Calcutta--Hooghly pilots--Government House--A Durbar--The sulky
Rajah--The customary formalities--An ingenious interpreter--The sailing
clippers in the Hooghly-Calcutta Cathedral--A succulent banquet--The
mistaken Ministre--The "Gordons"--Barrackpore--A Swiss Family Robinson
aerial house--The child and the elephants--The merry midshipmen--Some
of their escapades--A huge haul of fishes--Queen Victoria and
Hindustani--The Hills--The Manipur outbreak--A riding tour--A wise old
Anglo-Indian--Incidents--The fidelity of native servants--A novel
printing-press--Lucknow--The loss of an illusion.
Lord Lansdowne had in 1888 been transferred from Canada to India, and
in May of that year he left Ottawa for Calcutta, taking on the way a
three months' well-earned holiday in England. Two of his staff
accompanied him from the vigorous young West to the immemorially old
East.
He succeeded as Viceroy Lord Dufferin, who had also held the
appointment of Governor-General of Canada up to 1878, after which he
had served as British Ambassador both at Petrograd and at
Constantinople, before proceeding to India in 1884.
Lord Minto, too, in later years filled both positions, serving in
Canada from 1898 to 1904, and in India from 1905 to 1910.
Whether in 1690 Job Charnock made a wise selection in fixing his
trading-station where Calcutta now stands, may be open to doubt. He
certainly had the broad Hooghly at his doors, affording plenty of water
not only for trading-vessels, but also for men-of-war in cases of
emergency. Still, from the swampy nature of the soil, and its proximity
to the great marshes of the Sunderbunds, Calcutta could never be a
really healthy place. An arrival by water up the Hooghly unquestionably
gives the most favourable impression of the Indian ex-capital, though
the river banks are flat and uninteresting. The Hooghly is one of the
most difficult rivers in the world to navigate, for the shoals and
sand-banks change almost daily with the strong tides, and the white
Hooghly pilots are men at the very top of their profession, and earn
some L2000 a year apiece. They are tremendous swells, and are perfectly
conscious of the fact, coming on board with their native servants and
their white "cub" or pupil. There is one shoal in particular, known as
the "James and Mary," on which a ship, touching ever so lightly, is as
good as lost. Calcutta, since I first knew it, has become a great
manufacturing centre. Lines of factories stand for over twenty miles
thick on the left bank of the river; the great pall of black smoke
hanging over the city is visible for miles, and the atmosphere is
beginning to rival that of Manchester. Long use has accustomed us to
the smoke-blackened elms and limes of London, but there is something
peculiarly pathetic in the sight of a grimy, sooty palm tree.
The outward aspect of the stately Government House at Calcutta is
familiar to most people. It is a huge and imposing edifice, but when I
first knew it, its interior was very plain, and rather bare. Lady Minto
changed all this during her husband's Vice-royalty, and, with her
wonderful taste, transformed it into a sort of Italian palace at a very
small cost. She bought in Europe a few fine specimens of old Italian
gilt furniture, and had them copied in Calcutta by native workmen. In
the East, the Oriental point of view must be studied, and Easterns
attach immense importance to external splendour. The throne-room at
Calcutta, under Lady Minto's skilful treatment, became gorgeous enough
for the most exacting Asiatic, with its black marble floor, its
rose-coloured silk walls where great silver sconces alternated with
full-length portraits of British sovereigns, its white "chunam" columns
and its gilt Italian furniture. "Chunam" has been used in India from
time immemorial for decorative purposes. It is as white as snow and
harder than any stone, and is, I believe, made from calcined shells.
