NORTHERN INDIA AND JOURNEY HOME
From Benares we went to Lucknow, where we had the good fortune to meet Sir
Frederick (afterwards Lord) Roberts, and Lady Roberts, who were
exceedingly kind to us during our stay. We had one most interesting
expedition under their auspices. We and some others met them by
appointment at Dilkusha, a suburban, ruined house of the former King of
Oude from which Sir Colin Campbell had started to finally relieve Outram
and Havelock in November 1857. Roberts, then a young subaltern, was, as is
well known, of the party, and he took us as nearly as possible over the
ground which they had traversed. Havelock, who had previously brought
relief to the garrison, but not enough to raise the siege of Lucknow, had
sent word to Sir Colin not to come the same way that he had, as it
entailed too much fighting and loss to break right through the houses held
by the rebels, but to keep more to the right. Sir Frederick pointed out
the scenes of several encounters with the enemy, and one spot where he,
sent on a message, was nearly lost--also Secunderabagh, a place with a
strong wall all round it, where the British found and killed two thousand
rebels, the British shouting "Remember Cawnpore!" to each man as they
killed him.
[Sidenote: THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW]
Each party--Campbell's, and Havelock's who advanced to join them--put
flags on the buildings they captured as signals to their friends. At last
they respectively reached the Moti Mahal or Pearl Palace. Here Sir
Frederick showed us the wall on which the two parties, one on either side,
worked till they effected a breach and met each other. Then Sir Colin
Campbell, who was at the Mess House just across the road, came forward and
was greeted by Generals Outram and Havelock--and the relief was complete.
Sir Frederick had not seen the wall since the breach had been built up
again, but he pointed out its whereabouts, and Jersey found the new
masonry which identified the spot. Colonel May, who had come with us from
Dilkusha, then took us over the Residency in which he, then a young
engineer, had been shut up during the whole of the siege. It was amazing
to see the low walls which the besieged had managed to defend for so long,
particularly as they were then overlooked by comparatively high houses
held by the rebels which had since been levelled to the ground. Colonel
May indicated all the posts, and the places of greatest danger, but there
was danger everywhere, except perhaps in the underground rooms in which
250 women and children of the 32nd were lodged. Cannon-balls were always
flying about--he told us of one lady the back of whose chair was blown
away while she was sitting talking to him just outside the house, and of a
cannon-ball which passed between the knees of a Mrs. Kavanagh, while she
was in the verandah, without injuring her. We also saw the place where the
rebels twice assembled in thousands crying "Give us Gubbins Sahib and we
will go away." They particularly hated Mr. Gubbins, as he was Financial
Commissioner.
Sir Frederick said the ladies seemed quite dazed as they came out, and
told us of one whom he knew who came out with two children, but
subsequently lost her baby, while her husband was killed in the Mutiny.
She, he said, never fully recovered her senses. No wonder, poor woman! One
quaint thing we were told was that the rebels played themselves into
quarters every evening with "God save the Queen."
One unfortunate incident marred an otherwise delightful time at Lucknow. A
sham fight took place, and Sir Frederick Roberts was good enough to lend a
horse to Jersey and a beautiful pony to Villiers in order that they might
witness it. Villiers, boylike, tried to ride his pony up the steep bank of
a nullah. It fell back with him, and he suffered what was called a "green
fracture," the bones of his forearm being bent near the wrist. They had to
be straightened under chloroform. We were able to leave Lucknow two days
later, but the arm rather hampered him during the rest of our journey.
Delhi was our next stopping-place, where we had a most interesting time,
being entertained by the Officer Commanding, Colonel Hanna--who had during
the siege been employed in helping to keep open the lines of communication
so as to supply food and munitions to the troops on the Ridge. He was
therefore able to show us from personal knowledge all the scenes of the
fighting and relief, as well as all the well-known marvels of architecture
and the glories left by the great Moghuls. His house was near the old
fortifications, which I believe are now demolished for sanitary reasons,
but it was then a joy to look out of the windows, and see the little
golden-brown squirrels which frequented the old moat, with the two marks
on their backs left by Krishna's fingers when he caressed their
progenitors.
We were thrilled by his stories of events of which he had been an
eye-witness, culminating in his account of the three days during which
the British troops were permitted to sack the reconquered city. My husband
remarked that he would not have stopped them at the end of three days.
