drive this morning. The other day we had a very long drive of about twelve miles; the day was cloudy and there was a good strong wind; Jeunette and Gentille were not at all tired, though they did the twelve miles within the hour; there were no crowds, for it was out of the town.

14th. Grandmother and my two aunts came here yesterday. Also Varûna, the baby, and Muktamala, Varûna’s younger sister. Varûna has just learnt to pronounce his R’s properly, and is consequently very proud!

Have you read Dumas’ Impressions de Voyage? It is a very interesting book. I have not finished Les Misérables: am I not dreadfully slow? I have very little time to give to reading just now, as I am so busy with adding pieces and notes to, and correcting, my Sheaf.

Papa’s birthday was on the 28th of January; he is forty-nine years old. I gave him a book of photographs taken from the paintings of the great masters of the Georgian Era. I like Gainsborough’s ‘Blue Boy’ very much. We saw the original in the Kensington Museum. Did you go to the May Exhibition of the Royal Academy? I have been looking lately into some of the late numbers of the Art Journal; I like the Art Journal very much. There are such beautiful steel engravings in it.

I have so little news to give you, that I have half a mind to tear up this letter, and try to write a more interesting one next mail.

There was a slight cyclone last week; and several boats and men were lost in the river. As I cannot fill this letter up with anything, I am going to copy one of my translations from Gramont, with the original and also with a sonnet of Wordsworth, which it resembles very much.

SONNET

Sous des barreaux de fer le lion renfermé, Le lion souverain, a l’œil triste et terrible, Et qui, vaincu, se sent en lui-même invincible, En stériles efforts ne s’est point consumé.

Sans vouloir s’agiter et comme accoutumé, Il s’assied; sous son poil rentre l’ongle infaillible, Qu’on n’affrontera pas, et sa ride inflexible Ne dit rien des fureurs dont son cœur est armé.

Quelquefois seulement, quand l’odeur de l’orage Vient remuer ses flancs, magnifique et sauvage Il se dresse, et dans l’air étend sa grande voix.

Ses geôliers ont frémi, lui de nouveau s’affaisse, Il n’a pas pour longtemps à supporter leurs lois: Il étouffe, et la mort va finir sa détresse.

(Translation)

By iron bars the lion proud hemmed round, The sovereign lion with the terrible eyes, Vanquished, yet still invincible, defies Not by vain efforts but a calm profound.

Idle, he sits, as wont, upon the ground, His claws drawn in their sheath, and none descries In his unchanging front the rage that lies Deep in his bosom without sign or sound.

’Tis sometimes only, when he snuffs the storm Sweeping afar, he stirs and lifts his form, Savage, magnificent. Then to hear his roar

The gaolers tremble;—but he drops anew; Not long has he to pine on dungeon floor; He chokes for freedom: death must soon ensue.

EAGLES (WORDSWORTH)

Composed at Dunollie Castle in the Bay of Oban.

Dishonoured Rock and Ruin! that, by law Tyrannic, keep the bird of Jove embarred Like a lone criminal whose life is spared. Vexed is he, and screams loud. The last I saw

Was on the wing; stooping, he struck with awe Man, bird and beast; then with a consort paired, From a bold headland, their loved aery’s guard, Flew high above Atlantic waves, to draw

Light from the fountain of the setting sun. Such was this prisoner once; and, when his plumes The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on,

Then, for a moment, he, in spirit, resumes His rank ’mong freeborn creatures that live free, His power, his beauty, and his majesty.

Whose do you like best, Gramont’s or Wordsworth’s? And is my translation a fairly literal one? I hope ‘La Cavale’ suits you.

I see from the papers that Mr. Buloz, the editor of the Revue des Deux Mondes, has lately died. He was editor for a very long time. I wonder who his successor will be; Charles Mazade writes the literary notes, perhaps he will take up the editorship.

The Indian Mirror, edited by Keshub Chunder Sen, says that two Indian girls (I forget the names) have passed the Entrance Examination very creditably. We are in a fair way of having our Merton Hall ² you see, are we not? I do hope Indian girls will be in the future better educated, and obtain more freedom and liberty than they now enjoy.