Let us suppose a Durbar held in this renovated throne-room for the
official reception of a native Indian Prince. The particular occasion I
have in mind was long after Lord Lansdowne's time, when a certain
Rajah, notoriously ill-disposed towards the British Raj, had been given
the strongest of hints that unless he mended his ways, he might find
another ruler placed on the throne of his State. He was also
recommended to come to Calcutta and to pay his respects to the Viceroy
there, when, of course, he would be received with the number of guns to
which he was entitled. The Indian Princes attach the utmost importance
to the number of guns they are given as a salute, a number which varies
from twenty-one in the case of the Nizam of Hyderabad, who alone ranks
as a Sovereign, to nine for the smaller princes. Should the British
Government wish to mark its strong displeasure with any native ruler,
it sometimes does so by reducing the number of guns of his salute, and
correspondingly, to have the number increased is a high honour. Sulkily
and unwillingly the Rajah of whom I am thinking journeyed to Calcutta,
and sulkily and unwillingly did he attend the Durbar. On occasions such
as these, visiting native Princes are the guests of the Government of
India at Hastings House (Warren Hastings' old country house in the
suburbs of Calcutta, specially renovated and fitted up for the
purpose), and the Viceroy's state carriages are sent to convey them to
Government House. Everything in the way of ceremonial in India is done
strictly by rule. The precise number of steps the Viceroy will advance
to greet visiting Rajahs is all laid down in a little book. The Nizam
of Hyderabad is met by the Viceroy with all his staff at the state
entrance of Government House, and he is accompanied through all the
rooms, both on his arrival and on his departure; but, as I said before,
the Nizam ranks as a Sovereign. In the case of lesser lights the
Viceroy advances anything from three to twenty steps. These points may
appear very trivial to Europeans, but to Orientals they assume great
importance, and, after all, India is a part of Asia. At right angles to
the Calcutta throne-room is the fine Marble Hall, with marble floor and
columns and an entirely gilt ceiling; empty except for six colossal
busts of Roman Emperors, which, together with a number of splendid
cut-glass chandeliers of the best French Louis XV. period, and a
full-length portrait of Louis XV. himself, fell into our hands through
the fortunes of war at a time when our relations with our present film
ally, France, were possibly less cordial than at present. For a Durbar
a long line of red carpet was laid from the throne-room, through the
Marble Hall and the White Hall beyond it, right down the great flight
of exterior steps, at the foot of which a white Guard of Honour of one
hundred men from a British regiment was drawn up, Aligned through the
outer hall, the Marble Hall and the throne-room were one hundred men of
the Viceroy's Bodyguard, splendid fellows chosen for their height and
appearance, and all from Northern India. They wore the white leather
breeches and jack-boots of our own Life Guards, with scarlet tunics and
huge turbans of blue and gold, standing with their lances as motionless
as so many bronze statues. For a Durbar, many precious things were
unearthed from the "Tosha-Khana," or Treasury: the Viceroy's
silver-gilt throne; an arm-chair of solid silver for the visiting
Rajah; great silver-gilt maces bearing & crown and "V.R.I."; and, above
all, the beautiful Durbar carpets of woven gold wire. The making of
these carpets is, I believe, an hereditary trade in a Benares family;
they are woven of real gold wire, heavily embroidered in gold
afterwards, and are immensely expensive. The visiting Rajah announces
beforehand the number of the suite he is bringing with him, and the
Viceroy has a precisely similar number, so two corresponding rows of
cane arm-chairs are placed opposite each other, at right angles to the
throne. Behind the chairs twelve resplendent red-and-gold-coated
servants with blue-and-silver turbans, hold the gilt maces aloft,
whilst behind the throne eight more gorgeously apparelled natives hold
two long-handled fans of peacock's feathers, two silver-mounted yak's
tails, and two massive sheaves of peacock's feathers, all these being
the Eastern emblems of sovereignty.
We will suppose this particular Rajah to be a "nine-gun" and a
"three-step" man. Bang go the cannon from Fort William nine times, and
the Viceroy, in full uniform with decorations, duly advances three
steps on the gold carpet to greet his visitor. The Viceroy seats
himself on his silver-gilt throne at the top of the three steps, the
visiting Rajah in his silver chair being one step lower. The two suites
seat themselves facing each other in dead silence; the Europeans
assuming an absolutely Oriental impassivity of countenance. The
ill-conditioned Rajah, though he spoke English perfectly, had insisted
on bringing his own interpreter with him. A long pause in conformity
with Oriental etiquette follows, then the Viceroy puts the first
invariable question: "I trust that your Highness is in the enjoyment of
good health?" which is duly repeated in Urdu by the official white
interpreter. The sulky Rajah grunts something that sounds like "Bhirrr
Whirrr," which the native interpreter renders, in clipped staccato
English, as "His Highness declares that by your Excellency's favour his
health is excellent. Lately, owing to attack of fever, it was with His
Highness what Immortal Bard has termed a case of 'to be or not to be!'