"Yes, you would, had you been there," said Colonel Hanna. It must be very
hard to restrain men maddened by weeks of hardship and the recollection of
atrocities perpetrated by their foes, if they are once let loose in the
stronghold of their enemies. The troops camped on the Ridge, and losing
their bravest from hour to hour seem to have had at least one advantage
over the defenders of Lucknow--they did not suffer from the terrible
shortage of water.
[Sidenote: VIEW FROM THE KOTAB MINAR]
Without attempting an account of all the palaces, tombs, and mosques which
we saw, I must just say that nothing that I have ever seen is so
impressive in its way as the view from the Kotab Minar after you have
scaled the 375 steps to its tapering summit. Over the great plain are
scattered the vestiges of deserted cities built by the conquerors and
emperors of two thousand years, a history culminating on the Ridge of
Delhi, where Queen Victoria was proclaimed Empress, and where her grandson
received in person the homage of the feudatory princes and chiefs over
whom he was destined to rule. Even the Campagna of Rome has not that array
of skeletons of past and bygone cities actually displayed before the eyes
of the beholder, each bearing the name of some ruler whose name and deeds
are half remembered although his dynasty has passed away.
One of these cities is Tughlakabad, with the tomb of Tughlak and his son
Juna. The latter was a horrid tyrant who maimed and ill-treated many
victims. His cousin and successor Feroz seems to have been a merciful and
pious ruler: he compensated the injured as far as possible and got them to
write deeds of indemnity, which he placed in Juna's tomb that the latter
might present them on the day of judgment. One cannot help thinking that
Feroz rather than Juna may benefit from this action at the Great Assize.
On January 12th we went to spend Saturday to Monday with Major and Mrs.
Paley at Meerut. Our nephew George Wombwell was laid up at Colonel
Morris's house there with typhoid fever. He seemed to be recovering, and
after making arrangements for a nurse and every attention we returned to
Delhi on Monday. We were afraid to keep Villiers in a cantonment station
with illness about. Alas! Jersey was summoned back a few days later, when
we were at Agra, as George became worse, and died. It was very sad.
At Agra we went first to Lauri's Hotel, but Sir John Tyler, Superintendent
of the Jail, persuaded us to come and stay with him, which was really a
great thing, as Villiers had by no means completely recovered from the
effect of his accident, and Sir John being a surgeon was able to look
after him. Needless to say we visited the famous Taj by moonlight and by
day, each time finding fresh beauties. I venture to quote a sentence about
it from an article which I wrote concerning India published in _The
Nineteenth Century_, because Sir Edwin Arnold was polite enough to say
that I had discovered a fault which had escaped the observation of himself
and his fellows:
"The Taj, that fairy palace of a love stronger than death, sprung from
sunset clouds and silvered by the moon, has but one fault--it is too
perfect. Nothing is left to the imagination. There are no mysterious
arches, no unfinished columns, nothing is there that seems to speak of
human longing and unfulfilled aspiration; you feel that a conqueror
has made Art his slave, and the work is complete; you can demand
nothing more exquisite in this world."
[Sidenote: SEKUNDRA AND FUTTEHPORE-SEKREE]
Among the many wonders of Agra and its neighbourhood I was specially
impressed by the Tomb of the Great Akbar at Sekundra. As in the case of
the Taj, the real tomb is underneath the building, but in the Taj the Show
Tomb is simply in a raised chamber something like a chapel, whereas
Akbar's Show Tomb is on a platform at the summit of a series of red
sandstone buildings piled on each other and gradually diminishing in size.
The tomb, most beautifully carved, is surrounded by a finely worked marble
palisade and arcade running round the platform. Presumptuously, I took
this mighty erection as an ideal for a scene in a child's story, _Eric,
Prince of Lorlonia_.
We were also delighted with Futtehpore-Sekree, the great city which Akbar
built and then deserted because it had no water. It reminded us of
Pompeii, though perhaps it had less human interest it had a greater
imprint of grandeur. The great Archway or High Gate, erected 1602 to
commemorate Akbar's conquests in the Deccan, has a striking Arabic
inscription, concluding with the words:
"Said Jesus on whom be peace! The world is a bridge; pass over it, but
build no house there: he who hopeth for an hour may hope for eternity:
the world is but an hour; spend it in devotion: the rest is unseen."
