BROTHER JOHN--MR. McGUIRE--GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS--THE LEPER ASYLUM--AN
IRISH WOMAN--THE JEWESS--DAISY AND BELLA--A DEATH SCENE--EURASIAN
LEPERS.
I took with me, on the occasion of my visit to the almshouse, a friend,
Brother John, of the Society of St. Paul, who was engaged in the work
of the Calcutta Seamen’s Mission, under the direction of his superior,
the Reverend Father Hopkins. I became acquainted with Brother John
through Father Hopkins, who called and asked me to sing at one of his
weekly concerts for sailors in Bentinck Street, arranging to send
Brother John to take me to the place in a cab. Father Hopkins said,
“You must not be shocked on finding the brother a rough sailor, who
drops his ‘h’s’ and is afraid of women, never having been accustomed
to ladies’ society. You will find he has a good heart. The sailors all
like Brother John.” On the evening appointed, the brother arrived with
the cab for me. He was shown into our drawing-room, and was evidently
keeping those refractory “h’s” of his well under control, for I could
not get him to talk at all, and thought him rather stupid, as he sat
nervously clutching his hat. Afterwards, when he knew me better, he
told me that he suffered agonies on that evening, and begged Father
Hopkins not to depute him to fetch me, but to send, instead, Brother
Paul, who knew how to behave to ladies. Poor Brother John little knew
me, if he thought that the mere fact of his being insufficiently
educated would render me heedless of the many good traits in his fine
character! I liked him as soon as he had overcome his nervousness
enough to permit of his saying, “I hope you’ll excuse me if I’m not
accustomed to ladies’ society. I’m only a rough sailor, and I don’t
know how to speak or what to say to ladies. I get along all right with
the sailors. I’ve never had any education, and I feel the want of it
now badly.” This honest speech of his made me his friend at once, and
I often went to the sailors’ concerts after that night. He was one
of nature’s gentlemen, who seemed always able to say and do the right
thing instinctively, and whose quiet, simple manner would command the
respect of his fellows. I used to like going with Brother John every
week to visit the sick sailors in the Calcutta hospitals. On such
occasions he would provide a good supply of plug tobacco (beloved of
Jack) and newspapers. It was while going our weekly round one day that
I mentioned my intended visit to the almshouse, and arranged with him
to accompany me.
When we arrived at the place, we were shown into the office of a
soldierly-looking man of about sixty years of age, who was evidently
a thorough disciplinarian. He was obliging and communicative; and
told me he had read with pleasure my articles on “Calcutta Charities”
in our paper, and heartily endorsed every word I had written. He
said a great deal more, and before I left the office showed me his
discharge certificate from the Army, in which he had been a sergeant,
and also his Mutiny medal. We went with him over the male ward of the
almshouse. I need not describe the occupants; poor things! They all
looked becomingly miserable. I think there were some Eurasians among
them, but the majority were pure Europeans. Mr. McGuire--for that was
the superintendent’s name--asked us to stay and see them fed, as it
was their dinner-hour. We saw stew being doled out of a big saucepan
into small bowls and put on a table. Each bowl was taken by its owner
to a long, bare table, with forms down each side, and the meal, after
grace being said, commenced. I felt uneasy while watching the poor
things eating as if they were animals, so made a move to the women’s
quarters. As we walked up the stairs to the top of the building set
apart for females, Mr. McGuire called out, “Mrs. Smith!” and the matron
of the place, a woman of about forty, appeared. I spoke to her but
little. She showed me the women working at a table, mending or making
house linen, and also their rooms. The inmates themselves took small
notice of me: they looked bored and sad, evidently remembering that
visitors who give them no substantial help, but who beam on them with
a patronizing smile, are in these parts as common as they are useless.
I felt that I should have liked to have spoken to the poor women, and
to have asked them if I could help them in little presents of tea
or other things; but Mr. McGuire seemed to have divined my wish, for
he told me they live very comfortably, having everything they could
reasonably wish for as paupers. The word “pauper” jarred on me, but I
said nothing as I gazed sorrowfully on them. One old woman, evidently
with bad sight, was trying to hem a quilt. She appeared to be working
under such difficulties on account of her eye-sight that I thought a
pair of spectacles might be got for her. However, she was a “pauper,”
and paupers are not beings to be favoured with such luxuries! I asked
if I might read to them once a week, but was referred to the committee
of the District Charitable Society for permission, which I applied for,
but received no answer to my letter. If I had been given the least
encouragement, or even sanction to have done so, I could have provided
these poor women with many little comforts; but I was not. Brother John
said little, but was as much struck with the defensive attitude of the
officials as I was; for he was the first to speak of it on our way home.