I must now close, dear. Papa’s and Mamma’s kindest regards to yours, and their love to you, and with best love to yourself.

12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. February 18, 1877.

I take up my pen to write to you, not because I have anything new or particular to say, but because I feel in a letter-writing mood.

Yesterday, a Miss Featherstone called here with a letter of introduction from Mrs. Cowell. She is a friend of Miss Perry, whom we knew very well at Cambridge, and whom we liked, too, very much, and has come out as a Zenana teacher. She is very nice and amiable, and is going to Barrackpore for the first half-year, but hopes to be permanently stationed in Calcutta.

Have you read ‘Up the Country’, by Miss Eden, sister of Lord Auckland? It is rather an interesting book. It consists chiefly of letters and journals addressed to her sister in England. She used to draw very well, and Papa remembers how one of his schoolfellows, a very handsome, fair Bengalee boy of seven, was sent for by Miss Eden, who wanted to sketch a likeness of him.

Little Varûna was telling us some incidents of Bible History, which he had lately heard from his mother; one was the fight of David with the lion; and it was funny to see Varûna take hold of Papa’s beard and chin and show how David killed the lion. He is very fond of hearing stories, and my uncle improvises tales of ogres and tigers for him; he has such a good memory, he goes home and tells the stories next day to his mother or brother. His baby brother, Meelun, is getting rather interesting, but he is not so sharp or intelligent as Varûna; he came to me yesterday for the first time, and sat on my lap till I felt tired and gave him back to the maid-servant; he is somewhat steadier than he was a month ago, and can hold his head straight and crawl on all fours, and says ‘Ba-ba’, which is Bengali for ‘Papa’, and also can pronounce ‘ak’, which means sugar-cane in Bengali; poor little fellow, he has got a bad cold just now, but he is a little better.

19th. We went to Church yesterday. One of the hymns was ‘Just as I am’—an old favourite of ours; I dare say you know it. Our new bishop was duly installed in the Cathedral last Sunday; he has preached his first sermon; the subject was ‘Charity’. I hear he has brought his sister with him.

To-day we went for our drive with the intention of going to Baugmaree, but we found Manicktollah Bridge under repair, and as the other road is very round-about, we returned home.

Dr. Cayley is going to England on furlough for eight months, so I must look out for another doctor! and fall from the frying-pan into the fire!

Uncle Girish and aunt are busy preparing for a voyage to Europe! We have so often seen these preparations going on that we are rather hard of belief! and we do not think they will be able to stir out of No. 13, Manicktollah Street! Papa also is thinking seriously of going to England again; but, strange to say, I do not much relish the idea of leaving Calcutta. I am very fickle, I suppose, for it was I who regretted the most leaving England; and two years ago I was longing to return, but now the idea of it makes me down-spirited and dull. I wonder why it is so. Aunt says it is the thought of parting from Jeunette and Gentille; but it is not that, I know. However, if we do go, I shall see you again, and that is some comfort.

20th. We did not take our usual drive to-day, as I want to give one day’s rest to my horses.

Little Varûna came yesterday evening. He is so very interesting. He is very fond of pictures, and his favourite picture-books are Erckmann-Chatrian’s Le Conscrit and my Book of the Horse.

The weather is getting warm again, and we shall soon have our hot summer weather. This morning it is very foggy, quite a London fog. It is not very cold, though, and I hope we shall be able to take our morning drive as usual, for I get a headache generally if I go out for a drive at noon, now it is so very hot; and in the evening everybody goes out for a drive, and the course and strand are so crowded, and then I feel a little tired of an evening.

I was reading an article on the rising French novelists, in the Revue des Deux Mondes; the principal romanciers are Theuriet, G. Droz, V. Cherbuliez, A. Daudet, and Flaubert and Zola. I have read a novel or two of all except Daudet and Flaubert. I must try and get hold of one or two of their works, Mme Bovary, or Jack, or Fromont jeune et Risler aîné, but I have not finished Les Misérables; it drags somewhat at the end.

