1938 March
Family letter from LJT
The Towers
Cossipore
March 2nd 1938.
(handwritten at top of letter) No time for a personal letter this week. Love from Mum
My dears,
The atmosphere of packing, so destructive to consecutive thought, is going on all round me, so forgive me if this letter is not all that a letter should be. It is with real regret that I see the preparations going forward. We have been happy here. Idris has made us feel that having us here was a benefit and a pleasure to him. Looking back over the two Cold Weather Seasons we have spent with him, I can remember no time when there was the slightest ruffling of the harmonious companionship which the three of us enjoy. It is remarkable that two men as moody, and as liable to fits of depression as Herbert and Idris, should get on so well together. Perhaps a certain similarity of temperament enables them to understand one another, and long years of experience with Herbert, enables me to understand Idris.
The week-end was entirely taken up with Mountaineers and mountaineering matters. Capt Oliver arrived from the Frontier on Friday morning, and though I lodged him out with Carles Crawford, I spent a good deal of Friday with him, as Charles had to be in office. We lunched to-gether at Peliti’s, Capt Oliver revelling in finding people who were willing to talk about mountains, for he says in his regiment he is considered slightly batty for being so interested in the high places of the earth. Later we searched Calcutta for books of verse for him to take to Everest with him, and we shopped in the New Market, and then made our way to the Saturday Club where we had a swim, and then sun-bathed, lying on the nice soft thick cotton rugs which the Club has just procured. We spent about three quarters of an hour in the gentle rays of the declining sun, and it was most restful. I heard a lot about the last Everest Expedition, and some interesting impressions of Smythe. Capt Oliver is a great admirer of Smythe’s and thinks he is misunderstood by many people. Amongst other things he describes him as being a bit of a mystic. Although the earlier part of our talk had been mostly about mountains, Oliver is by no means limited in interest to this one field of ideas, for when Percy Brown joined us for tea, and during the hour or so when we were waiting for Charles to come from office, our conversation ranged a wide field. We finished the evening with a delightful little cocktail party given by my American friend, Louise Rankin, who always has small and carefully selected gatherings, designed for people to meet and talk.
I had to leave the house at 9 o’clock the next morning to meet Dr Warren and his oxygen cylinders at Howrah. Another mountaineering friend was arriving on the same train, John Hunt, wo was stationed here in the 60th Rifles some years ago, and has just come back to do special police work in Bengal. Before I knew the Everest people were coming on that special week-end, it had been arranged for John to stay with us, dine with the Himalayan Club, and give us a lantern show and a talk about the climbing that he and Reggie Cooke were doing last Autumn in the Kanchenjunga district. Oliver came down to meet them too, and having handed the oxygen cylinders over to the Oxygen Factory man to be filled, Capt Oliver and Dr Warren went off in one car, John Hunt in another, and I in my own, all to attend to our various affairs, and with an arrangement to meet for lunch at Peliti’s at 12.30, so that we should be in time to go and meet the boat on which the rest of the party were arriving, which was said to be coming in at 2 o’clock.
Do you remember that I had some trouble with water getting in to my antrem about two years ago, which eventually led to my having a bit of the septum chopped out of the middle of my nose? Well since I had a streaming cold in the head about ten days ago, I have had occasional suspicions that all was not well and that some of the mucking from the cold had got into that tiresome little cavity. Suspicion became certainty on Friday so directly I was free on Saturday, I phoned to Dr Norris, who, by great good luck, said he could see my at once. Having the antrem washed out is a tiresome business, entailing the use of a local anaesthetic, but it was as well I had it done, for he got a big lump of nasty looking stuff out of it, and it was just finished in time for me to keep my appointment at Peliti’s. Lunch was very good fun. Warren and Oliver had not met since they were on the last Everest Expedition to-gether, and they raked up all sorts of amusing incidents, and interesting things they remembered.
On the jetty at 2 o’clock we saw no sign of the boat coming up the last bend of the river, but as we had no less than three cars there, and shade in which they could wait, we were able to sit in comfort and talk. About half an hour later the boat was visible between other ships, but I suppose it took another half hour for her to come along-side. Capt Oliver had not met the Odells or Peter Lloyd, who were the arrivals by this method of transport, and it seemed funny for me to be introducing the members of the Expedition to one another. Mrs Odell has come out with her husband and is going to spend the summer in Kalimpong. Tilman and Shipton had indicated that she was pretty dull, and they were certainly right! She seems incapable of saying more than three or four wods on any subject. Odell is a charming person, keen, sympathetic, intelligent, but he does seem old to be attempting the highest climb in the world. Peter Lloyd, aged thirty one is a nice man too, and he and Charles Crawford fell on one another’s necks, for they are both “Chemical Experts”.
As soon as we had exchanged the news, and they had read Mr Tilman’s letter and decided that it would be permissible to stay one night in Calcutta, I despatched everyone except Mr Odell, Peter Lloyd and myself to the Towers, and we three remained to wrestle with the customs (Not very difficult as all their stuff is being allowed in free) and to despatch their heavy luggage to Sealdah Station, from where they would leave for Kalimpong the next day.
By the time we arrived at the Towers, we were extremely thirsty, for it was a not afternoon, and we went on drinking tea for hours. In spite of the fact that we were such a big party, the squirrels came for food, and pleased our guests enormously. They are charming little creatures.
We dined quietly at home. The Odells, Peter Lloyd and John Hunt were with us, and the other two staying with lads in Calcutta. Mr Odell asked if I had photographs of certain mountains in Sikkim, and that started us off on my large collection of Sikkim and Tibetan photographs, and kept us busy till bed-time. Odell, as you perhaps remember, was the last man to see Irvine and Mallory alive when they disappeared towards the summit of Everest in 1924.
Those of the party who had not got work to do were taken for a sight-seeing drive round Calcutta on Sunday morning, and then to bathe at the Saturday Club. Mr Odell who is a geologist, went to meet Dr Heron at the Geological Survey, while John Hunt and I tried over some of his pictures for the evening’s lecture. Dr Heron, who is Chairman of this section of the Himalayan Club this year, invited us all to lunch at the Saturday Club, and gave us such a nice party. He is a good host, and had chosen the people he asked to meet the climbers, with insight. Amongst them was Frank Kingdon Ward, and afterwards Odell told us an amusing tale of how, on one occasion (It must have been in 1924) K-W-got into Tibet by simply going along with the Everest Expedition. They were such a huge party that his few pack animals were not noticeable, and neither was he himself!
The Everesters all had to go off by the Darjeeling Mail in the evening, so Herbert gave them dinner here and saw them off, while Idris, John Hunt and myself went off to the Himalayan Club dinner – John Hunt lectured extremely well, and did not appear at all nervous, but he told me that he was really terrified, and for the first few minutes of the lecture scarcely knew what he was saying.
Idris made the bright suggestion on Monday evening, that we should go up to the Willingdon Bridge, a couple of miles north of this house, and watch the flying boats leave for home, the following morning. Herbert would, of course have nothing to do with such a hair-brained scheme, but John Hunt, Idris and I rose from our beds at 5.30, and left the house at 6 o’clock, just at the time when India is at her lovliest, and drove up to the Bridge. It was delicious waiting on the bridge, with the great flood of the Hoogly flowing beneath us, and the boats going down on the tide. The two flying boats were anchored just above the bridge, looking a little ghostly in the early morning mist. Soon after we arrived a speed boat dashed upstream from under the bridge, coming from the rest –house, and landing jetty, and taking up the last of the mails, we supposed. Another smaller speed-boat tore about the river, clearing off the traffic, and one of the flying-boat started up the engines, and taxied up-stream, turning about a mile above the bridge, and almost out of sight, and took off straight down the river towards us, passing low over our heads, and wheeling to the west just below us, heading for Europe! It still give me a thrill to see the air-mails arrive or leave.