I must here explain that Indian institutions, like the one in question,
are usually presided over by Government officials, who have little
time to spare from their routine work for the exhibition of sympathy
and practical kindness. The climate, too, greatly militates against
philanthropic efforts in the cause of unpaid duties. Hence, the
tendency to shift the _onus_ of superintendence on subordinates, whose
actions their superiors have to support, or to burden themselves with
a large amount of personal attendance. With such an alternative, the
choice generally accepted can easily be guessed. As long as things
go outwardly smoothly, the subordinate draws his salary, plays the
vicarious part of big man, and no doubt enjoys the well understood
perquisites of such offices. If a public _exposé_ takes place, the high
official gets worried and questioned about a subject with which he
has failed to keep himself in touch; the subordinate sees with dismay
the chances of his direct and indirect emoluments being snatched from
his grasp. Hence, the entire staff bitterly resent any journalistic
comments on their working that are not wholly laudatory. All such
officials, therefore, act on the principle of _L’état, c’est moi_. “If”
say they, “you have got anything to find fault with, report it to me;
but don’t write to the papers.” If the would-be reformer acts contrary
to this dictum, he will make such officials his bitterest enemies. In
such an ignoble category, men like Dr. MacLaren, superintendent of the
Dehra Dun Asylum, and Mr. Ackworth and Dr. Weir, of Bombay, find no
place; for their object is not to gain credit for charitable work they
do not perform, but to relieve and comfort those under their kindly
charge.
We were about to depart from the almshouse when I espied a number of
low red-brick buildings enclosed in a small compound on the opposite
side of the road. On inquiring the name of the place, I was told it
was the Leper Asylum. “May I go over it?” I asked the superintendent
of the almshouse. “Yes, if you are not afraid,” he replied; “I am also
superintendent of the Leper Asylum; but I may tell you that I have
never taken a lady over the place before.” I looked at Brother John,
and asked him if he would prefer to wait for us outside, or go into
the abode of leprosy. He said he would like to accompany us; so we all
went. I had frequently seen and pitied lepers in the streets; but had
never before been brought into communication with them.
The illustration facing this page will give my readers an idea of the
leper, as he is to be seen in the Indian public thoroughfares. We throw
the poor things a few coppers in passing; but, as there are no lepers
in England, the majority of us know little about the horrible disease
from which they suffer, and are therefore inclined to regard them as
ordinary beggars. I had read “Life and Letters of Father Damien,” and
from that little book, which was lent me by the nuns of the Loretto
Convent in Calcutta, I learned something of leprosy; just enough
perhaps to make me wish to know more and to see for myself what was the
condition of the sufferers.
[Illustration: A LEPER BEGGAR.
_p. 12._]
We were taken into an enclosure bounded by a high wall, and containing
three long, one-storied, detached brick buildings, which, I was
informed, were for the female lepers, and that there were three similar
buildings on the other side of the compound, separated by a wall, for
the men. As I walked up a few steps which raised the building from the
level of the road, and entered the first ward, I was conscious of a
“faint” smell (which is peculiar to the disease) emanating from it. We
entered a long room with a stone floor, and rows of beds ranged down
each side. Lying or sitting on these beds--for there was not a vestige
of any other kind of furniture--were several native women, all more or
less bandaged. They looked up at me with a pitifully sad expression
on their faces. One woman tore off her bandages and exposed a few
diseased stumps remaining from what had once been fingers. The smell
in the place was very bad; the sheets on the beds were discoloured and
dirty; the bandages covering the sores of these poor wretches were
filthy. I would fain have spoken a few words of comfort to them, for
my heart was sad within me; but knowing very little of the language, I
could do no more than make a few friendly gestures. Brother John told
them we should come again, and we were just turning to depart when
the superintendent said, “You haven’t seen Bridget.” On saying this,
he lifted a filthy sheet that was tied on to a stick placed across an
opening at the further end of the building, which contained a small
room, or alcove, and disclosed a white woman sleeping! I was horrified
to find a European woman in the Leper Asylum, and with nothing more
than a dirty sheet dividing her from natives. The poor old thing, who
had grey hair, was sleeping so peacefully that I begged the man not to
disturb her. When we got outside I asked who she was, and found that
she was an Irishwoman who had been an inmate of the asylum for many
years.
The next ward we visited was constructed on exactly the same lines. In
this there were, I think, seven women. The superintendent had a deal to
say of a girl called Bella, who, he told us, had been studying medicine
at the Umritzar Medical Mission when the disease broke out in her.