Now, danger happily averted, His Highness has seldom reposed under the
canopy of a sounder brain than at present." Another long pause, and the
second invariable question: "I trust that your Highness' Army is in its
usual efficient state?" The surly Rajah, "Khirr Virr." The native
interpreter, "Without doubt His Highness' Army has never yet been so
efficient. Should troubles arise, or a pretty kettle of fish
unfortunately occur, His Highness places his entire Army at your
Excellency's disposal; as Swan of Avon says, 'Come the three corners of
the world in arms, and we shall shock them.'" A third question, "I
trust that the crops in your Highness' dominion are satisfactory?" The
Rajah, "Ghirrr Firrr." The interpreter, "Stimulated without doubt by
your Excellency's auspicious visit to neighbouring State, the soil in
His Highness' dominions has determined to beat record and to go regular
mucker. Crops tenfold ordinary capacity are springing from the ground
everywhere." One has seen a conjurer produce half a roomful of paper
flowers from a hat, or even from an even less promising receptacle, but
no conjurer was in it with that interpreter, who from two sulky
monosyllabic grunts evolved a perfect garland of choice Oriental
flowers of speech. It reminded me of the process known in newspaper
offices as "expanding" a telegram. When the customary number of formal
questions have been put, the Viceroy makes a sign to his Military
Secretary, who brings him a gold tray on which stand a little gold
flask and a small box; the traditional "Attar and pan." The Viceroy
sprinkles a few drops of attar of roses on the Rajah's clothing from
the gold flask, and hands him a piece of betel-nut wrapped in gold
paper, known as "pan." This is the courteous Eastern fashion of saying
"Now I bid you good-bye." The Military Secretary performs a like office
to the members of the Rajah's suite, who, however, have to content
themselves with attar sprinkled from a silver bottle and "pans" wrapped
in silver paper. Then all the traditional requirements of Oriental
politeness have been fulfilled, and the Rajah takes his leave with the
same ceremonies as attended his arrival. At the beginning of a Durbar
"tribute" is presented--that is to say that a folded napkin supposed to
contain one thousand gold mohurs is handed to the Viceroy, who "touches
it and remits it." I have often wondered what that folded napkin really
contained.
When I first knew Calcutta, most of the grain, jute, hemp and indigo
exported was carried to its various destinations in sailing-ships, and
there were rows and rows of splendid full-rigged ships and barques
lying moored in the Hooghly along the whole length of the Maidan. The
line must have extended for two miles, and I never tired of looking at
these beautiful vessels with their graceful lines and huge spars, all
clean and spick and span with green and white paint, the ubiquitous
Calcutta crows perched in serried ranks on their yards. To my mind a
full-rigged ship is the most beautiful object man has ever devised, and
when the dusk was falling, with every spar and rope outlined in black
against the vivid crimson of the short-lived Indian sunset, the long
line of shipping made a glorious picture. Nineteen years later every
sailing-ship had disappeared from the Hooghly, and in their place were
rows of unsightly, rusty-sided iron tanks, with squat polemasts and
ugly funnels vomiting black smoke. A tramp-steamer has its uses, no
doubt, but it is hardly a thing of beauty. Ichabod! Ichabod!
Calcutta is fortunate in having so fine a lung as the great stretch of
the Maidan. It has been admirably planted and laid out, with every palm
of tree of aggressively Indian appearance carefully excluded from its
green expanse, so it wears a curiously home-like appearance. The Maidan
is very reminiscent of Hyde Park, though almost double its size. There
is one spot, where the Gothic spire of the cathedral emerges from a
mass of greenery, with a large sheet of water in the foreground, which
recalls exactly the view over Bayswater from the bridge spanning the
Serpentine.
Considering that Calcutta Cathedral was built in 1840; that it was
designed by an Engineer officer, and not by an architect; that its
"Gothic" is composed of cast-iron and stucco instead of stone, it is
really not such a bad building. The great size of its interior gives it
a certain dignity, and owing to the generosity of the European
community, it is most lavishly adorned with marbles, mosaics, and
stained glass. It possesses the finest organ in Asia, and a really
excellent choir, the men Europeans, the boys being Eurasians. These
small half-castes have very sweet voices, with a curious and not
unpleasing metallic timbre about them. At evening service in the
cathedral, should one ignore such details as the rows of electric
punkahs, the temperature, and the dingy complexions of the choir-boys,
it was almost impossible to realise that one was not in England. I had
been used to singing in a church choir, and it was pleasant to hear
such familiar cathedral services as Garrett in D, Smart in F, Walmisley
in D minor, and Hopkins in F, so perfectly rendered seven thousand
miles away from home, thanks to that excellent musician, Dr. Slater,
the cathedral organist.
