1938 November
From LJT to Annette
Chinsurah
Bengal
Nov 3rd 1938
My darling Annette
Home once more, with some chance of writing letters again – but actually there seem to be so many matters to attend to in house and garden, and people ringing up and wanting to see me, as well as the fact that I feel I must pay some attention to Camilla, that the time available is not very treat. Did I thank you for your letter which I did receive at Bombay - ? Thank you also for one that was awaiting me here, in which you told of Aunt Do’s visit – Mid-week visitors must be a bit of a nuisance – and what with me and then Aunt Mona as well as Auntie Do, you have had rather a “doing”. I am glad my letter and Dad’s cable arrived so near the right time for your birthday.
Yesterday I began an account of our wanderings, and am enclosing as much as I was able to do – More will come next week. I am describing what we saw in fair detail partly to impress it on my own memory, so that I can run back in my mind and enjoy it in retrospect. I hope it wont be too much of a – but you can always take refuge in skipping it!
Camilla I find a bit boresome and heavy in hand – Her mind moves so slowly and she does not seem to see the funny side of things – She’s quite nice and considerate and so on and I do hope she wont be too bored here. I am taking her in to Calcutta for the day to-morrow and when Dad has to go to Midnapore for a few days I think I’ll ask Idris if Camilla and I can go and stay with him, so that she can see a little more “life”. Of course I’m immensely grateful to her for being the cause of this tour and enabling me to see places that I have so long wished to visit.
Dad seems to have been getting along really very well and is less wraught up than he has been for some while – He looks well too, except that his face has got thin and has got hollows in it rather like Uncle’s – Perhaps its a family habit.
I’m awfully sorry to hear about Christina having enteric – Its a thing that hangs on for so long and then it takes such ages to get really fit again – I shall be anxious to hear news of her – I’m sorry also to hear about Jean Coutts losing her father – I hope it wont upset her Varsity career –
One of the many reasons that I am so extra-ordinarily pleased that I came home this year, is than now I have seen something of you and Richard in your Oxford setting and met a good many of your friends, so that your letters about what you are doing mean so much more to me.
Mogul and the Bearer both asked a number of questions about you all – Mogul is particularly anxious to know the exact hights to which you have all grown – and finds the fact that Richard is taller than his father vastly amusing!
This small sized bit of paper is chiefly an economy in weight!
Best love to you, my dear – and convey my love also, to Anne.
Mother
(Sounds more sensible than the “Mum” of the baby days, does’nt it?)
Family letter from LJT
Chinsurah
Bengal
Nov 2nd 1938
My dears,
My journeyings are for the moment, finished. Camilla Boughey and I descended from the train at 7 a.m yesterday morning at Bandal Junction which is only a couple of miles from this house, and so we were saved an extra three quarters of an hour in the train, and an hours drive back here. Herbert was awaiting us, looking well, but a little thin. He seems in good spirits, and says he has been sleeping much better than usual lately, which I hope is a sign that his nerves are not as tired as they were. Its lovely to see him again, and to be home once more. There are such heaps of things to do in the house and garden, that I scarcely know where to begin, but before I tackle anything else I want to try to put down some sort of account of the places we have seen. I confess part of my desire to do so is to give myself the pleasure of living over again the impressions of beauty, of intense historical interest, and of glimpses of other religions which this tour has given us. I am extremely grateful to Noel Boughey for giving me the chance of doing so much, for, alone, I certainly should not have accomplished more than the visit to Agra.
In my mind the clock must be put back nine days, to Oct 24th, the day of our arrival in Bombay. We made a picturesque arrival in that beautiful harbour, for, having the Viceroy on board, we were greeted by a salute of thirty-one guns from the three ships of the East India Squadron, or,--as I suppose I should now more correctly say, of the Royal Indian Navy. The Viceroy having stepped on shore, our friends were allowed on board. Charles Crawford, a young friend of mine in I.C.I., who is temporarily in Bombay, found us, and I left him with Camilla for a time, while went ashore to get our tickets from Cook’s and attend to various matters about the luggage. I then rejoined them, and we said good-bye to the ship, set off in Charles’ car to see Bombay, a thing which, oddly enough, I had never properly done before. We did the usual round by Malabar Hill, and the Towers of Silence, but went on right out to the country bathing beaches about sixteen miles out. At the top of a great stretch of sandy beach, in a forest of coconut trees, people have little bathing and week-end shacks built in the simplest way of matting walls, and thatched roofs, but fitted with electric light. It seemed a delightful place, and we were sorry that lack of bathing-dresses and lack of time prevented us bathing. We drove back to Bombay and had tea at the Yacht Club, and watched the sunset, before going to the station for our train. It was unfortunately dark when the train moved out of Bombay, so Camilla saw nothing of the Chats as we travelled through them. The next morning we found ourselves travelling through a landscape quite different from the country I am accustomed to. From the flat cotton-growing country of the Bombay Presidency, we passed into a burnt up country, with dry looking crops of maize and baked fields where corn should be sown, but which are lying fallow, for the rain has failed almost entirely in great areas of the United Provinces. I had received a copy of Murrey’s Guide to India in Bombay, and was able to read about the places on our route. Its a country that is stiff with history as the walled villages and the occasional forts on the summits of hills and ridges would seem to indicate. Late in the afternoon we passed through Gwalior, and got a good view of the immensely impressive fort, with the domes and spires of palaces showing above the lofty castellated walls, which crown the cliffs of the long narrow ridge on which it is built. At five o’clock we reached Agra, and were met by a man from the hotel, who took charge of our luggage and enabled us to go direct to the Taj Mahal.