When I got home I was greeted by a very agitated Mogul, saying that the bearer had slipped into the deep drain the previous night and injured his leg badly. (Why no one told me this before I went out I don’t know) I went to see what damage had been done, and was glad to find that there did not seem to be anything broken, nor any swelling, but a great deal of pain. Poor old Bhim Das had been rather badly shaken too, I think, and was on the verge of tears. Felling that a cold water compress was not likely to do any harm, I bound the knee up with one, and gave the malis orders to look after the bearer, for they are the only people in the compound from whom the bearer can take food. This wretched caste is the most awful nuisence when people are ill! It is extremely unfortunate that this should have happened to the bearer just now, for he wont be able to do any packing. The doctor from the Factory came round to see him later, and says he has got water on the knee, and must keep it quiet for some days.
Yesterday afternoon I took a holiday and went to the Buddist Galleries of the Indian Museum with Percy Brown. We spent a happy hour looking at the dreaming Buddas, and all the mass of elaborations that grew up round this strange man who treid to find the truth, by some sort of direct concentration of thought. We drifted on into the Hindu sculpture rooms, where voluptuous Hindu deities seem to bring the Heavens very much to earth. P.B. is the ideal companion for such an expedition, for he is soaked in the legend and folk law connected with all these things, and has done a lot of research on them himself. He is one of the people I shall miss when we move up the river.
There have been lots of little engagements of one sort and another eating up ones time. Ones friends all remember how fond they are of one when one is just about to leave, and feel they must have a party to celebrate the farewell, even when one is only going such a short distance away.
My first letter by the “All Up” mail was from Rosemary, and the next the following morning from Grace.
What sort of a scratchy letter you will get next week I don’t know. We move out to Chinsurah on Wednesday, and Mr and Mrs Burrows leave on Friday. There will be a lot of checking of furniture to do, and the unpacking of all we are taking with us.
Love to you all.
LJT
From HPV to Annette
Calcutta
Mar 5th 1938
My dear Annette
This day I who have been in the Secretariat of the Bengal Government for longer than any one now in it, severed my connection with the place. It marks an epoch. Not that the severance will prevent my going back on Monday: for I suppose that I ought to say Farewell to Sir Nazimuddin before I go. “Zenobia Looking Her Last on Palmyra”. It was curious today, tearing up papers, to look back on the hopes and fears which they embodies: hope conquering for a while, then fears getting the upper hand by degrees and finally winning: just like Shakespearian tragedy. Though the Government have still come to no decision. “Ayes to my left, Noes to my right divide – The Rats have it!” so to speak.
The house is swept and garnished. Why “garnished”? in the parable? It isn’t swept really: it is bare of pictures and furniture in our half of it: and waste paper lies on the floor in places – in the places where I have thrown it.
The book I’ve been reading says “The Wages of Sin is Breath”. Funny. No. Perhaps you’re right.
Sunday
That was written after dinner last night. There was so strong a wind blowing that, as I sat on the verandah I could not keep the paper flat on the pad: and finally I gave it up. For some reason we both felt done up. Your mother had good excuse having been packing for several days on end without much assistance: for the bearer stepped into a deep gutter the other night while going back to his godown and has water on the knee. My offers of assistance were rejected and I do not know that I should have done much good: yesterday afternoon I tore up papers and packed away files and some books: this morning I packed my trunk. Three lorry loads of stuff went yesterday and three more again today. There is now very little left. Suitcases only: and perhaps bedding. Your mother has gone to Chinsurah to see to unpacking and arrangement: she thought that she’s get more done without me because she’d be wondering the whole time whether I should be irritable: which is of course under the psychological system absurd: and it does make me mad (like Mr Pepys) to have the possibility of it suggested.
The hot weather is here. There is a strong wind from the south which in a manner is cool: but it is a different sort of coolness and one feels all the time that it is merely a mitigation of unpleasantness. The English annuals in the garden look very sorry for themselves: but not all: and the cannas and the flowering shrubs by the river have burst into blossom so that the garden looks no less lovely than it did last week, which is saying a lot.
Two letters from you this week. One came in by the second “All-up” airmail – a revolting name for anything. The other which belonged to the previous week arrived, several days later yesterday. It does seem that you are getting a lot into your life at Oxford and I suppose that is the chief thing about a University Education. I often, sometimes, wonder whether Richard puts in much work or dreams away a large percentage of his time. Looking back I feel that at St Johns I spent an unduly large percentage of mine in mere talk: which might not have been unsatisfactory if I had listened instead of talking and had talked otherwise than as verbal gymnastics. Much of this morning went on doing accounts: in connection with an income tax form. I hadn’t realised before what a big drop in our income occurred in 1933 when the conversion loan cut down the interest on government securities: the amounts which I have saved since have not made up for this: even if no account is taken of the drop in the income from the Canadian securities. It doesn’t matter particularly though there would be a satisfaction about saving enough to have a larger income in a job like this where one has to chuck at an age far younger than in England.
Tea on Friday with Brother Harry and Winsome in their garden. They played slow and therefore very impressive tennis, having just marked out the court: the turf was slow and the tennis suffered. Charlotte appeared with a toy telephone: the idea is for someone to ring up on it; she says “hullo: Charlotte speaking”; and then you have a conversation; she gets closer and closer speaking ever more loudly, and then you say “Speak up please – I cannot hear you”.
Harry’s invention of course. Very satisfactory to her.
It seems curious to have no books in the house. Mr Matthews has some but technical: he is not a great reader. What he reads he knows afterwards. We move to Chinsurah on Wednesday.
Much love
Dad.
From LJT to Annette
The Towers
Cossipore
March 6th ‘38
My darling Annette
It was amusing getting the last sea-mail yesterday some days after the first “All Up” which had been written a week earlier.
Richard writes that he would like to do a bit of sailing some time during the summer vac’ so I suggest that he does that in July and that you go abroad that month and that we spend August to-gether in Wales, Cumberland or Scotland – I have already collected some farm house addresses – Several of our mountaineers friends advise us to go to Wales, but I am waiting for a reply from Edwin Kempson before I make any direct enquiries from any of the farms – I think it would be a good holiday, don’t you, and I don’t see why you and Richard should not combine a certain amount of work, with a holiday of that sort if you want to – I want to go off and pay a few visits some time, and I would do that in July – I hope this will suit you.
I’m getting terribly thrilled about coming home! In fact I shall find it difficult to take the proper interest in gathering up the threads and making all the social contacts in Chinsurah for I cant help looking on the two months there as just a preliminary to coming home.
This is being written on Sunday evening out on the verandah. I’ve been at Chinsurah all day, superintending the unloading of the lorries and the placing of our furniture. I’ve had too hellishly busy days packing and despatching our belongings on Friday and Saturday – All day to-morrow I shall be in Calcutta – Heaven knows what will turn up to do on Tuesday and on Wed we go to Chinsurah, so my usual mail-writing moments will probably be busily occupied this week.
It was amusing hearing your account and Richard’s account of Anne Toulmin’s tea-party – The young men whom you found so odd, Richard seemed to find specially interesting!