St. Andrew's Scottish Presbyterian Church stands in its own wooded
grounds in which there are two large ponds, or, as Anglo-Indians would
put it, it stands in a compound with large tanks. The church is
consequently infested with mosquitoes. The last time that I was in
Calcutta, the Gordon Highlanders had just relieved an English regiment
in the fort, and on the first Sunday after their arrival, four hundred
Gordons were marched to a parade service at St. Andrew's. The most
optimistic mosquito had never in his wildest dreams imagined such a
succulent banquet as that afforded by four hundred bare-kneed, kilted
Highlanders, and the mosquitoes made the fullest use of their unique
opportunity. Soon the church resounded with the vigorous slapping of
hands on bare knees and thighs, as the men endeavoured to kill a few of
their little tormentors. The minister, hearing the loud clapping, but
entirely misapprehending its purport, paused in his sermon, and said,
"My brethren, it is varra gratifying to a minister of the Word to learn
that his remarks meet with the approbation of his hearers, but I'd have
you remember that all applause is strictly oot of place in the Hoose of
God."
The Gordon Highlanders were originally raised by my great-grandfather,
the fourth Duke of Gordon, in 1794, or perhaps more accurately, by my
great-grandmother, Jean, the beautiful Duchess of Gordon. Duchess Jean,
then in the height of her beauty, attended every market in the towns
round Gordon Castle, and kissed every recruit who took the guinea she
offered. The French Republic had declared war on Great Britain in 1793,
and the Government had made an urgent appeal for fresh levies of
troops. Duchess Jean, by her novel osculatory methods, raised the
Gordons in four months. My father and mother were married at Gordon
Castle in 1832, and the wedding guests grew so excessively convivial
that they carried everything on the tables at the wedding breakfast,
silver plate, glass, china, and all, down to the bridge at Fochabers,
and threw them into the Spey. We may congratulate ourselves on the fact
that it is no longer incumbent on wedding guests to drink the health of
the newly married couple so fervently, and that a proportional saving
in table fittings can thus be effected.
Barrackpore, the Viceroy's country place, is unquestionably a pleasant
spot, with its fine park and famous gardens. Like the Maidan in
Calcutta Barrackpore is a very fairly successful attempt at reproducing
England in Asia. With a little make-believe and a determined attempt to
ignore the grotesque outlines of a Hindoo temple standing on the
confines of the park, and the large humps on the backs of the grazing
cattle like the steam domes on railway engines, it might be possible to
imagine oneself at home, until the illusion is shattered in quite
another fashion. There is an excellent eighteen-hole golf course in
Barrackpore park, but when you hear people talking of the second
"brown" there can be no doubt but that you are in Asia. A "green" would
be a palpable misnomer for the parched grass of an Indian dry season,
still a "brown" comes as a shock at first. The gardens merit their
reputation. There are innumerable ponds, or "tanks," of lotus and
water-lilies of every hue: scarlet, crimson, white, and pure sky-blue,
the latter an importation from Australia. When these are in flower they
are a lovely sight, and perhaps compensate for the myriads of
mosquitoes who find in these ponds an ideal breeding-place, and assert
their presence day and night most successfully. There are great drifts
of Eucharis lilies growing under the protecting shadows of the trees
along shady walks, and the blaze of colour in the formal garden
surrounding the white marble fountain in front of the house is
positively dazzling. The house was built especially as a hot-weather
residence, and as such is not particularly successful, for it is one of
the hottest buildings in the whole of India. The dining-room is in the
centre of the house, and has no windows whatever; an arrangement which,
though it may shut out the sun, also excludes all fresh air as well.
The bedrooms extend up through two storeys, and are so extremely lofty
that one has the sensation of sleeping in a lift-shaft. Apart from its
heat, the house has a dignified old-world air about it, with vague
hints of Adam decoration in its details.
The establishment of Government House consisted of five hundred and
twenty servants, all natives, so it could not be termed short-handed.