We drove into the wide space of the outer court, surrounded by high walls and pillared arcades of red sand-stone, and there we dismounted from our car and approached the magnificent gateway on foot. “Gateway” is a poor term by which to describe the superb portals which the Mogul Emperors built as entrances to their tombs, and forts and palaces. They are stately buildings, crowned with domes or cupolas, comprising a goodly sized square room, domed, and often surrounded by a gallery, with high recessed archways leading into it from the two sides, and usually guard chambers on the other two, where it joins the walls. As we climbed the steps to this gateway, we saw framed through its double Saracenic archways, the delicate white beauty of the Taj Mahal, its shape so familiar from the thousands of pictures and models one has seen, and yet its reality quite new, and more than fulfilling every expectation. The lovely pearly colour, so different from the dead white, which I think I was expecting, combined with the perfection of line and proportion, and the marvellous clarity of the design, seem to be beyond the compass of any model or picture to convey. Without being unduly sentimental, I believe there is something more to it than that. Now and again some building takes on an essence of the spirit in which it was built. Chartres Cathedral has an atmosphere, given to it by the religious ferver with which it was built, which endures to this day. In the same way the Taj Mahal still conveys something of the steady enduring love which Shahjahan bore to the wife he married when she was scarcely more than a child, and who bore him fourteen children. It seems to have been so unlike the wayward passion one is inclined to attribute to most Eastern potentates, burning quickly and fiercely, and as quickly and cruelly tired. If history reads true, Shahjahan never tired, and after his son Aurangzeb had kept him imprisoned in the fort at Agra for seven years, and when he was coming near to death, he was asked if he had any favour to ask, and he asked that he might again see the Taj Mahal. He was carried on to the lovely balcony of the Jasmine Tower, where Mumtaz Mahal and his other Queens had been wont to sit, and from which he could gaze across the Jumna river to the lovely memorial he had raised to his dead wife, and so he died. One may laugh at sentiment, but it lingers and touches one still.
From the gateway the Taj is still a long way off, beyond the long narrow strips of water, with the formal gardens and the lines of cypruss trees. It is only as one approaches slowly, that one realizes its great size. At last one stands beneath the 22 foot high platform on which the building stands. One climbs a marble stair, and finds oneself standing on the smooth, pearly, empty sweep of marble pavement. Away at the four corners, are the four towers that look life slender pencils in the distance, but are lofty and of majestic proportions when one is near them. It seems impossible to hurry as one is approaching this lovely tomb. Ones eyes wont let one! There is too much beauty to drink in. At last as one ascends the last few steps to the great central chamber where is the tomb, surrounded by its supurb fretted marble screen, one realizes that the great beauty of the building in its entirety, is made up of an infinite perfection of detail. Of course I had read dozens of descriptions of its beauties, but I was still amazed by the faultless workmanship of every detail. The idea of marble inlaid in intricate designs with semi-precious stones, had always sounded a little unpleasant to me, but there, and again in the palaces and pleasure houses in the Agra and Delhi Forts, it is extremely lovely. The panals round the walls, too, ornamented with base-relief carvings of naturalistic life sized flowers, lily, poppy, and Iris, are exquisite. They are repeated again on the exterior. Time seems to have been of no account in beautifying this place. One cant go on with a catalogue of its beauties. We managed to pay two more visits to it, and climbed on to the roof at the foot of the dome. There was, alas, only a thread of a new moon, so we did not see it by moon-light, but we watched through the sunset, and as dusk crept round it, and we saw it by the bright light of early afternoon, and each time we found it lovely.
There are so many things to attend to, that I’m afraid I have no time to write more this week, so just send you all my love.
LJT
From HPV to Annette (carbon with ‘Annette’ written in by hand)
Chinsurah,
Bengal,
Monday. November 7th 1938.