Best love, my dear
from
Mum
P.S. Have you heard this definition of a Nunnery – said to be an old chestnut, but it was new to me –
“A place where virgins are taken in and confined.” –
Family letter from LJT
The Towers
Cossipore
March 8th 1938
My Dears,
It seems almost miraculous that I should have leisure to sit down and write this sort of a letter on the day before a move. The reason is that Charles Holmes was able to let me have three of his firm’s lorries for the price of the petrol and the drivers’ wages, if I borrowed them out of working hours, during the week-end. This is a conciderable saving, and it was worth sending all our furniture and baggage a few days in advance. Three loads went off at mid-day on Saturday and three more on Sunday morning. The loading up was a noisy business, as almost everying is in the East. Everyone, including Idris’ motor driver, had ideas and voiced them loudly. There were a considerable number of people present, for there were the three drivers with their three mates, a gang of seven coolies under a sirdar, from the Factory, all the house servants and the three malis. Every now and again I butted in and stilled the tumult, but for the most part I let them do the work in the way they like best.
The driver of one of the lorries was a handsome Sikh, with flashing eyes, a large black beard, brilliant white teeth and a huge yellow pugeree. I don’t like Sikhs as a rule, but this was a man after my own heart. I showed him what stuff had to be shifted, and he immediately made his plan, mustered the forces at his command and got to work. The Bengali drivers, on the other hand, had to be pushed into taking command of the loading of their lorries.
Mogul is invaluable at times like this. Removing his smart white clothes, he appears in a dhoti, mauve shirt, and a small muslin cap, which constantly falls off, and his well oiled hair, which he wears rather long, falls about in every direction, but he does the work of half a dozen. Poor old Bhim Das, still very lame, could not bear to be left out of the fun, and hobbled along to take a voice in the proceeding.
Mogul went off to Chinsurah with the lorries, and I got all the rest of the furniture and boxes stacked downstairs, ready for early loading the next morning. It was hot and extremely humid on Friday and Saturday, so we all streamed with perspiration. About six o’clock I decided it was time to knock off, and a bath and a cold drink were like heaven!
Sunday morning at 7.30 saw a renewal of activity, and the last lorry left about 9.30. I followed a little later in the car, surrounded by pictures and flower vases which I had been too lazy to pack. By a great stroke of luck, the Burrows, whose place we are taking, had to be away in another part of the Division for the week-end, so I had the house to myself and was able to arrange the furniture in some sort of order, and unpack most of our china and glass. The Personal Assistant Babu was in attendance, and much worried because running up and down stairs and all about that big house to show where things were to be put, I got extremely hot. “Madam” he said “You are sweating somewhat. May I fetch you a towel?” It was, as a matter of fact, a useful suggestion, for my handkerchief had been reduced to a wet rag.
The under servants and garden staff, whom we are keeping on, were all most anxious to please, and vied with one another in alacrity to shift boxes and run messages. We had a great meeting after tea, to allot the quarters to the various men. The dhobi took a lading part in the proceedings, and turned out to be the only man who does not live in the compound. There is a fine large “Dhobi-khana” (Laundry) Its nice to have the washing done on the premises once more.
The drive home, which took about an hour and a quarter, cooled me down and rested me somewhat, and a heavenly strong south breeze made sitting on the verandah during the evening, pleasant.
Directly after breakfast yesterday I set off for Calcutta to attend
(Sorry! I shall have to repeat that last line, as I put the papers in badly, and it has slipped off the edge of most of the copies) - - -
the Carey Morgan’s sale. They leave India for good in about ten days and were selling up everything. We needed some extra furniture for the big house at Chinsurah. I was there the whole morning, and got everything I wanted at reasonable prices. Oddly enough I had never been at a sale before, and I found it quite interesting. There were several people I knew there including Winsome. Lunch with some friends who are off to England on Thursday, an afternoon’s shopping, kept me busy till about 4.15, when I picked up Herbert, and we went to tea with Winsome. Later I met Frank Kingdon Ward for a drink and a talk at the United Service Club. He is rather depressed poor fellow, for he has been refused permission to go into Tibet this year. He does not want to go home, and does not quite know what to do. He may do another season’s botanising up on the Tibet-Burmah frontier. Herbert went off home, and Walter Jenkins and I dines at the Saturday Club, and went to see a charming film called “A hundred Men and a Girl”. The title is appaling, but the film the nicest I have seen for some time. After a series of such strenuous days, it was a delightful rest and diversion.
We shall not only be sorry to leave Idris to-morrow, but we shall be sorry to leave the squirrels and the mynahs. The squirrels have become wonderfully tame, and there were no less than five scuttling round the table this morning, and one, when it had eaten as much bread and jam as it could manage, just spread itself out on the grass only a few yards from the table, and lay there sunning itself.
By the way, there is an intelligent sparrow in the Saturday Club. As we sat at dinner last night, I saw the little thing fly in through one of the big windows. It perched on the edge of one of the huge inverted bowls of which about eight hang from the ceiling with the lights inside them. Having taken a look, it dived in and presumably caught some insects. It then visited each in turn, and finally perched on the back of a chair at an empty table beside us, and after taking a good look round, it ruffled itself and flew off to bed (At least I presume it went to roost (I’m sorry about all this mess. This old machine of mine seems to have got something wrong with the winding gear)
I shall finish this letter now, and post it to-morrow morning, for I shall be busy with all sorts of things directly I get to Chinsurah.
Only two months now till I leave India!
Best love to you all
LJT
From HPV to Annette
Cossipore
March 9th 1938
My dear Annette
The lorry with our last load of things, - to wit the furniture bought by your mother on Monday at the Carey Morgan’s sale, bathtub, flower pots, electric lamps (table and standard), several servants and a mass of Jhabra which means miscellaneous muckings, - has just sailed proudly down the drive. Not having had anything in particular to do with its loading, I feel that its departure leaves me at a loose end: and I am therefore writing this in order to bring my series of letters up to date, making up for last week’s omission. If once I take to leaving out a week, there is a possibility that I shall drift into missing two or three at a time. But there is nothing new since I wrote on Sunday – or was it Saturday?
The mynahs turned up in force at tea yesterday: ten out the 13 sometimes to be seen: much bad feeling among the more faithful attendants who protested loudly against our reconnising the comparative strangers. Strangely enough there had been a record attendance of squirrels at breakfast. One very small and new one which after many hesitations had at last decided to eat out of my hand was nipped in the seat by one more bold. Another when chased took a flying leap up on to my chair where it had just been several times for a little bit of jam, and sat on the arm of it, chewing. Another flattened itself on the ground, as if sunning itself, and perhaps really sunning itself, a few feet away and gazed upon us meditatively like a small child. I told you, did I not? That after applauding for its intelligence the squirrel that bit Brigadier Tute I was myself bitten by one, in preference for the toast? Your mother esteems herself highly because when one of the little beasts very boldly came up on to the breakfast table it ate her toast after much hesitation rather than Mr Matthews toast and marmalade. They will eat marmalade or jam indefinitely.
Although I shall not see the results and although so late in the year with the hot wind blowing there may not be any, I worked vigorously yesterday evening in the garden, cutting off numerous deads. There are still many buds but the plants look tired – except antirrhinums and carnations and phlox and dianthus and marigolds and little metallic yellow flowers of which I do not know the name though frequently told it. In fact most things in the garden seem to be doing well when I come to think of it except those which take up most space and which, when untidy, make the beds look most ragged.
Sir Nazimuddin to whom I said goodbye yesterday obviously has no hope of keeping the weak minded among the ministers up to the mark about the Damodar Canal but implored me to keep on pushing for the new schemes. It is a futile and illogical position to take up but it does not follow that Bengalis will consider it to be so: they are guided entirely by prejudice for which they find reasons afterwards, not too cleverly. And to some extent we all do the same!