We went for our usual morning drive, and have just come back. As Papa has monopolized the paper, I think I had better finish off my letter. We saw a band of prisoners, evidently just arrived from the Mofussil, guarded by soldiers, come out from the railway station; they were followed by two others, guarded by five or six soldiers; the last two are the ringleaders, I suppose, or else they are the most dangerous and desperate men of the whole band, for they had chains to their feet. This reminded me of Jean Valjean’s description of the horrors of the bagne: ‘Oh! la casaque rouge, le boulet au pied, une planche pour dormir, le chaud, le froid, le travail, la chiourme, les coups de bâton, la double chaîne pour rien, le cachet pour un mot, même malade au lit, la chaîne.’ The men were very fierce and sullen-looking, and seemed to be up-country people. Jeunette and Gentille shied this morning at the sight of a railway engine; and we were obliged to stop them, and the grooms patted them and encouraged them till they were quiet.

It is such a fine day; all the fog has gone, and a mild air, ‘like that of England’s June’, is blowing.

Have you read any good English novel lately? I like some of Black’s novels very much: A Princess of Thule and A Daughter of Heth are very interesting; and then he makes his titles very taking; his last work Madcap Violet has been favourably noticed by almost all the principal papers; his descriptions of scenery are always very fine. I read some parts of Madcap Violet from Macmillan’s Magazine, where it first appeared, but unfortunately I never finished it. Have you read Tennyson’s last dramatic work Harold? I think he has written himself out, and I do not care to read his later productions, though I am never tired of his earlier poems, and the ‘Idylls’ and the ‘Princess’ will be ever favourites with me. I like ‘Elaine’ best.

I daresay you have not read any of Miss Braddon’s novels; they are very sensational, and she almost rivals Wilkie Collins in that respect. Thomas Hardy writes exceedingly well, and is sometimes as powerful with his pen as George Eliot; but his heroines have always at least three lovers, one after the other, and then they generally marry the man they loved the least! I must shut up. With best love.

12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. February 26, 1877.

Your welcome letter I received on Saturday morning last. It was a very interesting and good one. I showed the card of your Zenana Association Fund to Papa and Uncle Girish, who were both much pleased with it.

Little Varûna came here last evening in great trouble and crying tremendously. He had had a fall, which had caused a slight bruise to one of his knees, and he ‘was sure he would be lame—oh, quite lame’. Papa told him about the fall he had (Papa had) some twenty-five years ago from his horse, and how he was unable to get up for six months, and now, at present, he is quite well, and does not limp a bit; but that, instead of comforting poor Varûna, increased his fears; ‘Oh! then I shall be quite lame!’ We were in a sad dilemma, but after some time we succeeded in quieting him and allaying his fears. His mother had, it seems, given him a bit of a sermon, telling him that he had been punished by God for his naughtiness, and so forth; of course, that is not the way to comfort a child of four, though it may do very well for grown-up people. Varûna, a little comforted by our assuring words, asked if God would not make his hurt well? ‘Of course,’ said I. He went home in more cheerful spirits. When he came, he was in such a sad plight, impatient, weeping, all his face expressing terror and dismay at the idea of getting lame. He is very nervous, and gets excited very easily. His little brother is getting rather interesting. He comes to us now, and is very pretty and fair; he is teething, which makes him a little querulous sometimes.

Have you read Daniel Deronda, George Eliot’s last novel? I was reading an abstract and review of it in one of the numbers of the Revue des Deux Mondes. It seems interesting, in an abstract; but in the original there is too much about Jews and their religion, and the author philosophizes in a manner which, I dare say, she herself thinks highly of, but which is very tiresome to the reader. The book would have been better if it were more condensed, for the author displays high dramatic powers in portions of it. So says the Revue. When M. Buloz, its editor, who died lately, was on his death-bed, it is said, he called his son (the present editor), and said to him: ‘François, tu prendras la direction de la Revue des Deux Mondes; quant à moi, je prends la direction de l’autre monde.’ I suppose this is a canard, but it is rather good.