With so many men, the apparently impossible could be undertaken. Lord
Lansdowne left Calcutta for Barrackpore every Saturday afternoon. As
soon as we had gone into luncheon at Calcutta on the Saturday, perfect
armies of men descended on the private part of the house and packed up
all the little things about the rooms into big cases. An hour later
they were on their way up the river by steamer, and when we arrived at
Barrackpore for tea, the house looked as though it had been lived in
for weeks, with every object reposing on the tables in precisely the
same position it had occupied earlier in the day in Calcutta. Late on
Sunday night this process was reversed for the return journey at seven
on Monday morning. The Viceroy had a completely fitted-up office in his
smart little white-and-gold yacht, and was able to get through a great
deal of work on his voyage down the Hooghly before breakfast on Monday
mornings. A conscientious Viceroy of India is one of the hardest-worked
men in the world, for he frequently has ten hours of office work in the
day, irrespective of his other duties.
An enormous banyan tree stands on the lawn at Barrackpore. I should be
afraid to say how much ground it covers; perhaps nearly an acre, for
these trees throw down aerial suckers which form into fresh trunks, and
so spread indefinitely. Lady Lansdowne thought she would have a bamboo
house built in this great banyan tree for her little daughter, the same
little girl for whom I had built the snow-hut at Ottawa, for she
happens to be my god-daughter. It was to be a sort of "Swiss Family
Robinson" tree-house, infinitely superior to the house on the tree-tops
of Kensington Gardens, which Wendy destined for Peter Pan. The house
was duly built, with bamboo staircases, and little fenced-off bamboo
platforms fitted with seats and tables, at different levels up the
tree. The Swiss Family Robinson would have gone mad with jealousy at
seeing such a desirable aerial abode, so immeasurably preferable to
their own, and even Wendy might have felt a mild pang of envy. When the
house was completed, one of the Aides-de-Camp inspected it and found a
snake hanging by its tail from a branch right over one of the little
aerial platforms. He reported that the tree was full of snakes. The
risk was too great to run, so prompt orders were given to demolish the
house, and the little girl never enjoyed her tree-top playground.
The Viceroy's State elephants were all kept at Barrackpore, and the
elephant-lines had a great attraction for children, especially for a
small great-nephew of mine, now a Lieut.-Colonel, and the father of a
family, then aged six. The child was very fearless, but the only
elephant he was allowed to approach was a venerable tusker named
"Warren Hastings," the very identical elephant on which Warren Hastings
made his first entry into Calcutta. "Warren" was supposed to be nearly
200 years old, and his temper could be absolutely relied on. It is
curious that natives, in speaking of a quiet, good-tempered animal,
always speak of him as "poor" (gharib). The little boy was perpetually
feeding Warren Hastings with oranges and bananas, and the two became
great friends. It was a pretty sight seeing the fearless small boy in
his white suit, bare legs, and little sun-helmet, standing in front of
the great beast who could have crushed him to a wafer in one second,
and ordering him in the vernacular, with his shrill child's voice, to
kneel. It was a more curious sight seeing the huge animal at once obey
his little mentor, and, struggling with the infirmities and rheumatic
joints of old age (to which, alas! others besides elephants are
subject), lower himself painfully on to his knees. "Salaam karo"
("Salute me"), piped the white child, and the great pachyderm instantly
obeyed, lifting his trunk high in salute; which, if you think it out,
may have a certain symbolism about it.
It was the same small boy who on returning to England at the age of
seven, after five years in India, looked out of the windows of the
carriage with immense interest, as they drove through London from
Charing Cross station. "Mother," he piped at length, "this is a very
odd country! All the natives seem to be white here."
My little great-nephew was immensely petted by the native servants, and
as he could speak the vernacular with greater ease than English, he
picked up from the servants the most appalling language, which he
innocently repeated, entailing his frequent chastisement.
I can sympathise with the child there, for at the age of nine, in
Dublin, I became seized with an intense but short-lived desire to
enlist as a trumpeter in a Lancer regiment. Seeing one day a real live,
if diminutive, Lancer trumpeter listening to the band playing in the
Castle yard, I ran down and consulted him as to the best means of
attaining my desire. The small trumpeter was not particularly
intelligent, and was unable to help me. Though of tender years, he was
regrettably lacking in refinement, for his conversation consisted
chiefly of an endless repetition of three or four words, not one of
which I had ever heard before. Carefully treasuring these up, as having
a fine martial smack about them suitable to the military career I then
proposed embracing, I, in all innocence, fired off one of the
trumpeter's full-flavoured expressions at my horror-stricken family
during luncheon, to be at once ordered out of the room, and severely
punished afterwards. We all know that "what the soldier said" is not
legal evidence; in this painful fashion I also learnt that "what the
trumpeter said" is not held to be a valid excuse for the use of bad
language by a small boy.