Much love
Dad
From LJT to Annette
Chinsurah (arrow pointing to Chinsurah and note added ‘address just’)
Bengal
March 15th 1938
My darling Annette
Dad keeps on asking me what size I think the various rooms in this house are – Then I guess and he goes off to pace them and prove that I am wrong – as I always am. The results of all these measurements are being set down in a letter to you I believe.
Its interesting to see how attitudes change. My father was shocked to the marrow when he heard that Dad had lent me some Ibsen plays to read – (I don’t think “Ghosts” was among them) – and here are we quite unmoved and unsurprised that you should see “Ghosts” and discuss it. What actually disturbed my father and mother about Ibsen and Shaw and the group of playrights who followed them, was that they were upsetting comfortable Victoria complacancy. What a strange era it was with its desire to hide things and to refuse to look facts in the face – I’m glad I did not really belong to it.
Some of Julian Huxleys Essays on “Science and Religion” are engaging my mind much at the moment. I shall bring them home for I think they might interest you too. He gives reasons for much that I have only felt about things, and elaborates notions that were set working in my head by Professor Crew –
What is England saying about Hitler’s entry into Vienna? Our papers had the news in yesterday, but there has not been time to reproduce the comments of the Home press yet. Pray Heaven it does not mean war in Europe.
Edwin Kempson has sent addresses and advises us to go to Wales. I must ponder his letter a little more closely and then write to one or two places for prices.
I’m glad that Richard did not plit himself with work or get all wraught up before Mods. As I have just written to him I think it far more worth while to conserve mental energy and balance to carry with you into adult life, than to take the best places in exams. That not to say that a reasonable amount of hard work is not advisable – for of course it is. Your feeling that you must have a little diversion between bouts of work is probably a healthy one.
I’m writing on the East side verandah after dinner – Its cool and delicious after a rain storm and the full moon illumines the river.
Best love –
Mum
From HPV to Annette
Chinsurah
Bengal
March 15th 1938
My dear Annette.
The drawing room is 55 feet long and 23 feet wide – and nearly 18 feet high. I think that all the rooms in Highways could go inside it. The floor is of red patent stone polished and slippery: at a given moment I shall do the splits on it, maybe. The dining room was the ditto of the drawing room in the days that were, though not quite so high perhaps (not much in it), but a sort of passage or lounge has been cut off one end of it, say 15 feet wide. It is below the dining room. Next to the drawing room is a smallish room, 24 feet by 18, (I stopped writing in order to go and pace it). Beyond that the drawing room again less passage way- our bedroom. Opposite that a dressing room sort of place 18’ x 15’: beyond a bridge to a four roomed house which is the annexe: for guests and such. Rooms 17 x 15. Plus verandahs: bathrooms beyond: small and dark. The bathrooms of the house are not good: the annexe built too close darkens them.
(HPV has drawn a sketch floor plan here)
Not a good sketch. The stairs are double. Going up on either side of the fron door round 3 sides of a square. Opposite the front door is an arched door into the hall-passage place: with a stone with 1687 on it. Gigantic like. Rather too much of a good thing all this space. Too big to tackle the mosquitos in. One can smoke them out of small rooms, or even out of large rooms not too high, like those at Cossipore, but here – do you remember the 5 wasps in Waterloo station? Which typify the atom or matter in space or anything else which one wants to typify: like my map of Europe which I produced twice in the I.C.S. exam, one for Europe in the 12th and once for Europe in the 14th century. – Well it would be as easy to chivy those out of the station as our mosquitos out of these vast spaces. Space is wasted abominably: and it is difficult to keep clean. The river is quite close to the house. There has been a storm tonight: it is clear now: but the little waves that it raised go shush shush against the bank – against the garden, that is.
So far I haven’t liked this at all. The work is dull as ditch water and there is a lot of it. Also it all seems perfectly futile. There is no mistake known to man into which this Government is not pushing its head – and no dishonesty almost. I found today that in May last year they had done a thing which a year before I had threatened to resign rather than have done – but why worry.
No more. Because I lack energy.
Much love
Dad
Family from LJT
Chinsurah
Bengal
March 16th 1938
My Dears,
It has been interesting watching our home form round us. We came into a house that was someone else’s home breaking up. Gradually as their things were taken out, and ours put in to place, the house became our own, as it has been so many people’s before us. The old monogram medallion over the arch between the double stairway, bears the date, 1687. That is old for an Indian house. In Bengal buildings decay quickly. The immense solidity of this, and some of the other old buildings in this place, combined with the fact that they have always been in the hands of Europeans, is what has preserved them.
There has been a lot of running about after coolies carrying furniture, diving into boxes, checking lists, and arranging things to do, and my time has been pretty fully occupied. Still I have not unpacked our books or hung our pictures, for the quadrennial repairs to the house are due, and I want the Public Works Department to start on the big drawing-room at once, and so there is no point in arranging the books or hanging the pictures till that is done. Till the books are out I shant feel really at home. Its odd how much one uses ones books. Several times in a day I find I want a book for some reason or other.
There is every reason to speak of the drawing-room as “big”. Herbert paced it last night, and makes it 55 feet by 23 feet - - - but I’m not really going to describe the house to you to-day, for there are other things to describe to you while they are fresh in my mind.
Driving up here on Wednesday afternoon I found myself looking at everything with a slightly different vision, for in a sense all the country we drove through is now under Herbert’s control. The whole way here from Howrah, opposite Calcutta, is practically a series of Jute Mills, some of them so large as to be like young towns. The road runs for a few miles through the French settlement of Chandanagore, where there are signs of a good deal of decayed grandure, and almost immediately beyond one is in the congested town of Chinsurah, and roads so narrow that there is barely room for two vehicles to pass.
After tea, Mr and Mrs Burrows suggested that we should go with them to visit the Manager of one of the biggest Mills in the district, to whom they wanted to say good-bye. The Angus Mill is so large that it has its own gold course, said to be a very good one, and its own swimming pool and Club. We were interested to find that the manager’s name was Morrow, and that his family originally came from the North of Ireland, so are probably of the same stock as the Townend forebears.
Mr Burrows has been Commissioner here for seven years, so there was every excuse for his office to give him a farewell party. it took place on Thursday afternoon on the huge verandah of the Office. Mr Burrows and Herbert, decked with massive garlands of flowers, sat side by side at the end of a long table. Mrs Burrows and I, with big bouquets, were placed on either side of them, and then the officials, the Judge, the Collector of the local District of Hoogly, and so on down and down the official grades to the humblest clerks. It was hot, somewhere about 98 degrees, and we perspired a good deal, but were luckily allowed to drink reasonable good tea, and nibble a sandwich or two, without being pressed to eat quantities of sweet cakes and Indian sweetmeats. I fancy that the farther away from us they were, the better justice our hosts were able to do to the generous spread of food. An Indian orchestra played to the strongest pitch of its ability, close behind the head of the table, so that all conversation had to be carried on in a loud roar. Copies of a poem (one of which I enclose) were handed round to all of us, and the young man who had written it was called upon to read it aloud, which he did in a magnificent manner intoning each line up to the standard of the most ritualistic religious body, and forcing scansion where none existed. it was a remarkable performance, and we all enjoyed it, though not I fear in quite the way that the author would hope!.