My dear Annette
I shall now recite the Adventure of the Benevolent Owl. I had been working after tea or before dinner in the office room downstairs when a strange figure came through the window and said (wittily) “what! working?” And moved by courtesy I led him upstairs and planted him upon your mother, while myself I went off to have a bath. When I came into the bedroom round the big mosquito net, the Bearer said to me “Sahib, beware of the bird”: and I caused the bird to be produced. With one hand firmly grasping one wing the mesalchi appeared, bearing an enormous white owl. I know no animal more benevolent to see nor more dignified. No struggles: merely acceptance of unavoidable disaster with Christian resignation. And so I said that it was to be displayed to the admiration of the guests. All exclaimed with pleasure and the mesalchi at once slapped it sharply over the head, because, he said, it might bite. This roused my indignation and I announced that the time had arrived for its release; it was hurled over the verandah and slipped away silent as a ghost --- or for that matter as an owl. On occasion I had heard of such things but the reality surpassed them.
This leads me to the scarcely less exciting tale of the Aimless Turtle. It was on Tuesday afternoon; weary with my unusual activity (for I had arisen at 6 in order to meet the train) I retired to snooze and prepared myself by removing all but my vest and the little white drawers or slip-offs as they are not called in American beauty parlours; and then natura found that I had left something or other in the drawing room, which had to be fetched by walking along the verandah. In the river there is a mud heap, piled round a stranded tree; and some peculiarity in its outline caught my eye. Incredulous I fetched glasses and found that it was true. A great turtle had come up onto the top of the mud-heap or sand-heap and was waving its neck and its head at the end of it, like one meditating the possibility of laying eggs. It could have chosen no worse place (because many fishermen and Babu folk walk that way) and it didn’t: or maybe did. Anyhow it didn’t choose that one; and vaguely slipped into the water and remained holding its head out as if lost in thought or taking a sitz bath. The first time that we have seen a turtle here; and the largest turtle that I have seen in a state of nature, which (I add for Annette’s benefit: futile) does not mean with its trousers off. Much interested I spoilt my possibility of sleep, for I spent the afternoon getting up to see what the beast was doing; which was nothing at all.
Should I now mention the strange occurrence of the inquisitive tree-pie. A handsome silly bird with a long tail with a bulge init. Hardly worth mentioning but it pleased me at the time; I was doing exercises in a state of nature (and this I add for the benefit of Annette means with my trousers and everything else off) when the bird flew in and perched on a curtain rod in the window, whence it eyed me contemptuously till it decided to show me its tail, and then flew off. In dealing with such animals one is at a disadvantage without one’s trousers.
Almost at the end of notable events of the week, I add only that tonight there passed down the river a procession or fleet of little lamps set afloat. Half a mile or more of them. Pretty: in the moonlight. What they were I do not know; years ago I read somewhere about Indian women setting lamps adrift down rivers and watching to see how soon they go out (none would have seen tonight, for they all came round a corner) with some anxious idea to know --- what? for that I cannot remember: whether they would get husbands? I doubt it. How long someone had to live? more probably. But I forget. Anyhow it was very pretty. Now I have several new things that I can give to Idris Matthews. He sought anxiously to know, the other day when he met your mother, whether I had given away the Maharaja of Burdwan to anyone: while proves that he has learnt his piece. The frog which I gave to your mother is still there in the pond. He came over in the plane the other day to welcome your mother back to India and swooped down so close to the house as to cause astonishment.
On Saturday I had to go down to Calcutta to see Sir Bijoy; same thing as in June; a telephone message that he was worried because people were not paying their rents and asking me to discuss. Silly because I told him then what ought to be done and the same ought to be done now. This time I did not write him a letter summarising what I had said. Your mother and Comilla came in too: we had a gay lunch at the Saturday Club with the Gurners as guests (he was bright and genial which is strange; she was also which is not) and then went to the Matterhorn film. Goodish; but it worries me when they film a thing about which the book is so well known that departures from it worry one. I like a sentence like that and repeated the word on purpose. After the film, Comilla and I bathed: not your mother who was nurturing her cold. She said that I had taken much off the waistline and that my dives showed more muscle-control than they did. I failed entirely to mount a small rubber horse and swallowed so much water laughing that I could scarcely struggle to the side of the bath. There followed tea. And then I went to see the H.D. family.
I am tired of this letter. Enough to say that there were guests out here yesterday; nice people but I did not get a sleep in the afternoon which would have done good after the previous day’s wrestling with the horse and diving. And that this day I have done practically no work. My mind simply would not function. I have to compose a speech for the function at Howrah on Wednesday and ideas will not come . . . . . it must be about my schemes, but just now they all seem too remote to be other than fatuous.
Let Rosemary know that the carbon paper which I was using was worn-out; I had found it in a drawer and took it on faith.
Much love
Dad
Family letter from LJT
Chinsurah
Bengal
Nov 8th 1938
My Dears,
This week I shall go straight on with the story of my trip across India, for if I wander into what we have been doing since we got back, I am sure I shall never return to the earlier things.