The Revue sometimes gives an abstract of an English or American novel, and gives it very clearly, reducing a three-volume novel to as many leaves, and yet containing the gist and matter of the whole story. These French writers and contributors to the Revue are very clever men. I do not think there is any periodical, English or foreign, which is greater in literary merit than the Revue des Deux Mondes. Its contributors are mostly members of the ‘Académie’ or of the ‘Institut’. Saint-René Taillandier is writing a very long clever notice of Baron Stockmar’s book.

It is getting hot now, and we have begun to wear our summer clothes and take our drives earlier, at eight or half an hour later. One of my cats presented me with a litter of four kittens; just imagine my horror! I am fond of cats and kittens, but this is too much, four all at once! I must look out for their settlement. For I always give away my extra kittens, when they are big enough, to kind people, such as our gardener, our milkman, our cook, and so on.

I am feeling somewhat weaker. Perhaps it is the hot weather, for it is not downright weakness, but a sort of lassitude which makes me more inclined for the couch than the chair. I am only taking the hypophosphate of lime now, which is very sweet and nice to the taste; I am glad to get rid of the cod-liver oil; it used to interfere with my appetite.

As we were taking our drive this morning, we saw a poor horse, with its mouth bleeding from the effects of a bad bit; it was being broken into harness; it will have lost all the fine sensibility of its mouth by the time it is thoroughly broken in. Then there was another pair of fresh horses, which was nearly coming in contact with ours; however, we escaped; there is one black mare so very beautiful; we see it almost daily. I like to look at a handsome good horse; I could stand hours contemplating it; there is nothing more beautiful, more noble, than a fine horse, be it Arab, or English, Australian, stud-bred, or of any other country and kind.

Papa is trying to sell off Baugmaree; that is, he is not trying but he desires to sell it off, in case we should go to England. Uncle Girish is busy making his usual preparations. I wonder if he will really be able to go to Europe this time; if we go, I think he will go, although he has never been out of Calcutta, but if we do not, then I very much doubt if he will be able to start all alone with aunt. But as I do not think we shall, I had better let this subject alone.

27th. I dreamed of you last night. I thought that we had gone to England, just for one day, and that I, with Mamma’s permission, had set out to see you. I saw Parker’s Piece vividly, and as I was near your house, I saw you looking out from the drawing-room window, and you did not seem to recognize me. I rang the bell, and you came down yourself to open the door, with some excuse about the housemaid’s being busy downstairs—and as you were speaking, all at once you recognized me and a joyous exclamation burst from you. Then you took me upstairs to your mother and then we all fell a-talking, and you said I was not changed much, and that I had not become at all thin, only I looked taller, you said, with longer hands and arms; and then I proposed to write something in your album, as it was the last opportunity I was ever likely to have, and you brought your album and I opened it, took a pen, and commenced one of my later sonnets from Gramont; just as I had written half a line, ‘In thy strong teeth———’ I awoke. Was it not a nice dream? I shall send you the sonnet in my next. I wonder if you ever see me in your dreams; I often dream of you; this dream was so vivid and like reality.

How are your doves getting on? Have you recaptured the one which flew away? I like to hear of the Halls and Cowells; you say the latter have removed to Scrope Terrace; the name seems familiar to me, and yet I do not exactly remember the locality; it is so long since we were in Cambridge. We were all very sorry to hear of Admiral Davis’s death; of course he was very old; but he used to look so hale and hearty that one would have thought he would have lived at least ten or twelve years more. He used to walk with us sometimes, and he was always so good-humoured and full of spirits. He had a beautiful dog, a Newfoundland, which followed him everywhere, even to Church, I think; the dog used to remind us of our dog, ‘Dogsa’, which was a great favourite of Aru’s in Calcutta. Have you heard anything of Mrs. Babington? I hope she is better. I suppose you hear from the Fishers now and then; are they still in Germany? Yes, indeed, A. L. does seem to be having a gay time of it.

To-day it is very hot and soon it will be dreadfully so. I am very sorry to hear about Mrs. Burton’s illness, though I do not know her; does she live near you? and is she obliged to keep her bed?