The greatest possible art has been lavished on the tomb of the hermit
Sheikh Suleem. This holy man had a baby six months old when Akbar paid him
a visit. Seeing his father look depressed instead of elated by the honour,
the precocious infant asked the cause. The hermit must have been too much
absorbed in religious meditation to study the habits of babies, for
instead of being startled by the loquacity of his offspring he confided to
him that he grieved that the Emperor could not have an heir unless some
other person sacrificed his child. "By your worship's leave," said baby,
"I will die that a Prince may be born," and before the father had time to
remonstrate calmly expired. As a result of this devotion Jehanghir was
born, and Akbar built Futtehpore-Sekree in the neighbourhood of the
hermit's abode.
When Sheikh Suleem died he was honoured with a splendid tomb inlaid with
mother-of-pearl and enclosed in a marble summer-house with a beautifully
carved screen to which people who want children tie little pieces of wool.
Apparently a little addition to the offering of wool is desirable, as the
priest who acted as guide assured us that an English officer who had a
blind child tied on the wool, but also promised our informant a hundred
rupees if the next was all right. The next was a boy with perfect eyesight
and the priest had his reward.
Beside the baby's tomb, which is in an outer cemetery, we saw a little
tomb erected by a woman whose husband was killed in the Afghan War over
one of his old teeth!
We were fortunate in having Sir John Tyler as our host at Agra, for as
Superintendent of the Jail he was able to ensure that we should have the
best possible carpets, which we wanted for Osterley, made there. They were
a long time coming, but they were well worth it. Abdul Kerim, Queen
Victoria's Munshi, was a friend of his, in fact I believe that Sir John
had selected him for his distinguished post. He was on leave at Agra at
the time of our visit, and we went to a Nautch given at his father's
house in honour of the Bismillah ceremony of his nephew.
From Agra we visited Muttra, where we were the guests of the Seth Lachman
Das--a very rich and charitable old man of the Bunyah (banker and
money-lender) caste. He lodged us in a bungalow generally let to some
English officers who were temporarily absent, and he and his nephew did
all in their power to show us the sights at Muttra and in the
neighbourhood.
[Sidenote: THE BIRTHPLACE OF KRISHNA]
Amongst other sacred spots we were taken to Krishna's birthplace. It was
curious that though, throughout India, there are magnificent temples and
rock-carvings in honour of Vishnu and his incarnation Krishna, his
birthplace was only marked by a miserable little building with two dolls
representing Krishna's father and mother.
The legend of Krishna's babyhood is a curious echo of the birth of our
Lord and the crossing of the Red Sea combined. It seems that a wicked
Tyrant wanted to kill the child but his foster-father carried him over the
river near Muttra, and as soon as the water touched the infant's feet it
receded and they passed over dry shod. In memory of this event little
brass basins are sold with an image within of the man carrying the child
in his arms. The child's foot projects, and if one pours water into the
basin it runs away as soon as it touches the toe. I do not know what may
be the hydraulic trick, but certainly it is necessary to put the brass
basin into a larger one before trying the experiment to receive the water
which runs out at the bottom. The little birthplace building was in the
courtyard of a mosque--part of which was reserved for the Hindus.
The Seth had built a temple in Muttra itself, where he annually expended
large sums in feeding the poor, and he and his family had erected a still
finer one at Brindaban, a famous place of pilgrimage in the neighbourhood,
where they had set up a flag-staff 120 feet high overlaid with real gold.
Seth Lachman Das maintained at his own expense twenty-five priests and
fifteen attendants besides fifty boys who were fed and instructed in the
Shastras. As at Madura, we were struck by these rich men's apparent faith
in their own religion.
After visiting Deeg and Bhurtpore, we reached the pretty Italian-looking
town of Ulwar. The Maharajah, who was an enlightened potentate, had
unfortunately gone into camp, but we were interested in the many tokens of
his care for his subjects and of his artistic tastes. He kept men
executing illuminations like the old monks.
When we visited the jail I was admitted to the quarters of the female
prisoners, who seemed quite as anxious to show the labels which they
carried recording their crimes, as schoolchildren are to display their
exercises or needlework when one visits a school. One smiling woman
brought me a label inscribed "Bigamy," which struck me as rather ludicrous
considering the circumstances, and also a little unfair to the criminal.
Indian men are allowed several wives--why was she punished for having more
than one husband? Probably, however, she was safer locked up in prison
than left at the mercy of two husbands, one of whom would almost certainly
have cut off her nose if he had an access of jealousy.