Laudatory speeches followed, then the unveiling of Mr Burrows portrait by Herbert, and the presentation of a gold-knobbed walking stick. It seemed possible then to make a graceful departure, and leave our hosts to finish the food in comfort. We went over to the local club, where a tennis match was in progress between two French couples from Chandanagore, and some of the local officials. After the tennis was over the Burrows invited everyone to come over to the house for drinks, and we spent rather a merry evening. The French doctor’s wife proved to be an expert cocktail mixer, and given the run of all the ends of drinks that the Burrows had left, she turned out a pleasant concoction. She could speak no English, so I spent most of the evening talking to her for the linguistic abilities of the rest of the Station seem even worse than my own. The Administrateur, M. Baron and his wife, whom I have met in Calcutta, and mentioned to you, confirm my impression that they are interesting and charming people. I am sure they will be valuable neighbours. M. Baron, I discover, began his adult career as a poet in Montmatre, and knew Picasso and other famous French artists. I hope to hear more of his early adventures.
The following morning I took over the reins of the household, and after lunch the Burrows left. They are paying a visit to Kashmir, and then travelling round the world.
The moment of our arrival coincided with the Mohammadan festival of the Mohurram, and after dinner on Friday we went to a religious ceremony at a big place, a mosque, and something more, called the Imambara, in Hoogli. Turning in through a big gateway, we found ourselves in a great court. In the centre was an oblong tank, and round the edge a wide arcade, the arches of which were illuminated with red or green light. Crowds moved here and there in a rather aimless fashion, like people at an exhibition. As we arrived young men rushed to greet us, and hurridly the head of the Institution, one Dr Jaffery appeared. He conducted us through the throng, which was pushed aside to make way for us, in the mannerless way the East has towards its own people. At the end of the court, a few steps took us up to the level of the main hall of the mosque. Uneasily I asked if we should not leave our shoes on the steps where many were already reposing, but we were told it was not necessary. This was possibly explained by the fact that chairs had been set for us in the arched vestibule, divided from the mosque proper by a wraught iron railing. The effect of the whole place was impressive. From the roofs of the wide archades which formed the pillared hall, hung dozens of chandeliers in green and in white and in red crystal prisms, supporting glass vase shaped shades in which burnt wax candles. There must have been hundreds lighting the place, and illumining the walls, which were covered with texts from the Koran. Opposite to us across the hall was the niche which shows the direction of Mecca. On our left the high pulpit, reached by a flight of steps, and immediately close in front of us the platform where the singers sit. As soon as we had taken our seats the chief singer and his assistants approached, and bowing to us the four of them took their places cross legged on the platform with their backs to us, and the congregation who had been standing about, sank into rows on the floor, where carpets had been spread. The singer, a fine looking fellow in a pale bluish green turban was possessed of an enormous and extremely fine voice, which boomed out effectively over the noise of the constantly moving and talking crowds in the vestibule and the outer court. He was chanting the story of the martyrdom of Hassan (or was is Hossein? I am never quite clear whether the Prophet’s two nephews were co-matyrs or whether one murdered the other.) Dr Jaffery told me that the singer comes from Lucknow and belongs to the old Royal Family. He is now paid Rs60 a month to be chief singer at the Imambara. It was interesting to watch the congregation, as the chanting rose and fell. The East is perhaps a little more dramatic, and a little less self conscious than the West, and so the attitudes and expressions of the people were more varied and less conventional than one might see in a western church. Still there was a strong family likeness. There were the dignified, expressionless worshipers. - - The ardent believers, wringing the last drop of emotion out of the inspired words. - - A certain number paying interested attention. - - The inevitable small boys, bored to death and yawning widely in the front row. Dr Jaffery leaned towards me at one moment, and with pride shining in his eyes, he said “He is now reciting my verses”. Perhaps it was politic of the singer to chant his master’s poems with greater force and emotion. He certainly did, and the congregation began to yield their emotions to his voice and words. Many lent forward, with a hand covering their brows, and groaned. Others pressed handkerchiefs to their eyes. One old man sitting close in front of the singers, riveted my attention. He had only one tooth in his top jaw, as far as I could see, and that a phenominally long one. He gazed with something akin to agony at the singers. Every now and again he shook his head, and leant his brow on his hand, in the attitude of one who feels sea-sick. Every now and again he looked up again, groaned and beat his breast. It was all so intense that I wondered whether he was a professional mourner, but I did not like to ask Dr Jaffery.
We stayed for about an hour, and then went off with the Collector of Hoogly, and the man who has just come to take over from him. to their house, which was quite close, where we sat for some while talkin and having drinks. The Collector, Major Nicholas, is, unfortunately, just leaving, which is a pity, because he is a delightful person, and tremendously keen on Herbert’s schemes. He is one of the Military men who volunteered to come and do Civil work in Bengal a few years ago when Government was so short handed, and he has done amazingly well. He now goes back to his regiment, the Rajput Rifles at Wana in Waziristan, and when the C.O. goes on leave in a few weeks, he will take over command of the regiment. What a strange contrast! This is the season when fighting will almost inevitable begin again, he says. He came to say good-bye to us yesterday, and though we have only met him so recently, we both felt a real regret at his going.
The few immediate calls in the station I paid the other evening, but I’ll tell you about the local inhabitants another time.
Thunder and hail storms yesterday tore the old leaves from the trees, freshened up the gardens and brought the temperature down with a bump. I saw a lovely sight as I walked in the garden in the evening. The storm had cleared off, but left great massed banks of clouds towards the east. The sinking sun turned them a deep rose pink. Suddenly, shyly, the silver rim of the full moon appeared behind the rosy cloud, and slowly she rose clear in the sky, her pure silver making a wonderful contrast to the warm tones of the clouds, and lighting up the ripples on the great river.
Herbert is a little oppressed with grasping a new job. For Nine years he has been away from District work, and for the last part of the time doing highly specialized schemes and drafting so he feels out of touch.
We intend to start playing tennis again here, and I hope he will also take to billiards again.
Idris is evidently feeling lonely, for on Saturday, Sunday and Monday he flew up here and circled low over us, to the great excitement of the servants. He fetched Kingdon Ward out to stay with him when we left, and Frank was in the plane too. Unfortunately for him, his other great friend Anina Brandt, left Calcutta for Europe, the day after we left Cossipore.
We have started the Hot Weather custom of shutting up all the windows of the house at 10 o’clock in the morning, and not opening them till about 4.30. Oh! Here is the end of the paper, so I’ll say good-bye and send my love
LJT
From LJT to Annette
Chinsurah
Bengal
March 22nd
My darling Annette
Its just a year since we left Calcutta for England – not a very interesting statement, it is true, but it happened to come into my head – as has also the thought that seven weeks to-morrow, I shall once more be leaving Calcutta for England –
After conning over Mr. Kempson’s letter again and the prices which he considerately gave, I have written to a Mrs. Williams at Capel Curig in North Wales because 1) The John Hunts stayed there and liked it enormously – 2) It is a good deal cheaper than any other place he mentions, which a most important and 3) It is near Snowden and in the heart of the Welsh Mountains, close to the Climbers “Hut” – Mrs. Williams has two double and 1 single room and a sitting room – The double rooms are 15/- a week each and the single room 12/- Sitting-room £1. I have written to say that we will take the lot, if still available from Aug 3rd till 24th. I hope that will meet with the approval of you and Richard and Rosemary and will fit in with your plans – Will you pass this information onto the other two, as I don’t want to bother to write it all over again?
Next; do you think you could find me a room in Oxford that would be cheaper than staying at “The Golden Fleece” - ? I am planning to come down to see you all on Friday 27th May and stay till the Monday, anyway. I’d be coming back off and on during June. “Digs” are perhaps impossible for anyone coming and going like that, but possibly there is some little Inn or boarding house that would serve me well enough. Bed and breakfast are the most satisfactory terms, so that one can have other meals out where one likes.