Have you seen Mrs. Baker lately? I must close here, dear. God bless and keep you. 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 yourself.

12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. March 5, 1877.

Yesterday was my birthday, and Papa gave me a beautiful edition of Sainte-Beuve’s Femmes célèbres, with magnificent steel engravings. Mamma gave me a pretty phial of scent, with a nice little case, representing a small carriage drawn by a pair of goats.

The great news of the week is—I have finished Les Misérables! I am so glad! I have already been reading some of the lives of Sainte-Beuve’s Femmes célèbres, and I found them very interesting.

We went on Thursday last to see Mr. Clifford’s pictures of Lord and Lady Lytton and their three children. They were beautiful, and done in water-colours. Lady Lytton is very handsome. She is taken in evening dress with a yellow rose on her bosom, a necklace of pearls, and with earrings. Lord Lytton looked a little sunburnt and thin. He has been in very indifferent health since he has been in India. The group of the three children we liked best: the eldest girl looks about twelve or fourteen, and is very beautiful; the expression of her calm face and downcast eyes was very thoughtful. The next, a girl of about nine or ten, seems more espiègle, and has darker eyes and hair than her elder sister; the third and last is about four, and is the prettiest little fairy imaginable, with flaxen hair and large blue eyes. One very rarely sees such well-executed pictures in India. Mr. Clifford went away the same evening and started for England via Bombay.

Babu Keshub Chunder Sen made a speech in the Town Hall to-day amid an enthusiastic and numerous audience, among whom were present Lord and Lady Lytton.

The weather is already dreadfully hot, and we are only in March; what will it be in May?

We take our early drives as usual. I wish you could see my horses. Jeunette has the finer head, set on a neck and shoulders perfect in form; indeed, I sometimes think it is a great pity that she should have been broken into harness, she would have made a grand saddle-nag; she has such excellent sloping shoulders; Gentille’s hind-quarters are perhaps better than Jeunette’s, and her tail is much better set on—Gentille has the Arab blood in her hind-quarters, and Jeunette in her fore-quarters; they are in beautiful condition, sleek, and up to any amount of work.

Everybody seems to be going away from Calcutta; Dr. Cayley is going in April; Dr. Smith is going too; the Rev. Mr. Macdonald is gone, Mr. Clifford is gone, all the Missionaries and their families seem to be going, and last, we too perhaps. If we go to England first, and stay in London or Hastings, or anywhere else, you must come and be the first to welcome us; you will come, will you not?

When I commenced this letter, I thought I could make it very long and interesting, but alas! I find I was mistaken. Attribute the dullness and shortness of this epistle to ill-health and consequently downcast spirits; for I have been suffering from fever for the last three or four nights, and it was only yesternight that I did not feel feverish; and then the cough has been very troublesome, and Dr. Cayley put on a blister which prevented my sleeping comfortably on the right side. Now have I not excused myself enough? Papa has been created a Justice of the Peace, and an Honorary Magistrate of the town of Calcutta. He never asked for the above honours, but, as I told him, modest virtue and merit are sure to be recognized at last!

If we go this time, it is most likely Uncle Girish and Aunt will accompany us. They are only afraid of the climate, but I tell them they would be all the better for the change.

On Wednesday, Dr. W. W. Hunter ³ is coming to see us. Mr. Lethbridge wrote to me to say that Dr. Hunter had read my book in England and admired it very much, and wished to have the honour of making my acquaintance and also that of my family. Just fancy! ‘My family,’ why, I am getting quite an important personage! Dr. Hunter, you must know, has written a great number of books, Orissa, Life of Lord Mayo, &c., and is a very literary man.

I send the promised sonnet.

With kindest regards to all from all and with best love to yourself.

12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. March 9, 1877.

I begin this letter in anticipation of yours which I expect on Monday.