Last week I only succeeded in talking about the Taj Mahal. Now I must tell you about Futtipore Sikri, the abandoned city, about twenty-three miles from Agra, which was built by the great Akbar, for his son Jehangir, and which was only lived in for about sixteen years. No-one knows why it was abandoned. Some think there was a difficulty about water, others that there was some epidemic, before which the population fled back to Agra, and some (and this seems to me much the most probable) that the Mogul Court moved, because it was the whim of the Emperor. Well, one drives out along a straight, dusty road, shaded by trees, and with a surface none too good, with plenty of local colour, in the way of strings of camels, and of donkeys, wayfarers on foot or in the comic little ekkas, drawn by minute ponies, and frequent villages, where much of the life is lived in the public road, as is always the way in India.
Suddenly before us we saw a fine re sandstone gateway, set in a high red sandstone wall, finely castellated, and beyond and above it, another red gateway, in another red wall, which circles the top of a high ridge. Above it again appeared domes and cupolas and high-pitched roofs, looking strangely lovely in the slanting beams of the early morning sun. Even before entering the second gateway, the City had impressed us with a strong feeling of romance. It is exactly the right setting for legends of chivalry, of brave deeds, and of cruel punishments, of luxury and intrigue. The car drove us through the second gate, and stopped for us to alight. For a few moments we were alone in a spacious garden-court, with beautiful red palaces all round us, doves cooing, and the wind blowing gently through the neem and tamarind trees, and no other sounds to disturb us. In the magic way they have, a guide suddenly was at our elbow. Our inclination for a moment, was to send him away, but we realized that Futtipore Sikri is a big place, and that our time, was limited, so we thought it would be wise to engage him. Though he was rather an unpleasant looking old boy, with gout in one of his feet which made him hobble with a stick, he was actually a good guide. He did not recite his information off by rote, but talked intelligently about his subject, and was very well up in Indian History.
I am at a loss how to convey any true impression of the buildings of this empty city. Before I had seen the red sandstone of which most of old Delhi, Agra, and all of Futtipore Skiri are built, I thought it sounded hot, and rather ugly. As a matter of fact, it is of a most lovely mellow soft colour, showing charmingly against the bright blue of the Indian sky, and taking on splendid rich warmth in its shadows. It would take too long and merely bore you if I were to try to describe the individual buildings. The general style and proportions are magnificent. Even as in the Taj, beauty of the general mass, turns out to be made up of beauty of infinite minute detail, so it is here. Akbar expressed himself and his beliefs in these buildings. He incorporated Mohammedan traditions, with their legacy of Saracenic and Moorish arches, with much that was Hindu. The result does not give the impression of a bastard art, but of something very complete and very alive.
From the outer court, with its hall of Public Audience, one passes to an innter court, at one end of which stands a dining hall, and above it the Emperor’s sleeping apartment, its Hindi name meaning “the House of Dreams”. Round the court are palaces for the different Queens: a wonderful five storied building, known as the “Palace of the Winds”, which it is thought was a pleasure house for the ladies: - a girls’ school: Akbar’s debating Hall, with a huge central pillar, from the capitol of which bridges spring to the four corners of the gallery which surrounds the room. Here, report has it, Akbar used to sit on the circular platform at the top of the pillar, and wise men of different religions and philosophies used to sit on the bridges and debate, while the ministers and courtiers sat in the gallery, and anyone who liked could come into the hall below to listen. Everywhere where Akbar has left his mark, one finds this same spirit of tolerance, this same longing to make all religions one, or at any rate encourage them to live in peace to-gether.
From his sleeping apartment he could look down into another court which contained the offices of his Secretariat. Beyond “The Palace of the Winds” another court is surrounded by the palaces of some of the Emperor’s favourite Ministers, notably his Hindu Minister and friend, Raja Birbal, whose witty sayings, not always too refined, are I believe still enjoyed by many a poor Indian, who has scarcely heard of the great Akbar. Next one comes to great ranges of stables for camels, horses and elephants, and to the extensive water works, where a series of Persian Wheels, raised water to the palace on its hilltop. Through a gateway one looks down a steep incline, to where at the foot of the hill, lie the ruins of a once busy caravansarai, and to a strange tower, whose sides are bristling with elephant tusks, carved in stone, which is a memorial to Akbar’s favourite elephant.
Threading our way back at Raja Birbal’s house, we pass into the vast court of the great Mosque, the Jama Masjid. At the west lie the rows of arcades in front of the Niche, which must always point to-wards Mecca. On the South is the stupendous “Gate of Victory”, claimed by some to be the gradest portal in the world. With the steps leading up to it it rises to a height of 130 feet, and is crowned by tier upon tier of cupolas, born on delicate pillars, giving a most lovely effect of soaring upwards. Half way along the northern wall of the huge court, is the one white marble building in Futtipore, the tomb of the saint who prophesied the birth of Akbar’s son, Jehangir. its sides are exquisite screens of pierced white marble, almost lace-like in appearance, though they must be at three inches thick, and the whole building is of a remarkably delicate beauty.
From the great Gate of Victory one gets a good idea of the area enclosed by the outer walls, which are seven miles round. Of the ordinary town which lay out-side the palace enclosure, not much is left. A small village lies at the foot of the steep slope below the gate, and here and there, within the circuit of the outer walls, still stand the ruins of nobles’ houses.