After Ulwar we spent a few days at that most attractive city, Jeypore,
called by Sir Edwin Arnold the "City of Victory," a victorious Maharajah
having transferred his capital there from the former picturesque town of
Amber. The principal street of Jeypore has houses on either side painted
pink, which has a brilliant effect in the sunlight, but when we were there
the paint certainly wanted renewing. The Maharajah was a rarely
intelligent man, and he had a particularly clever and agreeable Dewan--or
Prime Minister. We made great friends with the English doctor--Dr.
Hendley--who not only attended some of the native nobles, but also was
able to superintend the English lady doctor and thereby help the native
ladies. Formerly when a child was born a live goat was waved over its head
and the blood of a cock sprinkled on it and its mother. Mother and child
were then kept for a fortnight without air, and with a charcoal fire
constantly burning, more charcoal being added if the child cried.
Mercifully the younger ladies and their husbands were beginning to realise
the comfort of English treatment on these occasions.
[Sidenote: THE JAINS]
On our way from Muttra to Ahmedabad we slept at the Rajpootana Hotel,
about sixteen miles from Mount Abu Station, in order to visit the Dilwarra
Temples of the Jains. The Jains are a sect of very strict
Buddhists--almost the only representatives of the Buddhists left in
Hindustan proper. Ceylon and Burmah are Buddhist, so are some of the lands
on the Northern Frontier, but the Brahmins contrived to exterminate
Buddhism in the great Peninsula in the eighth century after it had spread
and flourished there for about a thousand years. These Dilwarra temples
are well worth a visit. The pious founder is said to have bought the land
for as many pieces of silver as would cover it, and to have paid
L18,000,000 sterling for building, besides L560,000 for levelling the site
on the steep hill.
Without attempting to guarantee the accuracy of these figures, it may
safely be said that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find any
buildings in the world of which the interiors present an equal amount of
highly finished artistic labour. Outside the temples are low and not
imposing, inside they are one mass of minute and elaborate sculpture. You
stand beneath a dome with saints or angels worthy of a Gothic cathedral
rising to its central point. Around are arcades with pillars and arches,
beyond which are numerous small chapels or shrines, each with the figure
of a large cross-legged Rishi or Saint with little rishis in attendance.
Every inch of arch, arcade, and ceiling is adorned with marvellous carving
of ornaments, or of men, ships, and animals. We were told that the central
figure in each temple was "Of the Almighty," who seemed to exact as
tribute to his power a fearful noise of cymbals and tomtoms. He appeared
to be not exactly a deity, but a divine emanation. The really perfect Jain
wore a piece of muslin over his mouth to avoid destroying the life of even
invisible insects, but such extreme virtue was, I fancy, rare and must
have been highly uncomfortable.
[Sidenote: THE MAHARAJAH OF BHOWNUGGER]
From Ahmedabad we went to Bhownugger, where we were received in great
state by the young Maharajah symptuously attired in green velvet and the
Star of India, and attended by his high officials and a guard of honour.
We felt very dirty and dusty after a hot journey (thermometer in railway
carriages nearly 100 deg.) when received with so much splendour, but we
liked the Maharajah immensely and he became devoted to my husband.
He gave us a splendid time with all sorts of "tamashas" while we were his
guests, but we were specially interested in his personality. He had been
educated in the college for young chiefs at Ajmere and had acquired a very
high standard of ideas of right and wrong and of his duty to his people. I
expect that, like the rest of us, he often found it hard to carry his
theories into practice, and it was rather pathetic when, speaking of what
he wished to do, he added, "We must do the best we can and leave the rest
to God"--then, looking up at the chandelier hanging in the bungalow in
which he entertained us, he continued, "God is like that light, and the
different religions are the different colours through which He shines."
One of his difficulties, poor man, was in his matrimonial arrangements. He
had married two or three ladies of high rank, as considered suitable by
the Brahmins, but he had also married to please himself a fair maiden of
lower caste. He then learnt that if he did not get rid of _her_ the
Brahmins meant to get rid of _him_. Thereupon he took the Political
Officer of that part of the country, Captain Ferris, into the middle of
the tennis ground, as the only spot free from the risk of spies, and
poured his griefs into the Englishman's sympathetic bosom. Captain
Ferris's solution was that Mrs. Ferris should call upon the despised Rani,
as she did on the more orthodox wives, and that the Maharajah should cling
to his English adviser for several days, driving about with him and never
leaving him, which would for the time being prevent attempts at
assassination. What was to happen afterwards I do not know. Perhaps the
Brahmins became aware that any foul play would bring the English raj down
upon them. Anyhow, the Maharajah lived to pay a visit to England and came
to see us there--though he did not attain old age.