Dr. Hunter ³ came to see us on Wednesday. Papa had arranged with him beforehand that we would take him up from the ‘Ward’s Establishment’ at Manicktollah where he had some business on that day with Rajendra Lal Mitter, the Bengali antiquarian. We took Dr. Hunter first to Baugmaree. He spoke in very high terms of praise about the Sheaf. He had brought a copy with him to show me what pieces or lines he liked exceedingly, and to ask me how I did this piece or that, for that rhythm seemed very difficult, and this piece was rather obscure, and so on, cela ne tarissait pas. His copy of the Sheaf was underlined and underscored. He is very courteous and made much of me and my abilities. Indeed, I felt quite ashamed, for after all it is only a book of translations, and Dr. Hunter himself has written such a great number of books.

He said that Colonel Malleson and Mrs. Trevor Grant desired very much to have the pleasure of making our acquaintance, and he asked if I had any objection; of course not. He praised Jeunette and Gentille too. ‘That is a fine pair of stud-breds’, said he; and Papa said that was the greatest compliment he could pay me. On that he redoubled his praises. He asked me which was my favourite, and I said ‘Jeunette’, and he said, ‘Yes, she had a magnificent chest’, and he had had a pair of stud-breds, just like mine, fifteen years ago. The horses were a little impatient and inclined to be frisky, for they had done no work on the previous day, and Dr. Hunter remarked, ‘They were gay little horses.’ Then we came to our Calcutta house, for he wanted very much to see my French books. He compared some of the translations with the originals. When he went away, he told me, and repeated it to Papa, that he should be very pleased if there should be any service which he could render us, and he asked me to write to him at the India Office in London whenever I had need of his help or literary advice; and he said he would remember us and the pleasant day he passed with us, always. We were all very much pleased with him.

10th. We went yesterday morning, Papa and I, to the City Press, to have some of my later translations printed. The office of the Press was not opened, and Papa had to talk through the locked glass doors to a sleepy bearer, who directed us to the private house of the printer, Mr. Smith, just behind the office. We went, and on the staircase found one of the compositors putting on his coat; Papa told him what we wanted, and at that moment the head printer, Mr. Smith, came out, and when he learnt that I was Miss Toru Dutt, he was all politeness, and would insist on my coming into his drawing-room and listening to a boy of his who played very well on the piano, and who was not more than ten years old. Mr. Smith reminded me very strongly of our Italian courier, Salvageot; he was very talkative and active, and seemed a good and kind father. He showed me his youngest children—twins. The little boy who played appeared to me very talented. I wondered, as I listened to him, what his future would be; this little genius, sitting and playing on the broken old piano, all his soul in his eyes, and his little thin hands running over the keys, seemed like a Mozart in embryo.

Mr. Anundo Mohun Bose came to see us yesterday. He was at Cambridge, and we used to meet him there often. He is a Wrangler and a barrister. He wanted me to visit his school for adult Hindu girls. The girls are not generally of orthodox Hindu parents, but rather of Brahmo’s or followers of Keshub Chunder Sen’s religion. He was sorry to hear that probably we should be going to Europe, for he thought I would be of great help and use in the education of my countrywomen.

I send you my last contribution to the Bengal Magazine. The original runs very smoothly. I hope you will like the translation.

We must change the hour for driving out, for even eight in the morning is not cool enough; I think we shall go out in the evening from to-morrow.

There is to be a consecration of Bishops in the Cathedral to-morrow. Dr. Hunter asked if we should like to go, as he would have great pleasure in providing tickets for us, but I declined. We are not able to go to Church every day, and the Consecration ceremony would take a long time, and I would perhaps get tired, and then, there is sure to be a large concourse of people, and it is troublesome to fight one’s way through a crowd, at least I think so now; formerly I rather liked it, just to show how well I could take care of myself in a crowd!

12th. Your welcome letter has arrived. What a long and interesting one it is. Many thanks for your kind wishes, and also for the woollen shawl; so good of you, dear, to have taken the trouble of making it for me. I need not say how I will value it; I will wear it often and think of the loving and loved donor. Papa will go to the P. and O. Office to bring it as soon as it comes in.