Our car was waiting for us outside the East gate of the mosque, and after about two and a half hours of walking and standing about, we were quite glad to sit down, and refresh ourselves with oranges.
On our return journey to Agra, we turned aside to see the tomb of Akbar at Sikandra. Another of the splendid Mogul Gateways, leads into another of the charming formal gardens of which the Moguls were so fond, and the big mausoleum stands in this lovely setting, but sad to say, something has gone wrong with the design, and instead of being impressive, it has become fussy and confused. We were not disappointed, for we had been warned of this, and had gone possibly more from sentiment, to pay our respects to the dead Emperor.
After lunch and a rest, we set out once more, and crossing the Jumna river, we visited a gem of a tomb, that of Ismad ad Dowlah, father of the great Empress Nurjahan, with of Jehangir. He was Treasurer to Jehangir, and after his death his daughter buildt this lovely shrine to his memory, a building of white marble pillars and pierced screens, crowned by graceful minarets, standing in a charming garden. We still had some house of daylight left, and drove to the Taj, where we stayed till dusk.
The following morning we devoted to seeing the Agra Fort. From the outside it is impressive enough, with its great red castellated walls, 70 to 90 feet high, pierced by several majestic gateways. The Fort itself is Akbar’s work, and some of the splendid sand-stone courts and palaces, but the exquisite white marble palaces, and that dream of beauty, the Pearl Mosque, were built by his grandson, Shah Jahan. Rooms like the Khas Mahal, or private dining-room, the Diwan i Khas, or hall of Private Audience, are not rooms, as we think of them, for the walls are a series of lovely arches, and doors there are none. The marble of which they are built has taken on a delicious colour like old ivory. Pillars and roofs are inlaid with semi precious stones, jade carnelian and lapis, and everywhere delicate carving turns the stone into a precious work of art. Looking round me in the Diwan i Khas, which my guide book tells me is 65ft by 34 ft. by 22 ft high, I feIt as if I were in an ivory casket of perfect workmanship. Then there are the beauties of the Jasmine Tower with its octagonal balcony hanging above the river, and exquisite views of the Taj Mahal across the water, and other equally lovely apartments and balconies, built for the ladies. Also there are baths as elaborate as anything the Romans ever devised, all in marble and inlay work. Not the least of the beauties of these palaces is the series of views of the surrounding country, seen, framed in marble archways;-a feature which is so familiar in the Mogul pictures, and which I have always loved. Would one could see again the men and women who lived in these “auspicious aboces”, dressed in the brocades and the jewels and the fine muslins in which their pictures show them.
The purity of the Pearl Mosque is a thing not lightly to be forgotten. It is of white marble within and without. A simple arcade runs round three sides of the court, and at the end towards Mecca, is the Mosque proper, consisting of three rows of beautiful arches, with the niche and the pulpit, and surmounted by three lovely domes. There is a gentleness about it which seems more suited to the gentle and loving religions of Jesus and Buddha, than the fierce warlike creed of the Prophet. Shah Jahan, who built it, had preserved something of his grandfather’s tolerance and perhaps that feeling has crept into this building. We left it with regret, and many last looks, hoping to imprint its picture on our memories.
On our way back to the hotel, we turned aside to have a look at the big Juma Masjid (Juma means Friday and Masjid means Mosque) which is impressive from its very size, and a certain large simplicity of design, but of which there is no particular reason to study the detail. These huge mosques, so many of which are known as “Juma” are the places of general worship, to which people go on the mohammaden holy day, which is Friday. The small mosques, which are given names like “The Pearl” or “The Jewel” or something like that, approximate more to our private chapels, used for personal daily prayers.
Finding that we had a little time before lunch to do our packing, we decided to pay one more visit to the Taj Mahal in the afternoon, as our train did not go till 5 o’clock, and we spent a happy hour there.
We arrived at Delhi about nine o’clock, and by the time we had got to the hotel, we were not sorry to go straight to our rooms and get our baths and go early to bed.
The next day we hired a car, and a guide and set off to visit the several different ancient Delhis. Most of them are of more archeological interest than objects of beauty. For the most part strong walls encircle a hill-top and little is left inside, save an occasional mosque or tomb. With the background of their history they are extremely interesting. A circuit of some 23 miles south of what is now known as “Old Delhi” takes one through them all, and carries one through New Delhi on ones return journey. Before one reaches New Delhi, on the homeward road, one comes to that marvellous thing, the Kutb Minar or tower of Victory. No picture had every given me the slightest idea of its beauty and grandure. It is nearly 250 feet high, built in five stories, each said to have been constructed by a different Conqueror. The lower three are of sand stone and the top two of white marble. It is circular, beautifully fluted, and tapering slightly as it rises. The sandstone is of the most lovely rosy colour, melting here and there into a mellow ochre, and the Grace and dignity of the whole thing is astonishing. It with its attendant Mosque ancient, hindu temple much of the cloisters of which still remain. There also stands an antique iron pillar,with inscriptions telling that it was set up in memory of the great doings of one of the ancient Hindu Kings in 400 AD. Page after page of history seems to have been enacted on that spot.