Poor Bella lay on a dirty bed, and smiled feebly as we approached. Her
fingers and toes were in a terrible state. The former had been dressed
with something black that looked like tar. She wore no bandages on
them, and there were great holes in her poor fingers, as though some
wild animal had been biting pieces of flesh from them. Bella was a
Eurasian, so spoke English. I could have cried aloud as I stood gazing
helplessly on this young girl, cut down in the very flower of her
youth, and doomed to spend the remainder of her days in this horrible
abode of disease and death. “Oh, can nothing be done for her?” I asked.
“Nothing,” replied the superintendent; “I will give her three years
to live--three years at the outside.” I felt sorry that my question
should have called forth such a reply; for poor Bella heard it in sad
silence. I longed to comfort her, but I could think of nothing to
say; it was all so horrible. I determined, however, that as no woman
regularly visited the place, I would do so myself. I did not fear the
disease; I only felt wretched on seeing its poor victims. I turned and
spoke to another woman in European dress. She was a Polish Jewess, and
was evidently afflicted with a different kind of leprosy, for her skin
was the colour of indigo, and was much puffed and swollen, though no
open sores were visible on her. She told me that she was married and
the mother of a family. She could in no way account for her present
state. When leprosy first showed itself on her, her husband cast her
adrift, and refused to see or help her in any way. She had saved a
little money and had been to doctors in Austria and Germany, and had
tried all sorts of pretended cures, but without success. “Have you any
money now?” I asked. “Yes,” she replied, “I have a hundred and fifty
rupees [about ten guineas] in the bank; but I would sooner starve
than touch it. I am a pauper in this place; but after death I will be
again a lady. The money is for my funeral; I will be buried in my own
coffin, as a Jewess.” I asked them if they would like some books to
read, but they shook their heads sadly, and said that their sight was
going fast, and reading hurt their eyes too much. They tried to speak
cheerfully; but it was all terribly sad. Brother John could hardly
trust himself to speak to poor Bella, while she herself seemed ready
to cry. I looked at the miserable bareness of the place, and at the
native women squatting about on the floor, and inquired if they had no
chairs or washstands, or any more furniture than what I saw. They shook
their heads. The Jewess pointed to a little oil-stove that was worn
out and full of holes, and asked me if I would try to get her a new
one, as she had no stove to boil water for her tea. I found that they
washed themselves at a tap in the enclosure, but had neither bath-tubs
or washstands. The sheets on their beds were supposed to be changed
once a week: it was evident from their colour that they could not have
been washed oftener. I wish to lay particular stress on the need there
was of clean bed-linen and underclothing, both from the offensive
nature of the disease and from the tropical heat of the climate. In
the alcove attached to this ward we found another girl, called Daisy,
whom the superintendent informed me was of Scotch parentage, but who
had been suckled as an infant by a Madrassi nurse, who had afterwards
turned out to be a leper. Her features were terribly distorted by the
disease. Her fingers and toes were in much the same state as those of
poor Bella, and she wore a green shade over her eyes. There were a
couple of wicker chairs in her little room, also an accordion, with
which the superintendent told me she used to accompany herself to
songs; that she had a sweet voice, and often sang to the other lepers.
“To whom do these women apply for their wants?” I asked. “To me,” said
Mr. McGuire. “I come here once a week.” “But is there no woman to look
after such things?” “No,” he said; “women don’t care to come to such
places as these.” I passed sorrowfully out, telling Daisy and the
others that I would soon return with fruit, flowers, etc., which they
said they would like. They smiled sadly, as though doubting my word,
having had, as I afterwards discovered, many other promises of the
kind which had not been kept. Poor Bella was tortured by flies, which
surrounded her open sores in swarms. The smell, too, of the disease was
so great that I was perforce obliged to walk with my handkerchief to my
face the whole time. It was a very hot day, and I felt bitterly sorry
for these poor sufferers, without fans, lavender water, or any little
comforts whatever. I would fain have fled from this pestilent abode,
and yet I lingered, wishing in my helplessness that I had the power of
God behind me to enable me to say to these poor women, “I will, be thou
clean.” As it was, I could only stand gazing sadly on them, wondering
why God had so afflicted His creatures. I walked as one bewildered
through another ward, wherein were nine miserable native women, all
more or less terrible to behold. “Is there no English doctor to attend
to the European women here?” I asked. “No,” replied the superintendent.
“There is a native doctor, at a salary of twenty rupees a month.” “How
many lepers are there?” “Seventy-six.” “But you have not half of the
lepers in Calcutta in the asylum?” “Half! Why we only touch the fringe
of leprosy.” “Has Government done nothing in the matter?” “So far,
no, though an inquiry is to be made some day with a view to providing
accommodation for lepers.” “Are they allowed to go in and out of the
asylum when they like?” “There is no law to prevent them,” he replied.