We heard a good deal of the harm resulting from the great expense of
native marriages, including the temptation to infanticide. In the district
about Ahmedabad the lower castes do not forbid second marriages, and these
are less expensive than the first. Therefore a girl was sometimes married
to _a bunch of flowers_, which was then thrown down a well. The husband
thus disposed of, the widow could contract a second alliance quite
cheaply.
We then spent two nights as guests of the Thakur Sahib of Limbdi, who,
like the other Kathiawar Princes of Morvi and Gondal, had been in England
for the Jubilee, and whom we had known there. All three, particularly
Limbdi and Gondal, were enlightened men, with various schemes for
promoting the welfare of their subjects. The life of many of these Indian
Chiefs recalls the days of Scottish Clans. When we were driving with
Limbdi he would point out labouring men who saluted as he passed as his
"cousins," and finally told us that he had six thousand blood relations.
[Sidenote: BARODA]
On February 14th we arrived at Baroda, where we were most hospitably
entertained by Sir Harry and Lady Prendergast. Baroda, like so many Indian
cities, offered a picture of transition, or at least blending of East and
West. As is well known, the late Gaikwar poisoned the British Resident. He
was tried by a Tribunal of three Indians and three British. The former
acquitted, the latter condemned him. He was deposed and three boys of the
family were selected of whom the Maharanee was allowed to adopt one as
heir. She chose the present Gaikwar, who was educated under British
auspices, but has not always been happy in his relations with the British
Government. He however proved quite loyal during the late war. When we
were at Baroda he had been decorating his Palace in an inferior European
style. He had bought some fair pictures, but would only give an average of
L100, as he said that neither he nor his subjects were capable of
appreciating really good ones. In contrast to these modern arrangements we
saw the "Chattries" of former Gaikwars. These were funny little rooms,
something like small loose boxes in a garden surrounding a shrine. In one
was a doll, representing Kunda Rao's grandfather, in another the ashes of
his father under a turban with his photograph behind, in yet a third the
turbans of his mother and two other sons. In each room there were a bed,
water and other vessels, and little lights burning, the idea being that
all should be kept in readiness lest the spirits should return to occupy
the apartments. After all, the rooms of the late Queen of Hanover were
until lately, perhaps are still, kept as in her lifetime, provided with
flowers and with a lady-in-waiting in daily attendance; so East and West
are much alike in their views of honour due to the departed.
Back to Bombay for yet five happy days with our dear friends Lord and Lady
Reay before saying farewell to India on February 22nd. We had had a truly
interesting experience during our three and a half months in the Eastern
Empire, and were deeply impressed by the manner in which so many races
were knit together under British rule. How far all this may endure under
the new attempts at Constitution-making by Occidentals for Orientals
remains to be seen. When we paid this first of our visits to India it was
perfectly evident that the idea of the Queen-Empress was the corner-stone
of government. My husband talked to many natives, Maharajahs and
officials, and would sometimes refer to the leaders of the great English
political parties. Their names seemed to convey nothing to the Indians,
but they always brought the conversation back to "The Empress." Disraeli
was criticised in England for having bestowed that title on his Mistress,
but we had constant opportunities of seeing its hold upon the Oriental
mind. "Give my best respects to the Empress," was a favourite mission
given to Jersey by his Maharajah friends. He conscientiously tried to
acquit himself thereof when we saw the Queen, who was a good deal amused
when he painstakingly pronounced their titles and names.
I once heard a story which shows the effect of the Royal ideal on quite a
different class. A census was in progress and a large number of
hill-tribes had to be counted. These people had been told a legend that
the reason for this reckoning was that the climate in England had become
so hot that a large number of the women were to be transported there to
act as slaves and fan the Queen--also the men were to be carried off for
some other servile purpose. Consequently the mass of the people hid
themselves, to the great embarrassment of the officials. One extremely
capable man, however, knew the people well and how to deal with them. He
contrived to induce the leading tribesmen to come and see him. In reply to
his inquiry they confessed their apprehensions. "You fools," said the
Englishman, "it is nothing of the sort. I will tell you the reason. You
have heard of the Kaiser-i-Hind?" Yes--they had heard of her. "And you
have heard of the Kaiser-i-Roum?" (the Czar). They had also heard of him.
"Well, the Kaiser-i-Roum paid a visit to the Kaiser-i-Hind, and when they
had finished their curry and rice they began talking. He said he had more
subjects than she, the Kaiser-i-Hind said she had most. To settle the
matter they laid a heavy bet and both sent orders to count their people.