We arrived in a friends’ house in New Delhi at one o’clock, and after a pleasant rest and meal, we went to visit the Secretary of the Himalayan Club, a Bengal Civilian who is at present working for the Government of India in the Department of Defense. We found him in the Military Secretariat, an impressive building on one side of the road, which leads to the Viceroy’s house, and which is balanced by a twin building, the Civil Secretariat on the opposite side of the road. They and the Viceroy’s House are built of the beautiful rosy sandstone, so much beloved by the Moguls, which surprised me, for I had an idea the New Delhi was all white. I was almost appaled by the lavishness of New Delhi. It seems almost as extravagant as the cities of the Moguls. Wide roads, bordered by broad grass verges and lines of trees, radiate from a central star. The official buildings such as the Council House, the Secretariats and so on are near the middle, and all round lie the officials houses, standing in their green tree-shaded gardens. It is all so remote from the poverty and sickness of the people, and it seemed to me that the cost of keeping those miles of grass verge, mowed and watered, would alone pay for the upkeep of quite a considerable hospital. Its fine and impressive, but I dont want to live there. It seems so inhuman.
After a talk with Mr Shattock, we visited the Council House and saw the rooms in thich the Council of State, and the Legislative Assembly respectively, sit. They have not left much impression on me except that they are circular, and have not had time to grow much sould yet.
Back in Old Delhi, we visited the Fort. It is in many ways like the Agra Fort. The great red walls encircle a much larger area, I think, but it was far more knocked about in the Mutiny, and the lovely sand-stone and marble palaces of the Mogul Emperors (For Shah Jahan moved here from Agra) have many of them been knocked down. There are still a number of lovely things, such as the supurb Diwan i Khas, the pillared marble hall where once stood the Peacock Throne;- the wonderful bath houses;- the splendid genana apartments with the “Stream of Paradise” running down the centre of their marble collonnades, in its marble bed. (Legend says that rose leaves were constantly sprinkled on it);- The Gate of Justice with its beautiful marble screens, all with their jeweled inlay and their carving of exquisite workmanship;- the beautiful little pearl mosque, much, much smaller than the one in Agra;- all lovely, but we felt that they were just the least bit less charming, and had a little less personality than the palaces in Agra. We were definitely tired by the time we had seen all this, and decided that we would not visit the museum that day, but go home to tea and rest.
The following morning we drove in a little tonga (a sort of low dog-cart pulled by a single horse) round the historic Ridge. It was a little disappointing, and yet I did not expect much. I found it much harder to imagine vividly the sufferings and the heroisms, and the anxieties of the unfortunate English, who defended themselves on that narrow ridge, with little more than the shelter of an old tower and one or two old bungalows all through the scorching summer of 1857, from May till September when they received sufficient reinforcements to storm the city after breaching its walls, than I found it to call up pictures of the more distant past of the bygone Emperors.
From the Ridge we drove into Delhi again and along the famous road known as the Chandni Chowk, or street of the silver smiths. It is a good street from the point of view of seeing India, for it is swarming with tongas and ekkas, bullock carts and lurching camels, bicycles and motor-cars, ragged beggars, and wealthy Marwari merchants, and people of every type. Camilla was amused at the way the bicyclists ring their bells and the motor drivers play on their horns, without ceasing. We visited one or two famous curiosity shops, and the place where they carve ivory. Its beautiful work, but somehow I don’t desire to possess what they make. It lacks the feeling and the humanity and the humour of the Chinese ivories. Finally we went to the vast and impressive Juma Masjid, the great and famous mosque. It is a fine thing, with its soaring minarets, its three swelling domes and its huge court. We were not allowed to leave without seeing the relics of the Prophet including a hair from his beard, which I fear left us suitably unimpressed, but still compelled for honour’s sake, to present an offering, (considered, I may say, quite inadequate, by the guardian of the relics)
After lunch we mounted into our little Tonga again, this time without our guide, and drove to the Fort once more, where we wanted to walk again through the Diwan i Khas, and to visit the museum, which is really very interesting. It comprises all periods, hindu, mohammaden, and mutiny. Having a little time to spare, we thought we would visit the Jain Temple, which was well spoken of in the Guide book. Our driver stopped at the mouth of a narrow alley, and said the carriage could go no further, and that we must go to the temple on foot. The lane gave Camilla some idea of what the slums of Indian towns are like. The temple actually, was scarcely worth a visit, for a little good carving has been spoilt by jaxtaposition with ugly modern glazed tiles, dirty cheap wooden cupboards to hold the holy books, oil lamps from the cheapest European store and such like trash. Still, it all shows something of the country.