Its really very exciting to get within thinking distance of definite arrangements like this!
I wonder whether you will go to Germany in July – Do you want any help in making arrangements for anywhere to go? Actually I suppose there will be time enough after I come home to fix things, but quite probably you will find more suitable and less expensive places through the College than I could do.
David Pilkington was here from mid-day on Saturday till mid-day on Sunday and we had some quite interesting talks about University life and exams and what nots – He was at the London School of Economics and apparantly our Collector here – one Mr Hartley, was too, only some ten years previously. Mr Hartley has always kept in touch with the place and takes a sort of amused pleasure in its extra-ordinary collection of freaks. Its apparantly a hot bed of communism and socialism and many other “isms”. David seems to have come out of it remarkably sane and level headed. He seems to me a thoughtful and competant young man and one who should do well in life –
My blessings upon you and my love to you
Mum
March 23rd Your letter from Gerrard’s Cross just arrived – It sounds an amusing household to stay in – and I’m glad you are going to the Coming-of-Age dance – When will you hear the result of the exams?
From HPV to Annette
Chinsura
Bengal
March 22nd 1938
My dear Annette
Starting from scratch, I made a great effort and covered three pages of a letter to Rosemary. Nothing is left: no gleanings. It will suffice to repeat what I said to her. However I have just remembered not having told her that, with a large pair of scissors left behind by Mrs. Burrows, I did a lot of deads-cutting in the garden yesterday when your mother was away in Calcutta. That was from 5.30 or so till it goes duck, after an hour perhaps. To cut the deads off corn flowers is a hypnotic affair: the dead grey which they turn as they wither disappears into any background after a time and one cannot see them. I disturbed a lot of chameleons: crested lizards which prop themselves up on the forelegs and look reproachfully at one. The P.W.D have fixed round the trunk of a neem tree about 20 feet from the ground (diameter four feet maybe) a sort of frill or umbrella of barbed wire. It is not (as I guessed) to keep monkeys out of the tree: what it is intended to keep out is anarchists. They might climb up, said the engineer, and shoot from the branches. There is barbed wire also under the little balconies which stick out of the drawing room windows (where no one but a one toed sloth could hope to climb) but none on the drain pipes which look comparatively inviting: and there is none on a perfectly sound ladder which leads from the ground to the roof of a room below the drawing room verandah which is easily accessible from it! At the moment no trouble is expected. The guards have been taken off and we do not ever carry revolvers. The interest of the thing is historical. David Pilkington came up the river in a boat from the paper mills on Saturday and stayed the night. The smell as I have said is rank: like some form of body decay: but he says that he has come quite to like it. Full of enthusiasm he has the liveliest interest in every thing and in everybody, committing it and him (or them) to memory.
Why is it that I alone ever see the Gangetic porpoise? (It may indeed be the same animal always). I saw one rolling in the river near this garden: and I often saw one at Cossipore. The others never. No one has ever seen two at once, now that I come to think of it
Much love
Dad
Family letter from LJT
Chinsurah
Bengal
March 23rd 1938
My Dears,
The routine of station life has received us back into its quiet stream. We have both started playing tennis again. There are only the doctor, the Superintendent of Police, Herbert and myself to play, except at week-ends when the daughter of the Deputy Inspector of police is here. Herbert is, of course, depressed about his performance, though considering that he has scarcely played at all for about five years, and not at all for the last three, he is playing a reasonably good game. It is a disappointment to me to find that my right hand, which I thought had been cured by massage and manipulation by the Jap bone setter, three years ago, has immediately begun to give trouble again. It is weak, and begins to ache slightly at the end of about a sett and a half. I can only hit a hard drive when I can do it with a straight arm from the shoulder. Directly I have to use my wrist, I can only play pat-ball. I have not given up hope, but shall go to the Jap again, and see if he can put it right. I am glad to find that I am not less active than I was. Its rather fun playing tennis again in the casual country club way, where one just turns up if one feels like it. What I could not bear about the Calcutta tennis was that one had to commit ones self weeks ahead, and that it all took too long and became too much of a business.
Can I give you any impression of this place, I wonder. The old towns of Chandanagore (French) Chinsurah (originally Dutch) Hoogly (I dont know what nationality) and Bandal (Originally Portuguese) lie on the Western bank of the Hoogly, seperated each from the other by a couple of miles or so, Chandanagore being the most southerly. They are now oasis of fine old houses, and churches, and in the case of Chinsurah, with a fair sized bit of park-land or maidan, divided from one another, and hemmed in for a mile or so from the river, by dense native town. The river must be three quarters of a mile wide opposite to our house, but as it sweeps in a westward curve to Chandanagore, it narrows considerably. On the opposite bank of the river stand a series of Jute Mills and Paper Mills, most of them not too ugly seen at this distance, each with its high chimney, belching forth smoke. Roughly parallel with the river, but not following all its curves, runs the Grand Trunk Road, the old pathway to all of Upper India. The same that many famous men have marched their troops along. The same that, many hundred miles from here, Kim travelled on with the old Sahibs. Sordid as it looks for most of the distance between us and Calcutta, there is always a certain romance about a great road that links one end of a vast country with another.
Chinsurah was at one time a military centre. Troops used to be collected here before going up to the Hills, and before going Home. This was after it had become a British possession. Later this arrangement ceased, and the Civil Authorities took over the barracks, and turned them into quarters for the Civil Officers, doctor and police, and also into offices and police lines. Most of the people here therefore have the misfortune to live in slices of what was once the range of buildings which housed the officers and their mess-room. The Club occupies part of the ground floor, and is not exactly an inspiring place. This block lies a few hundred yards to the South of us, across part of the maidan. South of it again is the old Dutch Church, a curious low round building, standing in a nicely kept flower garden. It is tended by two old Eurasian ladies, who are pensioners of the Dutch and British Governments, and have lived here all their lives. South of it again is a vast and most impressive pillared house, which is now the Chinsurah College, but which once belonged to the famous General Perron, who fought for the Scindia in the early days of the East India Company. It was he who drilled Scindia’s raw Mahratta troops, and taught them how to make and to use guns. I think it was after his final surrender to the British that he used some of the tremendous wealth which he had accumulated from Scindia, to build this palatial mansion.
North of our imposing house, which stands beautifully on the curve of the river, there is more maidan. Our garden is screened on the west and north by fine trees. Beyond the maidan there is a mission house and school and then the hospital, before bazaar closes in, and fills the mile and a half or so that separates us from Chinsurah Hoogli. The only official who lives at Hoogli is the Collector of the local District, which is known as Hoogli. He holds the same position that Herbert did in Barisal and in Jalpaiguri. His house is next to the Imamb ara which I told you about last week. Beyond him again is native town and suburb, till one comes to the old Portuguese church of Bandal. This must be one of the oldest European buildings in India, at least the original Church, which was largely destroyed by fire, must have been, for it is dated 1599. There is a monastery of sorts attached to the church, and I believe quite a big congregation of Anglo Indians, probably many of them of Portugese descent, who work in the East India Railway works at Bandal Junction. Even here one has not finished with town, for village links with village along the river bank, to the great new works recently erected by Dunlop’s. Villages again link up with one another till one reaches the last Jute Mill up the river, some seven miles beyond Hoogli. So far I have explored at present. Herbert and I went up to call on the Manager of the Mill on Sunday, and looked up the Manager of Dunlops on the way back. It was an amusing visit. Mr. Sullivan is not married, and strictly speaking I suppose it was not really our business to go and call. However we sent in a card, and he came hurrying out, evidently a little flustered, and I think complimented too. He was a plump, middle aged man with a rich North country accent, and no sort of social aplomb. Having managed to invite us into his drawing-room, and supply us with drinks, he began to feel more at home, and yielding to a little gentle questioning, he talked interestingly about the building up of the factory, and their labour force and so on. A nice simple soul. Simple, I mean in social matters, for he obviously is shrewd enough where his work is concerned - - - We both liked him. There are a lot of Europeans there, but of what sort of class I have at present little idea. Mr. Sullivan wants us to go over the factory one day, which I should like to do. I am fond of seeing things made.