If you don't let yourselves be counted the Kaiser-i-Hind will lose the bet
and your faces will be blackened." The tale of the bet appealed to their
sporting instincts. All difficulties disappeared. The tribesmen rushed to
be counted--probably two or three times over.
[Sidenote: ENGLISH AS LINGUA FRANCA]
Again, it was curious to notice how the English language was weaving its
net over India.
At Jeypore an English-speaking native official had been told off to take
us about during our stay. When we were thanking him and saying good-bye,
he remarked that the next person whom he was to conduct was a judge from
Southern India. The judge was a native Indian, but as he did not know the
language of the Jeypore State he had sent in advance to ask to be provided
with a guide who could speak English. Formerly the _lingua franca_ of the
upper, or educated, classes was Persian, of the lower ones Urdu--the kind
of Hindustani spoken by the Mohammedan, and afterwards by the English
army. Of course both languages still prevail, but all educated Indians
learn English in addition to two or three of the hundred-odd languages
spoken in the Peninsula. On a later visit a Hyderabad noble was taking my
daughter and me to see various sights. I noticed that he talked to a good
many natives in the course of our excursion, and as they appeared to be of
different castes and occupations, I asked him at last how many languages
he had talked during the day. After a little reflection he reckoned up
six. It will not be such a very easy matter to get all these people into
the category of enlightened electors.
On our voyage home I occupied myself by writing the article already
mentioned as appearing in _The Nineteenth Century_--from which I extract
the following supplement to my recollections:
"Caste is the ruling note in India. The story which tells how the
level plains of Kathiawar were reclaimed from the sea illustrates
this. The egrets laid their eggs on the former ocean-line and the wave
swept them away. The egrets swore that the sea should be filled up
until she surrendered the eggs. They summoned the other birds to help
them, and all obeyed their call except the eagle. He was the favourite
steed of Vishnu, so thought himself exonerated from mundane duties.
But Vishnu looked askance at him and said that he should be put out of
caste unless he went to help his fellows. Back he flew to Kathiawar,
and when the sea saw that the royal bird had joined the ranks of her
opponents she succumbed and gave back the eggs.
"Hindu respect for animal life entails consequences which make one
wonder how the earth can provide not only for the swarms of human
inhabitants, including unproductive religious mendicants, but also for
such numbers of mischievous beasts. Some castes will kill no animals
at all, and all Hindus hold so many as sacred that peacocks, monkeys,
and pigeons may be seen everywhere, destroying crops and eating people
out of house and home. The people of a town, driven to desperation,
may be induced to catch the monkeys, fill a train with them, and
dispatch it to discharge its cargo at some desolate spot; but woe
betide a simicide! The monkeys in any given street will resent and
lament the capture of a comrade, but do not care at all if a stranger
is carried off. He is not of their caste."
[Sidenote: MEDITATIONS OF A WESTERN WANDERER]
In May 1889--_The National Review_ also published the following verses,
which I wrote after reading Sir Alfred Lyall's "Meditations of a Hindu
Prince." I called them "Meditations of a Western Wanderer":
"All the world over, meseemeth, wherever my footsteps have trod,
The nations have builded them temples, and in them have imaged their God.
Of the temples the Nature around them has fashioned and moulded the plan,
And the gods took their life and their being from the visions and
longings of man.
"So the Greek bade his marble be instinct with curves of the rock-riven
foam,
Within it enshrining the Beauty and the Lore of his sunlitten home;
And the Northman hewed deep in the mountain and reared his huge pillars
on high,
And drank to the strength of the thunder and the force flashing keen
from the sky.
"But they knew, did those builders of old time, that wisdom and courage
are vain,
That Persephone rises in springtide to sink in the winter again,
That the revelling halls of Walhalla shall crumble when ages have rolled
O'er the deep-rooted stem of the World-ash and the hardly-won Treasure
of gold.
"I turn to thee, mystical India, I ask ye, ye Dreamers of earth,
Of the Whence and the Whither of spirit, of the tale of its birth and
rebirth.
For the folks ye have temples and legends and dances to heroes and kings,
But ye sages know more, would ye tell it, of the soul with her god-given
wings.
"Ah, nations have broken your barriers; ah, empires have drunk of your
stream,
And each ere it passed bore its witness, and left a new thought for your
dream:
The Moslem saith, 'One is the Godhead,' the Brahmin 'Inspiring all,'
The Buddhist, 'The Law is Almighty, by which ye shall stand or shall
fall.'