I received a letter from Mlle Clarisse Bader this morning in answer to my request to translate her La Femme dans l’Inde Antique. It is a very nice and warm letter, giving her authorization with all her heart. She is very pleased with my book which I sent her, and showed it to M. Garcin de Tassy, the well-known Orientalist. She says she showed him my letter too, and he was ‘si émerveillé de votre généreux courage, qu’il prit votre adresse pour vous envoyer, aujourd’hui même, l’un de ses ouvrages.’ She spoke of Aru too, saying that: ‘le Seigneur a rappelé auprès de lui l’âme qui avait si fidèlement interprété le chant de la jeune captive.’ She says: ‘la sympathie d’une enfant de l’Inde’ is very precious to her, and that, when the Archbishop of Orléans asked her: ‘chez quelles femmes j’avais trouvé le plus de beauté morale, je répondais: Si j’en excepte les femmes bibliques, c’est chez les Indiennes que j’ai trouvé le plus de pureté et de dévouement.’ I must close here, dear. God bless you. With best love.

12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. March 22, 1877.

What a beautiful shawl! Many, many thanks for it. So kind of you, dear, to have made it for me. It is delightfully soft and warm, and will be of great use to me. I was sitting in my uncle’s garden when it arrived, and everybody was eager to have a look at it, and I took it out triumphantly and put it immediately over my shoulders, all the time thinking of the dear kind fingers that had worked it. Perhaps I shall be unable to finish this letter to-day, but I shall do my best to finish it, for if it does not go off by the afternoon, it will be too late for this mail. We have been very busy during the last week, and yesterday I felt unwell and feverish; these two things combined prevented me commencing this letter.

Do you know what we have been doing during the last week? Packing! Making preparations for a second voyage to Europe! Does it not seem strange and improbable? It may be that after all we shall be unable to start for Europe; but the idea of going to England again, which had become very shadowy and vague, is taking new hold of Papa’s and Mamma’s minds, and that which was a dream before us is becoming real. Do not be too hopeful, though, for going to Europe again with broken health and spirits is no small matter and requires a great deal of thought. May God guide us to choose the right path! If we are able to go this year we shall have to start very soon, before the Bay of Bengal becomes rough, that is, before the end of April. Perhaps we shall go by one of the French mail steamers, as that will save us a sea-voyage of forty days, and keep us confined on board for only thirty days; in that case we shall land at Marseilles and then go to Paris, where Papa wants to consult Dr. Churchill about me, and where we have made a few friends by correspondence, Mademoiselle Bader being one of them.

Have you read Lord Lytton’s Fables in Song? There are some very good pieces in it, but the best is ‘Only a Shaving’; ‘The Near’ and ‘The Far’ are also well written.

I feel rather weak to-day in consequence of yesterday’s fever; so please excuse this scrawl. I shall have to sell off Jeunette and Gentille, which is a great pity. I have made up the description I shall give them in the auction list: ‘A pair of bay stud-bred mares, warranted quiet in double harness, splendid trotters, exceedingly fast and stylish, the property of Miss Toru Dutt proceeding to Europe.’ That will do, I think, won’t it? It will be better, if we do go, to go by the Messageries Maritimes. The cabins contain only two berths, and the steamer, which starts on the 10th of April, has Dr. Cayley among the passengers, which is a great allurement. The only drawback is that we should have to change at Galle, for the French steamers do not go straight from Calcutta to Marseilles, and the sea near Galle is almost always very rough. The P. and O. steamers go from Calcutta straight to Southampton, but their steamers rarely contain more than two or three reserved cabins; that is cabins with two berths only; and one has to pay extra for a reserved cabin; and as to going in the same cabin with two strange Anglo-Indian ladies, that is very uncomfortable. Anglo-Indian ladies are very supercilious and fond de faire la grande dame. And then via Southampton it takes forty days and via Marseilles, thirty days; and that is of great importance to me, for I dread sea-sickness and I suffer from it horribly. Continue to write to me, for we may not go after all, and your letters will be sent back to my address in Europe, if we leave India, by our agent here.