The P.W.D. have acceded to my request that they should start the repairs to the big drawing-room at once, and are hard at work on it, making the most glorious mess, which I can look at through the glass door. Fortunately there is an exterior staircase to the East verandah, so that they don’t have to come through the house at all. This little study next door to it, and leading on to the South verandah, do very well for us to use when we are not giving parties, and there is so much Hall and landing space, that it has been quite easy to find places to stand all the furniture.
Do you remember that the son of my old school friend, Evelyn Pilkington came out here to a big business firm last year? He is spending a few months at the Paper Mill about half a mile down the river on the opposite bank, and he came over to spend Saturday and most of Sunday with us. He’s a very nice lad, intelligent and keen, and I always enjoy having him about. We played tennis on Saturday afternoon, and had a few people in to dinner. On Sunday morning, we called for the grown up daughter of Mr Mackenzie, the D.I.G. of Police, and also the small seven-year old, and we drove round to see the sights, starting with Bandal Church, going on to the Imambara, and finishing up with the Dutch Church,. It took us practically the whole morning, and was quite an interesting outing. David had to leave directly after lunch, but says he will come back again soon.
On Monday I made my first visit to Calcutta, and had a busy day. It took me an hour and twenty minutes from here to Government House Calcutta. I shopped all the morning, and went to lunch with Winsome. She and Charlotte and Nannie all seem to be flourishing, and they have added an attractive young dachshund, called Max, to the household. He is shiny black with brown points, and inclined to be a little nervous. I doubt if he has quite displaced her Teddy Bear in Charlotte’s affections yet.
A hair cut, set and shampoo took up a lot of the afternoon, followed by a little work with my Himalayan Club Clerk and tea with Percy Brown at his flat. He really seems to be almost through with the final polishing of his great book on Indian Art and architecture. I am always urging him not to spend too long on those final processes, or some one else may bring out a book on the same subject first. He has been working on it for so many years, I believe he is loath to part with it, and will feel lonely when it has gone to the publishers. I always enjoy being with him. He is the kindest and most genuine of friends.
Idris picked me up at P.B’s flat, and we went off to a 6 o’clock performance of a very little worth while cinema, called “Hurrican”. It was about incredibly high souled South Sea Islanders, oppressed in the name of the French Criminal Code. Its chief joy to Idris and myself was that the drunken doctor in it was a charming person, and very like our dear friend Mr Shebbeare, Conservator of Forests. We did not go back to the Towers for dinner, but had a meal in Firpo’s Grill, where one does not need to be in evening dress. It’s a place I very rarely go to, but always rather enjoy. It has an atmosphere different from most other places in Calcutta. I think a lot of the Jockeys and Bookies go there and Ship’s officers, who happen to be in Port, and people who do not belong to the Clubs. We sat a long time over our meal, exchanging lots of news, and I started off home ab about ten o’clock. There was quite a lot of traffic still on the road, and it took me pretty nearly as long to get out as it had to come in. Herbert was in bed and asleep when I crept in.
Our Explorations have taken us as far as Chandernagore. We went on Friday evening to call on the Administrateur and his wife, and the Doctor and his wife, and actually found them all playing tennis to-gether at “Government House”. This French building is also old, and impressive. It is single storied, except for one big bedroom, which one cannot see from the ground, and it stands on three sides of a quadrangle. Immense wide verandahs and lofty rooms open out of one another. Much of the furniture is in the ornate, spindle-legged Empire style, and rather shabby. The Barons took us all over the house and showed us the great four-poster bed, in which the famous Dupliex is supposed to have slept. It is so high that one has to have two steps to get up into it! We climbed on the roof, and they pointed out the old Church and the Convent (which still flourishes) and other points of interest. We looked down on the only bit of Chandanagore which looks French, and that is the quarter mile or so of boulvard along the river front.
Herbert is still a bit depressed. He can’t get away from the sense of the hopelessness of the work in India under the present regime. The Ministers in Bengal are each of them playing so flagrantly for his own hand, and not for the good of the people. Policies about everything, roads, rents, hospitals and so on and so on, shift with the political kaleidoscope, and make it impossible to get useful work done. One wonders how much the people will have to suffer, (who suffer so much already) before their rulers learn how to rule.
We talk about affairs in Europe, but we seem to know so little. It is hard to tell what is behind it all.
Best love to you all
LJT
Family letter from LJT
Chinsurah
Bengal
March 30th 1938
My dears
These long hot-weather days make splendid opportunity for writing over-due letters, straightening out accounts, making notes on all sorts of subjects for the Himalayan Club, and attending to all sorts of domestic things, like sorting and mending house linen, and all the thousand and one odd jobs that do turn up and demand attention in a household.
The drawing-room is a complete chaos of ladders—(not nice neat things such as you are accustomed to, but the most cock-eyed and rickety contraptions that you can imagine, built out of bamboo) - - white-wash, carpenters renewing door-frames, or burning paint off the venetian shutters. I have worried them considerably by insisting on this last job being done. The ordinary Indian method of painting is to dip an old rag, and the hand up to the wrist, into the pot of paint, and to smear the new paint on top of the old, without even washing it. You see its awful waste of time cleaning anything that is immediately going to be hidden! I was told that cleaning off old paint was not in the contractor’s estimates. I replied that I was willing to wait a few days while they called for fresh estimates from other contractors. This settled the case in two minutes. Another thing that I am being a nuisance about is insisting that the numbers of huge iron hooks that have been put into the wall at one time or another, to support trophies, I suppose, shall all be taken out, as well as the hooks in the beams from which the old pull punkahs used to hang. I detest the Indian habit of never clearing anything up. It is in evidence everywhere. It must be one of the barriers to the country’s progress.
We unpacked Herbert’s four tiger skins last week, and hung two of them in the dining-room and two in the little ante-room to the dining-room. His stock has immediately gone up with the chapprassis. I think the slaughter of a tiger is one of the things they regard as being the hall mark of being a Sahib. Had you asked me before I unpacked the skins, whether I should know them apart, I should have said “No”. Actually, when I saw them, I knew them as well as if they had been old friends, arrived back. Vivid pictures moved before the eye of my mind, of all the circumstances under which they were shot---memories of glorious days in the jungle, beauty, excitement, interest, only slightly marred by the final necessity for a killing. One of these tigers had been playing havoc with village cattle and I felt no regret then, nor do I now, that his life was brought to an end. The villagers came to our camp in the afternoon to give their thanks, and sat around for hours watching the skinning of their enemy. Since Herbert was shot himself, he has never felt he could shoot anything again, so perhaps its as well we are not in a district where there is big game.