"Yea, verily One the All-Father; yea, Brahmin, all life is from Him,
And Righteous the Law of the Buddha, but the path of attainment is dim.
Is God not afar from His creature--the Law over-hard to obey?
Wherein shall the Life be of profit to man seeing evil bear sway?
"Must I ask of the faith which to children and not to the wise is
revealed?
By it shall the mist be uplifted? By it shall the shrine be unsealed?
Must I take it, the often-forgotten yet echoing answer of youth--
''Tis I,' saith the Word of the Father, 'am the Way and the Life and the
Truth'?
"The Truth dwelleth ay with the peoples, let priests hide its light as
they will;
'Tis spirit to spirit that speaketh, and spirit aspireth still;
Wherever I seek I shall find it, that infinite longing of man
To rise to the house of his Father, to end where his being began.
"And the secret that gives him the power, the message that shows him the
way,
Is the Light he will struggle to follow, the Word he perforce will obey.
It is not the voice of the whirlwind, nor bolt from the storm-kindled
dome;
'Tis stillness that bringeth the tidings--the child knows the accents of
home."
We had a calm voyage to Suez in the _Bengal_. It was fortunate that it was
calm--for the _Bengal_ was quite an old-fashioned ship. I think only
something over 3,000 tons--different from the _Arcadia_, then the
show-ship of the P. and O. fleet. I was amused once to come across an
account by Sir Richard Burton of a voyage which he took in the _Bengal_
years before, when he described the P. and O. as having done away with the
terrors of ocean travel by having provided such a magnificent vessel.
We spent nine days at Cairo and Alexandria and saw the usual sights, then
quite new to us; but it is generally a mistake to visit one great land
with a history and antiquities of its own when the mind has just been
captured by another. Anyhow, we were so full of the glories of India that
Egypt failed to make the appeal to us which she would otherwise have done,
and which she did on subsequent visits. The mosques in particular seemed
to us inferior to the marble dreams of Delhi and Agra. Moreover on this
occasion we did not ascend the Nile and see the wonderful temples. The one
thing which really impressed me was the Sphinx, though I regret to say
that my husband and son entirely declined to share my feelings. Lord
Kitchener was then, as Adjutant to Sir Francis Grenfell, Colonel
Kitchener. He afterwards became a great friend of ours, but we first made
his acquaintance on this visit to Cairo. We had a most interesting
inspection of the Barrage works under the guidance of Sir Colin Moncrieff
and dined with the Khedive, and at the British Agency.
From Alexandria we went by an Egyptian steamer--at least a steamer
belonging to an Egyptian line--to Athens, which we reached on March 15th,
accompanied by Lady Galloway. On this voyage I performed the one heroic
deed of my life, with which bad sailors like myself will sympathise. The
crew of this ship was mainly Turkish--the native Egyptians being no good
as seamen, but the captain, Losco by name, was a Maltese and exceedingly
proud of being a British subject.
[Sidenote: AN ENGLISH PLUM-PUDDING]
The first day of our voyage on the _Behera_ was calm, and we sat
cheerfully at dinner listening to his conversation. He was particularly
emphatic in his assertions that he understood something of English
cuisine, I believe taught by his mother, and above all he understood the
concoction of an English plum-pudding and that it must be boiled for
twenty-four hours. Said he, "You shall have a plum-pudding for dinner
tomorrow." Then and there he sent for the steward and gave him full
instructions. Next evening the plum-pudding duly appeared, but meantime
the wind had freshened and the sea had risen. Under such conditions I am
in the habit of retiring to my cabin and remaining prostrate until happier
hours dawn--but was I to shake, if not shatter, the allegiance of this
British subject by failing in my duty to a British pudding? I did not
flinch. I sat through the courses until the pudding was on the table. I
ate and praised, and then retired.