Our train left at 6.30 pm or thereabouts, and we were lucky enough to get a coupe to ourselves, and as the train started from Delhi, it was fairly clean when we got in to it. We reached Mogul Sarai at 8.30 the next morning, and there a car was waiting to take us the eleven miles to Benares. The hotel was a simple countrified sort of place, but clean and quite comfortable and friendly. We bathed and breakfasted, and then set off to see a few of the temples, and drive through some of the crowded bazaars. The temples are disappointing, partly because they have all been reconstructed during the last two or three hundred years, after Aurangzeb had done his best to wipe them out, and build his great mosque out of and upon their remains, and partly because they are so huddled up amongst other buildings, that one cannot really see them. The interest really lies in the hordes of worshippers from every corner of India, and in the realization that this many-faced religion was drawing pilgrims here before historic times, and that in spite of hundreds of years of domination by Buddhism and hundreds more by Mohammedism, it is still as warmly vital as it was three or four thousand years ago. The rites and ceremonies which seem to us so messy and undignified, obviously bring such joy and satisfaction to the humble worshippers, but neither close-ups of the temples nor strolls through the streets of this crowded Mecca of Hinduism, would be really worth the trouble of a visit for themselves alone. The experience that is well worth the trouble is an early morning voyage by boat, up and down the famous river front, where steps rise out of the sacred river Ganges, and above them tower temples and the imposing houses of most of the Hindu princes of India. On the steps (Ghats, in Hindustani) priests sit under bamboo umbrellas. The pilgrims leave their clothes with a priest, and go down into the water to bathe and to pray. Returning to the priest, they recover their clothes, and receive the proper cast mark, painted on the forehead. They can then set off to worship in some of the hundreds of temples, and finally, if they have the strength and the time, to accomplish the six day pilgrimage, round the outskirts of the town. It is really a wonderful sight to see the crowds coming and going;- the hundreds of people bathing and praying, some so glib and well practiced in all the attitudes, some so simple and devout. The prayers to the sun, while the worshipper lets red rose petals drop one by one through his fingers into the water, are most attractive. Here and there Sadhus and Sunnyasis, Holy Men, naked save for a small loin cloth, their long matted hair coiled on top of their heads, and their bodies smeared with ashes or with saffron, sit in meditation, or pray or perform some of the Yoga exercises. I saw a young boy leap from a high pillar, landing in the water with a splash, gleefully shouting “Ram, Ram” as he did so. Old men and women totter down the steps, helped by their younger people. It is an enormous advantage, if you are Hindu, to die on the banks of the river, in this holy place, so that your body can be burned and your ashes sprinkled on the water. There are two burning ghats, one to the north and one to the south of the long river front. It is interesting to hear that the sacred fire burning in the little temples on these ghats, is in the charge of those lowest of the low, in the Hindu Hierarchy, the Doms (pronounced just like the dome of St Pauls) and the highest casts have to pay to get it from them to light the funeral pyres of their relations. At the southern ghat which we saw first, a pile of ashes was just been swept into the water, and two more cremations were evidently almost finished, for the domes with their long sticks, were evidently tidying the last remnants into the flames . At the Northern ghat, a figure in a red shroud had just been laid on a pile of wood. (The red shroud, said our guide, denoted that she was a woman. A man is burned in white.) I looked again on our homeward journey, and saw the flames curling up, but it gave me rather a nasty feeling when the dome gave a poke to the fire with his stick, and two arms of the corpse, gave a convulsive movement. Still, I do think it’s a good way of disposing of this human flesh when its work is done.
During our one afternoon at Benares, we drove seven miles out to the Buddhist sacred site, Sarnath, or “The Deer Park” where Buddha is reputed to have preached his first sermon. During the time of Ashoka and for long after there was a great monastery there, the ruins of which have been uncovered of late years. There are three great mounds or Stupas, the equivalent of the Chinese pagodas, of which very little is left but the immensly solid brick cores, and scraps of beautiful carving here and there. There is a broken Asoka column, one of the four or five on which he had his famous edicts ingraved in various parts of his dominions. The magnificent lion capitol, superbly carved and polished, is in the excellent museum, which has been built to house the relics which have been unearthed. A new Buddhist temple has been built close by, and very nice it is. Its walls have been painted by Japanese artists, with the life story of Buddha. - - - - -
And so we came to the end of our tour! It was an immensly interesting experience! Arriving at Benares Station to catch a train due at 5 P.M Camilla was somewhat surprised to hear that it was running an hour late. As it had come all the way from Peshower, it was not really surprising. Chairs were fetched for us, and we sat quite comfortably on the platform till the train came in, and once again got a carriage to ourselves. The train luckily stopped at Bandel Junction, only a couple of miles from here, somewhere about 6.30 A.M., so we were home very early.
The week has been busy with household and garden affairs, two days in Calcutta, and visits from Chinsurah’s few European inhabitants. We go to Calcutta again to-morrow, - - and now I cease, and send my love.