“A leper falls fainting by the way-side, he is seized by the police,
and conveyed in a third-class hackney carriage to the asylum. As soon
as he has had his wounds dressed, has gained a little strength, and
finds himself able to do so, he walks out into the streets again to
beg. The Europeans do not go out.”
He then asked us if we would like to see the men, and, on our replying
that we would, conducted us to the opposite side of the grounds,
through a door labelled “Male Ward,” and into three buildings exactly
similar to those we had just quitted. We walked down the first ward,
filled with poor diseased specimens of humanity, in silence. The heat
and smell of the place, and the filthy sheets and flies surrounding
these poor lepers, were a sight that I shall never, never forget. One
poor, half-naked creature was sitting in a corner trying to adjust
a bandage round his legs, which, with only one or two stumps in the
place of fingers, was to him no easy task. My first impulse was to
fix the dirty rag for him; but I suddenly remembered that contact with
this terrible disease might possibly be fatal to me, so passed on. In
the next ward, which was even in a dirtier state than any that I had
previously visited, the native lepers were crowded together as thickly
as possible. A horrible smell pervaded the place. Bits of dirty stained
bandages hung here and there. On the floor, curled up on a piece of
Indian matting, lay the form of a man in the last stage of leprosy. His
back was turned to me, and, although I spoke a word to him, he made no
sign, no movement. I stood and looked at him in his misery. His poor
bones were almost protruding through his skin, which was drawn over his
body like parchment. He groaned aloud, as if in agony, every now and
then moistening his parched lips with his tongue. There was no friend
or attendant near to give him a drop of water. All his fellow-sufferers
in the wards seemed to be watching for the end. I asked if water could
be given him, but was told that he had better be left to die in peace.
He was a native, and men of his caste will not, I believe, accept a
drink of water from a European’s hands, or from a European water
vessel: I know not whether the agonies he was enduring would have
induced him to break his caste. Poor wretch, he carried our heartfelt
sympathy with him on his journey into the unknown country, as well as
our will to have helped him if we could have done so in any way. He
died, I was told, a few hours after we left the asylum. About sixpence
in coppers had been found on him, which sum was duly handed over to the
authorities, who buried him according to the custom of his race.
There were three English-speaking Eurasian lepers in this ward. One
man enlisted my sympathies on his behalf about some property which
was confiscated to the State on the death of his mother, but which he
asserts virtually belonged to him. He had made a struggle to retain
possession of it, and had addressed a long petition to Lord Dufferin,
who was then Viceroy of India; but, having failed to prove his
legitimacy, was informed that nothing could possibly be done for him.
I found him a refined, well-educated man, very fond of reading George
Eliot’s works, and any well written novels.
The others are two Eurasian lads who are cousins. One about 22, the
other 10 years of age. I felt much sympathy for the poor child, cut off
from everyone, and doomed to spend what should be his brightest days
in this awful place. He is a nice-looking boy, with a bright face, and
a sweet, kindly disposition; and is devoted to drawing and painting,
which he can do remarkably well. He has often since drawn dogs, cows,
and different animals, and laid them out on his bed for me to see and
admire. Indeed, so well were some of these executed that I should have
liked to have shown them to friends of mine, had it been safe to have
handled them. Leprosy was only just asserting itself on him; no sores
were visible, but his fingers were doubled up, and a few ominous spots
were on his body. His cousin is a leper in a more advanced stage,
so one would be led to infer from this that the disease has been
transmitted by heredity. I do not know how he managed to do his drawing
and painting so well as he did, for there was neither a chair or table
in the ward, so he must have used the bed as a table, and worked in a
kneeling position.
Brother John and I drove home from the leper asylum in silence, as
our hearts were too full for words. It seemed terrible that men and
women should be living in the very midst of this crowded city as in a
living tomb. Women, too, of my own caste and country, left alone to
die without a friend in the world. One lady, Mrs. Grant, the matron of
an institution known as the Military Orphan School, at Kidderpore, had
visited them occasionally; but when I first went there four months had
elapsed without their seeing her. This, I am certain, was no fault of
hers; as she has many other duties to perform, and the Indian climate
seldom allows one to continue well for any lengthened period. The men,
poor things! had had no visitor to practically help them. Mr. Hall,
the clergyman of the district, was in the habit of reading prayers in
the little church attached to the Leper Asylum on certain Sundays; but
the lepers did not appreciate mere words. His wife, Mrs. Hall, took to
visiting the native leper women after I had published articles in our
paper, and after I had raised a substantial fund for the cause I had
at heart; but, though she would distribute flowers to the natives, she
always refrained from giving any to the European and Eurasian women,
who would have greatly appreciated such presents.