In the late autumn of 1890 Admiral Sir Edmund Fremantle brought his
flagship, the Boadicea, right up the Hooghly, and moored her alongside
the Maidan. The ship remained there for six weeks, the Admiral taking
up his quarters at Government House. My sister Lady Lansdowne had a
mistaken weakness for midshipmen, whom she most inappropriately termed
"those dear little fellows." At that time midshipmen went to sea at
fifteen years of age, so they were much younger than at present. As
these boys were constantly at Government House, four of us thought that
we would lend the midshipmen our ponies for an early morning ride. The
boys all started off at a gallop, and every one of them was bolted with
as soon as he reached the Maidan. As they had no riding-breeches, their
trousers soon rucked up, exhibiting ample expanses of bare legs; they
had no notion of riding, but managed to stick on somehow by clinging to
pommel and mane, banging here into a sedate Judge of the High Court,
with an apologetic "Sorry, sir, but this swine of a pony won't steer;"
barging there into a pompous Anglo-Indian official, as they yelled to
their ponies, "Easy now, dogs-body, or you'll unship us both;"
galloping as hard as their ponies could lay legs to the ground,
cannoning into half the white inhabitants of Calcutta, but always with
imperturbable good-humour. When their panting ponies tried to pull up
to recover their wind a little, these rising hopes of the British Navy
kicked them with their heels into a gallop again, shouting strange
nautical oaths, and grinning from ear to ear with delight, until
finally four ponies lathered in sweat, in the last stages of
exhaustion, returned to Government House, and four dripping boys
alighted, declaring that they had had the time of their lives in spite
of a considerable loss of cuticle. It was the same at the dances at
Government House. The smart young subalterns simply weren't in it; the
midshipmen got all the best partners, and, to do them justice, they
could dance very well. They started with the music and whirled their
partners round the room at the top of their speed, in the furnace
temperature of Calcutta, without drawing rein for one second until the
band stopped, when a dishevelled and utterly exhausted damsel collapsed
limply into a chair, whilst a deliquescent brass-buttoned youth, with a
sodden wisp of white linen and black silk round his neck to indicate
the spot where he had once possessed a collar and tie, endeavoured to
fan his partner into some semblance of coolness again.
Lady Lansdowne having invited eight midshipmen to spend a Sunday at
Barrackpore, they arrived there by launch with a drag net, which the
Viceroy had given them leave to use on the largest of the ponds. My
sister at once set them down to play lawn-tennis, hoping to work off
some of their superfluous energy in this way. In honour of the
occasion, the midshipmen had extracted their best white flannels from
their chests, and they proceeded to array themselves in these. The
Boadicea, however, had been two years in commission, the flannels were
two years old, and the lads were just at the age when they were growing
most rapidly. They squeezed themselves with great difficulty into their
shrunken garments, which looked more like tights than trousers, every
button and seam obviously strained to the bursting point, and set to
work playing tennis with their accustomed vigour. Soon there was a
sound of rending cloth, and the senior midshipman, a portly youth of
Teutonic amplitude of outline, lay down flat on his back on the lawn. A
minute later there was a similar sound, and another boy lay down on his
back and remained there, and a third lad quickly followed their
example. A charming lady had noticed this from the verandah above, and
ran down in some alarm, fearing that these young Nelsons had got
sunstrokes. Somewhat confusedly they assured her that they were quite
well, but might they, please, have three rugs brought them. Otherwise
it was impossible for them to move. With some difficulty three rugs
were procured, and, enveloped in them, they waddled off to their
bungalow to assume more decent apparel. A few minutes later there were
two more similar catastrophes (these garments all seemed to split in
precisely the same spot), and the supply of rugs being exhausted, these
boys had to retreat to their bungalow walking backwards like
chamberlains at a Court function. After luncheon, in the burning heat
of Bengal, most sensible people keep quiet in the shade, but the
midshipmen went off to inspect the great tank, and to decide how they
should drag it.