LJT
From LJT to Annette
Chinsurah
Bengal
Nov 9th 1938
My darling Annette
My mind is a jumble of ideas about curtains and pictures – (none of which I had delt with seriously before I went home, since the house was all going to be painted and colour-washed) – of plans for the garden – of matters to do with the Himalayan Club and with plans for amusing Camilla during the two weeks she is here, so it is not in the best state for writing letters. – I have just finished one to Rosemary, designed to reach her on her fifteenth birthday – You wont forget to give her two parcels from Dad and myself, will you -? I hope the School will not still be refused permission to go in to Oxford – It will be disappointing if you cant have her out and take her to a cinema.
Dad is interested to hear little details about you all – I was trying to describe Anne and Christina to him last night – I wonder whether I managed to give him the smallest impression of what they are like. I wonder also, what news there is of Christina, poor girl!
Camilla is, I hope, enjoying herself quite well but she is not easy to talk to – She seems to have singularly little general conversation at her and she’s not sufficiently observant to be keen to know about things out here. The girl who has come out with Winsome’s friend, Peggy Dalmahoy – and who was out here on Sunday, is quite different – Her eyes are every where and she comments on and asks about all sorts of things – I feel she will get a lot more out of her visit to India and out of life too, for that matter, because she evidently finds it all so interesting and amusing.
I hope I have fixed up for Camilla and Mrs. Dalmahoy and this girl – Pam Seabrook, to go and stay in Gangtok for a few days. When we were in Calcutta last Thursday we met Mr. Gould, the Resident of Sikkim – It turned out that he had known Camilla’s father in the long ago in the Punjab – He asked if I could not take Camilla up to stay – but I did not feel I could go away again at once – Then he said “Cant you find some friends who would come with you?” – We said we would try and Mrs. Dalmahoy and Pam proved willing – We now await Mr Gould’s answer to the plan and dates. I hope it comes off – for it will be a great chance for them – Pam knows nothing of the Seabrooks of apple-fame in Essex – Of course I asked her!
There’s been precious little time to deal with the family letter this week! I must stop this and do some more of it now – Best love –
Mother
From HPV to Romey
(handwritten - this letter typed by Joan Webb)
Nov 10, 1938
My dear Rosemary,
It was a miserable scrap of a letter that went off to you this morning (or yesterday, for I do not know when your mother posted it) and so I write now. She tells me that she bought you a bag as a present from me and I hope that it is a thing wanted by you. Even if I were at home I should probably find the choice of a present beyond me, but it seems a poor thing not to have known even what it would be. However the good wishes that go with it are no less fervent.
You grow older quickly. There will be nothing left of the young you by the time that I get home again, to judge by your photographs, If you ask when I expect to get home, there is no answer. It means when shall I retire; and that may be any time if I happen to lose my temper with the Ministers, or may be not until the family have done with Oxford. Although I don’t like work, I don’t think that I’d like retiring; some bits of work are engrossing. All today work without pause has not been tiring because it concerned one of my schemes, and no one else could do it. Yesterday was a meeting of Union Board Presidents which correspond to Chairmen of Parish Councils, as it were. My speech as usual didn’t go according to plan. I can write a speech, but I cannot read one, so this time too, I forsook the written stuff on which I had spent all Tuesday and just spoke. Easy if you know what you are talking about, have decided on two or perhaps three points to be rammed home and are really interested in the subject. But whether the Presidents were interested is another matter. How many of them knew English well enough to follow me, although I spoke slowly? At least I persuade myself when I speak, which is something.
The whole afternoon went on a discussion with three officers about the scheme for crop cutting experiments. If you want to know if a large consignment of wheat is good, you pick a little out of several bags selected at random. If you want to know what will be the yield from a crop, you select a lot of fields at random, cut the crop on a few square yards, and weigh the result. That is what I am having done over 1000 square miles. But arranging the details is quite a job.
While we discussed, I had telephone messages from the head of Burns & Co who run the big Steel Works in Asunsol about some strikes. And afterwards I went to see him. Quite an interesting discussion. He is a Bengali, too. This made me late in starting back. I was held up at railway crossings and delayed by a violent rain. So it was past 8:30 before I got in.
Today I have sweated away at the instructions about the crop cutting. Your mother and the girl Camilla have gone to Calcutta. The girl can scarcely be called much of a talker. I wonder what she would think of a meal in the bosom of our families.
Doings among animals. Last night a small owl entered the drawing room and spent a long time flying from the ledge in one side of the room (up against the ceiling where the cross beams meet) to that on the other, and in the interim staring at us or sitting along the ledge. Once it flew down and clutched the wire from which an electric light hangs—and then across and clutched another. It became quite discouraged. This evening, a bat. Much like any bat except that after a bit, it went up the chimney; the chimney is probably full of the beasts.
Continue writing general chitchat; it is interesting, though we may not comment on it.
Much love,
Dad