Since I wrote last wee, I have been “doing my stuff”, as I think it would be called in the parlance of the present moment. On Friday morning last I visited the hospital. As always I was interested in the work they are doing, and full of admiration for it, but came away saddened by the sight of so much suffering, and the miserably inadequate means of dealing with it. This hospital is well equipped as country hospitals go, but it has not enough of anything. Passages and verandahs are all used as wards, and they are so short of attendants that the very sick people are allowed to have a relative to look after them. The matron says that they could not carry on without, unsatisfactory as the arrangement is. When I get back, I must launch a campaign to collect funds. There are plenty of wealthy Indian gentlemen here, but they so seldom give to hospitals or anything else unless it is going to bring their name into some prominence.
One evening I visited the matron of the hospital. Another evening I had the Scotch Mission lady over to a drink and a chat, and on another evening I sent the two old Anglo Indian ladies, the Misses Babaneau, for a drive in the car, and then had them here for drinks. They are, I discover, the daughters of a long ago Military Chaplin, who looked after the troops here. That is all I have discovered so far about their history. They are very old, and so think that they look as if they might break in two at any time. They have lived here all their lives, but they are not un-amusing, and the elder one has a good deal of force of character, and a sense of humour.
We attended our first station dinner-party on Friday night. It was given by the wife of the D.I.G. of Police, Mrs Mackenzie. Dinner went pleasantly enough. Talk tended to be a good deal too much about Bengal District personalities and District “shop”, which is always the snare in these up-country stations. I managed to lead it away a bit now and again, backed by our doctor, Capt Lossing, a nice young Canadian, whom I knew before in Calcutta. After dinner, somewhat to my dismay, I saw the servants bringing a table and setting chairs for some sort of a game. We sat down to play “Monopoly”. The appalling tedium of the game was only relieved by the bitter complaints of Mr. Stein (Superintendent of Police) who is simple, slow and downright, and who constantly found himself staying a night in a hotel in the Old Kent Road, and having to pay two hundred pounds for the privilege to his senior officer, our host. The wit of Herbert and of Mr. Hartley (the Collector) made great play with Mr. Stein’s puzzlement as to why a hotel in such a quarter should be so costly. The insinuations were not always refined, but served to keep us awake. It beats me why people want to spend a thing so precious as time over a nonsensical game like that, which requires neither intelligence nor quickness. At snap or grab one has at any rate got to deep ones wits about one.
Herbert had to go in to Calcutta for a meeting of the Directors of the East India Railway yesterday, and he had some official work to do too. I went in with him and did some shopping, and quite a bit of Himalayan Club work. Dr Heron gave me lunch at the Saturday Club, and I reported all the more important of the Himalayan Club doings to him. He is our Chairman. At 2.30 I had an assignation with Percy Brown, and went with him to his office to pick up some books he has collected for me, with references to the history of Chinsurah in them. After a little more shopping in the Newmarket, which was rather warm work, I went to tea with Kitty Jenkins, to meet a female member of the Himalayan Club, who is out from England on a visit, and has been writing me enormous letters full of questions. She seemed so anxious to see me that she even proposed coming out to Chinsurah by train, on one of her three days in Calcutta, so I was glad to be able to save her that trouble. I felt a little irritated though, for she had provided herself with a copy of my Guide Book to Sikkim some weeks ago, and to every question she asked me, the answer was in that book. For some strange reason she seemed to think that the information was more valuable if given by me personally, than when printed on a page.
At 6 o’clock Herbert and Harry and Idris and I all met at the New Empire, and went to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. You have all seen it, I suppose. We found so much that was charming, but I wish they had not made the dwarfs so much of monsters. There are surely plenty of models for quaint and amusing noses, without going outside nature entirely? Also I grieve that they altered the story, and used the Sleeping Beauty motif of the Princess being wakened by a kiss, instead of the real happening of the bit of poisoned apple being jerked out of Snowhite’s throat when the dwarfs who were carrying the glass coffin slipped.
Harry took us back to dine with them, and we had a cool drive home, during the latter part of which I slept peacefully.
During the past week-end we had some singularly nasty weather. Hot, fearfully humid, and entirely without any breeze. That seems to have passed now, and though still hot (which is normal for this time of year) it is now dry again, and the South breeze blows.
Dont you give Ghandi a good mark for speaking his mind, and saying what he thinks of all these communal riots?
With my love
LJT
From HPV to Annette
Chinsurah
Bengal
Mar 30th 1938
My dear Annette
This questioning whether you would get through your exam astonished me. Surely surely it was a pass exam and you are supposed to be working to Honours standard? There is of course always an off chance that illness or bad luck of some kind (such as beer on top of sherry – how inexplicable are your brother’s tastes, or habits maybe!) may incapacitate the best of persons: but if one works to a low standard and thinks of oneself in terms of pass student or the like, is there not every risk of being stuck like that? If, for instance, the wind changed at that moment. Courage! he cried. How prosy I am when I forsake a diary of doings! how prosy also when I stick to it.
Your first guess as to my next remark is correct. Weary I am. Not without cause though on this occasion. I went down to Calcutta on Monday after lunch and came back before dinner, having argued for 2 ½ hours with Ministers about a crisis: and the next day, yesterday, I went down to Calcutta after breakfast and returned soon after 11 at night, having spent the interval at meetings, arguing with secretaries seeing Snow White (why do they change the story? or why do I remember it after 45 years?) and dining with my dear Brother Harry and Winsome. If one goes to Calcutta about special things, yet the ordinary ones pile up behind one here. I am going away tomorrow and so I had a tough day of it tackling those piles so as to start clear. We went to Church on Sunday: I don’t often do that: and it was not a real success. Hymns bring out all that is base in me: alterations in the prayer book are an annoyance – and so on. There was a sermon: first thing of all after a hymn! It was a fair cop. The padre was an Indian. Seemed a good sort too. But why should I go on when instead I can (and will, by gum!) go to bed.
Much love
Dad
From LJT to Annette
Chinsurah
Bengal
March 31st 1938
My darling Annette
Congratulations on having got through your exam successfully. It must be a relief to get the results, even if one has not been very anxious about them.
Congratulations also, on writing a very interesting letter. The Drakes sound an attractive household. It will be a new claim to fame for you if you appear as a figure in an Academy picture!
(Sounds of Dad being very angry with someone have just floated up the stairs! His bark is so much worse than his bite!)
He’s worried, poor dear, about many things. There’s an awful lot of labour trouble brewing and this Division is full of industrial concerns – All up and down the Hoogly are Jute, paper, and other sorts of mills – In Asansol there are coal mines and two or three big iron and steel works and in Kharagpore, very large railway work shops.
The present Bengal Ministry are so weak and so entirely without any idea that it is not wise to make promises which you cannot fulfil, that they have got everything into a frightful muddle. Agitators have only to threaten them with cutting off so many thousand votes, and they will promise anything.
I’m a bit worried about Dad to tell the truth – though I don’t want to mention it in the family letter – He is feeling the heat a good deal, and finding himself very tired long before evening comes. Moreover, I’m afraid he is bored – Fighting to keep the Districts functioning properly seems such a fruitless task in the face of the weak-kneed policy of the Ministers. I’m terribly sorry to be leaving him here alone, but I have such a strong feeling that Rosemary wants some help both in planning her future and in drawing her out a little bit. I also have a feeling that Richard is working for the Home Civil in a blind sort of way, with little idea what the career means or what the work is likely to be and how it will fit in with his own aspirations and ideals. I want to make opportunities for him to meet men in the Home Civil and I also want him to pay some attention to what he wants to do if he fails in the Civil Service Exam.
I don’t, at the moment, feel worried about you, for I think you have the sort of practical ability which will enable you to find things out for yourself. Have I written any of this to you before? I have gone through it so often in my own mind – Six weeks to-day I leave Calcutta!
Best love, my dear and thank you for such good letters.
Mum