Dr. Hunter gave me the abridged edition of M. Littré’s dictionary by Beaujean. It is very small and contains, besides the meaning of words, biographies of celebrated persons, geographical and historical information, mythological terms. It will be of great use to me, as it is so very handy, and Papa is perhaps more pleased than I am, for he always used to grumble when he saw me lifting the heavy volumes of Littré.

This letter is dreadfully short, but I cannot help it. The idea of making such a long voyage, as we perhaps are going to make, renders the mind very unsettled, and disinclines one to write anything. I shall therefore close my letter.

Very kind regards from Papa and Mamma to yours, in which I join, and their love to you, and with best love to yourself.

It is sad to think of leaving home again and wandering in foreign lands, ‘sans feu ni lieu.’

[No letters were received by Miss Martin between March 2nd and June 18th.]

12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. June 18, 1877.

I am still very ill—fever every day. I send you something for your birthday by packet post. All your letters have come to hand; I shall answer them when I get well. My heart is constantly with you, dear. Papa’s and Mamma’s kindest regards to all, their love to you; I have written this letter myself. With best love, dear.

12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. July 17, 1877.

I am so sorry, dear, to have made you anxious by my long silence. But indeed I have been very, very ill, but under God’s blessing I am better now, though still unwell and weak; you will guess how ill I have been, when I tell you that I have to be taken downstairs in a chair when I go out for a drive. The fever has not left me quite; but it is not so intense as it was before, and I am strong enough to walk from one end of my room to the other. My hair has been cut off short, and Dr. Charles says I may be mistaken for a boy! Do you know, dear, three blisters were applied under my right collar bone all within a fortnight; they were so very, very painful, I felt quite mad with the pain; one has hardly healed up yet. Dr. Charles is very kind and attentive, sending me dishes made at his own house, for I have lost my appetite. He has lent me a wire bed, which is very comfortable. Dear, you will excuse the shortness of this letter; those you have written have been a source of great pleasure and comfort to me. God bless you, dear, for all the good you have done me. I only write this to reassure you. I am better, and in a fair way to get well; so don’t be anxious any longer. I wish you many, many happy returns of your birthday; this will reach you by the beginning of August.

With best love.

PS. Your notice of my book pleased me very much. There is a notice of the Sheaf in the Revue des Deux Mondes for February 1877.

12, Manicktollah Street, Calcutta. July 30, 1877.

I am so sorry to have given you so much anxiety; indeed I could not write, dear; I am still confined to my bed and the fever and weakness continue. Thank you very much, dear, for all your kind letters, but most of all for your friendship. How very kind of you to write to my aunt in London; she is very much pleased with your letter.

I am very sorry to hear all you say about —— . Poor girl! I do hope she will amend her ways for the future.

Your letters are a great comfort, dear. I feel sometimes very tired and weary and lonely, and this illness has made me suffer very much.

May God help us to bear our crosses patiently. Do you know a certain hymn of Dr. Newman’s in which are the following lines? (I have the hymn in a book, but I can only remember two verses of it just now.)

I would not miss one sigh or tear, Heart-pang or throbbing brow. Sweet was the chastisement severe, And sweet their memory now.

Yes, let the fragrant scars abide, Love-tokens in thy stead, Faint shadows of the spear-pierced side, And thorn-encircled head.

I received a very nice letter from Miss Arabella Shore by the last mail. She once came to see us in Cambridge in company with Miss Clough. Of course I had forgotten her quite. She says in her letter that she had written it in 1876, after reading the notice of the Sheaf in the Examiner, and had addressed it to me at Bhowanipore (it must be lost, for I never received it); this copy of it she sends per favour of Mr. Knight (of the firm of Messrs. Newman & Co., Calcutta), who has also, she says, promised to procure her a copy of the Sheaf, for she has none. Her letter is very kind; and she says she is most touched with what I say about dear Aru. She also had a sister, she says, who died at nineteen of consumption. She is a relation of Lord Teignmouth. She praises the Sheaf greatly in her letter. I must stop here, dear, God bless you.

[This was the fifty-third and last letter from India received by Miss Martin after the return of Toru to India between the dates of December 1873 and July 30, 1877.]