We reached Athens early on the following morning and forgot rough seas and
plum-puddings in the pleasure of revisiting our former haunts and showing
them to Jersey and Villiers. The King and Queen were again good enough to
ask us to luncheon and dinner, and this time we also found the British
Minister, Sir Edmund Monson, who had been absent on our previous visit. He
kindly included Villiers, though barely sixteen years old, in an
invitation to dinner, and much amusement was caused in diplomatic circles
by the very pretty daughter of the American Minister, Clarice Fearn. She
was about seventeen and had evidently been almost deprived of young
companionship during her sojourn at Athens. She was seated at the British
Legation between Villiers and a French Secretary no longer in his first
youth, so she promptly turned to the latter and said, "I am not going to
talk to you, I am going to talk to Lord Villiers"; result, an animated
conversation between the youngsters throughout dinner. She at once
acquired the nickname of "La belle-fille de l'avenir," and long afterwards
a man who had been at the British Legation some time subsequent to our
visit said that he had always heard her called this, though he had never
known the reason. I need hardly add that "Society" at Athens was very
small and easily amused. Poor "belle-fille de l'avenir," I saw her again
when she and her sister stayed for a time at Somerville College at
Oxford, but she died quite young. Her sister, Mrs. Barton French, still
lives.
[Sidenote: THE GREEK ROYAL FAMILY]
For the rest I need not recapitulate Greek experiences beyond transcribing
part of a letter to my mother which contains an account of the domestic
life of the Greek Royal Family in those bygone days:
"Despite the weather we have been very comfortable here and found
almost all our old friends. The Queen has a new baby since last year,
to whom she is quite devoted. It is number seven, but you might think
they had never had a baby before. The first time we had luncheon there
we all migrated to the nursery, and the Duke of Sparta who is going to
marry Princess Sophie of Germany, almost resented George's suggestion
that some beautiful gold things of his might be moved out of the
nursery cupboard, as he said 'they have always been there.' Last
Sunday we had luncheon there again, and this time the baby was brought
downstairs and his brothers and sisters competed for the honour of
nursing him, the Queen and several of us finally seating ourselves on
the floor in order that the infant prince might more conveniently play
with the _head_ of his next youngest brother, who lay down with it on
a cushion for the purpose. It makes one almost sad to see the eldest
Princess, brought up like this--a perfectly innocent girl always in
fits of laughter--going to be married to one of the Czar's brothers;
she will find it so different in that Russian Court, poor thing."
Further on in the same letter I write:
"Everyone has a different story about the Rudolph-Stephanie affair. I
have met several people who knew the Baroness and say she was very
lovely. Some disbelieve suicide, as he was shot through the back of
his head and she through the small of her back, but, as the Austrian
Minister here says, no one knows or ever will know the real truth. I
think the tragedies in those three imperial houses, Russia, Germany,
and Austria, surpass any the world has ever seen," and I cite the wise
man's prayer for "neither poverty nor riches" as "about right."
My mother sent the long letter of which this formed part to my aunt
Theodora Guest, who made a characteristic comment. She allowed the wisdom
of the prayer, but continued--"but in praying for neither poverty nor
riches, I should be careful to add 'especially not the former,' for I
don't see that poverty ensures peace, or security from murder--and it
would be hard to be poor all one's life _and_ be murdered at the end!
Better be rich and comfortable if only for a time. Still I would not be
Empress of _Russia_ for something, and that poor innocent Grecian princess
_is_ to be pitied."
This was written April 1889. What would my mother, my aunt, or myself have
said now?
The baby of our luncheon party was Christopher, now the husband of Mrs.
Leeds. The poor little Princess whose doom we feared had a more merciful
one than many of her relations. She married the Grand Duke Paul later in
1889 and died in 1891 after the birth of her second child. Taken indeed
from the evil to come. Her children were adopted by the Grand Duchess
Serge, who I believe has been murdered in the late Terror--but I do not
know what has happened to the children.
[Sidenote: ORIGINAL DERIVATIONS]
To turn to something more cheerful. A delightful woman, a real Mrs.
Malaprop, had lately been at Athens and much enlivened the British
Legation both by her remarks and her credulity. With her the Parthenon was
the "Parthian," the Odeum (an ancient theatre) the "Odium," Tanagra became
"Tangiers," and so on. She told Mr. Haggard that she did not like the
"Parthian," it was too big. "Oh," he said, "you ought to like it, for you
have heard of the Parthian shafts--those" (pointing to the columns) "are
the original Parthian shafts." "How very interesting!" said she. He then
proceeded to inform her that the Odeum was used for music (which was
true), but added that the music was so bad that they all hated it, and
therefore the place was called the "Odium"--also "very interesting." She
was taken for an excursion in Thessaly, where there were sheep-pens on the
mountains, and one happened to be fenced in a shape something like an
irregular figure 8. Another lady pointed this out and gravely informed her
that that was how the Pelasgians _numbered their mountains_. "Oh,
Charles," shouted the victim to her husband, "do look--the Pelasgians
numbered their hills--one, two, three--there is number eight!"