Soon we heard loud shoutings from the direction of the tank, and saw a
long string of native servants carrying brown chatties of hot water
towards the pond. We found that the courteous House-Baboo had informed
the midshipmen that the holes in the banks of the tank were the winter
rest-places of cobras. It then occurred to the boys that it would be
capital fun to pour hot water down the holes, and to kill the cobras
with sticks as they emerged from them. It was a horribly dangerous
amusement, for, one bad shot, and the Royal Navy would unquestionably
have had to mourn the loss of a promising midshipman in two hours'
time. When we arrived the snake-killing was over, and the boys were all
refreshing themselves with large cheroots purloined from the
dining-room on their behalf by a friendly kitmutgar. The dragging of
the tank was really a wonderful sight. As the net reached the far end
it was one solid mass of great shining, blue-grey fish, of about thirty
pounds weight each. The most imaginative artist in depicting the
"Miraculous Draught of Fishes" never approached the reality of
Barrackpore, or pictured such vast quantities of writhing, silvery
finny creatures. They were a fish called cattla by the natives, a
species of carp, with a few eels and smaller fish of a bright red
colour thrown in amongst them. I could never have believed that one
pond could have held such incredible quantities of fish. The Viceroy,
an intrepid pioneer in gastronomic matters, had a great cattla boiled
for his dinner. The first mouthful defeated him; he declared that the
consistency of the fish was that of an old flannel shirt, and the taste
a compound of mud and of the smell of a covered racquet-court. A lady
insisted on presenting the midshipmen with two dozen bottles of a very
good champagne for the Gun-room Mess. In the innocence of her heart she
thought that the champagne would last them for a year, but on New
Year's Eve the little lambs had a great celebration on board, and drank
the whole two dozen at one sitting. As there were exactly eighteen of
them, this made a fair allowance apiece; they all got exceedingly
drunk, and the Admiral stopped their leave for two months, so we saw no
more of them. They were quite good boys really though, like all their
kind, rather over-full of high spirits.
As is well known, Queen Victoria celebrated her seventieth birthday by
commencing the study of Hindustani under the tuition of a skilled
Moonshee. At the farewell audience the Queen gave my sister, Her
Majesty, on learning that Lady Lansdowne intended to begin learning
Hindustani as soon as she reached India, proposed that they should
correspond occasionally in Urdu, to test the relative progress they
were making. Every six months or so a letter from the Queen,
beautifully written in Persian characters, reached Calcutta, to which
my sister duly replied. In strict confidence, I may say that I strongly
suspect that Lady Lansdowne's letters were written by her Moonshee, and
that she merely copied the Persian characters, which she could do very
neatly. The Arabic alphabet is used in writing Persian, with three or
four extra letters added to express sounds which do not exist in
Arabic; it is, of course, written from right to left. I had an hour and
a half's daily lesson in Urdu from an efficient, if immensely pompous,
Moonshee, but I never attempted to learn to read or write the Persian
characters.
I do not think that any one who has not traversed the plains of
Northern Indian can have any idea of their deadly monotony. Hour after
hour of level, sun-baked wheat-fields, interspersed with arid tracts of
desert, hardly conforms to the traditional idea of Indian scenery, nor
when once Bengal is left behind is there any of that luxuriant
vegetation which one instinctively associates with hot countries. In
bars in the United States, any one wishing for whisky and water was (I
advisedly use the past tense) accustomed to drain a small tumbler of
neat whisky, and then to swallow a glass of water. In India everything
is arranged on this principle; the whisky and the water are kept quite
separate. The dead-flat expanse of the Northern plains is unbroken by
the most insignificant of mounds; on the other hand, in the hills it is
almost impossible to find ten yards of level ground. In the same way
during the dry season you know with absolute certainty that there will
be no rain; whilst during the rains you can predict, without the
faintest shadow of doubt, that the downpour will continue day by day.
Personally, I prefer whisky and water mixed.
In 1891 the Viceroy had selected the Kumaon district for his usual
official spring tour, and all arrangements had been made for this. As
my sister was feeling the heat of Calcutta a great deal, she and I
preceded the Viceroy to Naini Tal in the Kumaon district, as it stands
at an altitude of 6500 feet. The narrow-gauge railway ends at
Kathgodam, fifteen miles from Naini Tal, and the last four miles to the
hill-station have to be ridden up, I should imagine, the steepest road
in the world. It is like the side of a house. People have before now
slipped over their horses' tails going up that terrific ascent, and I
cannot conceive how the horses' girths manage to hold. Naini Tal is a
delightful spot, with bungalows peeping out of dense greenery that
fringes a clear lake. As in most hill-stations, the narrow riding
tracks are scooped out of the hillsides with a perpendicular drop of,
say, 500 feet on one side. These khudd paths, in addition to being very
narrow, are so precipitous that it takes some while getting used to
riding along them. A rather tiresome elderly spinster had come up to
Naini Tal on a visit to a relative, and was continually bewailing the
dangers of these khudd paths. She had hoped, she declared, to put on a
little flesh in the hills, but her constant anxiety about the khudds
was making her thinner than ever. A humorous subaltern, rather bored at
these continual laments, observed to her: "At all events, Miss Smith,
you'll have one consolation. If by any piece of bad luck you should
fall over the khudd, you'll go over thin, but you'll fall down plump--a
thousand feet."
The very evening that Lord Lansdowne arrived for his projected tour,
the news of a serious outbreak in Manipur was telegraphed. The Viceroy
at once decided to abandon his tour and to proceed straight to Simla,
to which the Government offices had already moved, and where his
presence would be urgently required. Lord William Beresford, the
Military Secretary, a prince of organisers, at once took possession of
the telegraph wires, and in two hours his arrangements were
complete--or as an Anglo-Indian would put it, "he had made his
bundobust." The Viceroy and my sister were to leave next morning at 6
a.m., and Lord William undertook to get them to Simla by special trains
before midnight. He actually landed them there by 11 p.m.--quite a
record journey, for Naini Tal is 407 miles from Simla, of which 75
miles have to be ridden or driven by road and 66 are by narrow-gauge
railway, on which high speeds are impossible. There were 6500 feet to
descend from Naini, and 6000 feet to ascend to Simla, but in India a
good organiser can accomplish miracles.
The Viceroy's tour being abandoned, Colonel Erskine, the Commissioner
for the Kumaon district, invited me to accompany him on his own
official tour. It was through very difficult country where no wheeled
traffic could pass, so we were to ride, with all our belongings carried
by coolies. I bought two hill-ponies the size of Newfoundland dogs for
myself and my "bearer," and we started. The little animals being used
to carrying packs, have a disconcerting trick of keeping close to the
very edge of the khudd, for experience has taught them that to bump
their load against the rock wall on the inner side gives them an
unpleasant jar. These little hill-ponies are wonderfully sure-footed,
and can climb like cats over dry water-courses piled with rocks and
great boulders, which a man on foot would find difficult to negotiate.
The rhododendrons were then in full flower, and the hills were one
blaze of colour. We were always going up and up, and as we ascended,
the deep crimson rhododendron flowers of Naini Tal gradually faded to
rose-colour, from rose-colour to pale pink, and from pink to pure
white. It was a perfect education travelling with Colonel Erskine, for
that shrewd and kindly old Scotsman had spent half his life in India,
and knew the Oriental inside out. The French have an expression, "se
fourrer dans la peau d'autrui," "to shove yourself into another
person's skin," and therefore to be able to see things as they would
present themselves to the mind of a man of a different race and of a
different mentality, and from his point of view. All young diplomats
are enjoined to cultivate this art, and some few succeed in doing so.
Colonel Erskine had it to perfection. On arriving in a village he would
call for a carpet, and a dirty cotton dhuree would be laid on the
round. He would then order a charpoy, or native bed, to be placed on
the carpet, and he would seat himself on it, and call out in the
vernacular, "Now, my children, what have you to tell me?" All this was
strictly in accordance with immemorial Eastern custom. Then the long
line of suppliants would approach, each one with a present of an
orange, or a bunch of rhododendron flowers in his hand. This, again,
from the very beginning of things has been the custom in the East (cf.
2 Kings, chap. viii, vers. 8, 9: "And the King said unto Hazael, Take a
present in thine hand, and go, meet the man of God.... So Hazael went
to meet him, and took a present with him"). Colonel Erskine was a great
stickler for these presents, and as they could be picked off the
nearest rhododendron bush, they cost the donor nothing.
The outpouring of grievences and complaints then began, each applicant
always ending with the two-thousand-year-old cry of India, "Dohai,
Huzoor!" ("Justice, my lord!") The old Commissioner meanwhile listened
intently, dictating copious notes to his Brahmin clerk, and at the
conclusion of the audience he would cry, "Go, my children. Justice
shall be done to all of you," and we moved on to another village. It
was very pleasant seeing the patriarchal relations between the
Commissioner and the villagers. He understood them and their customs
thoroughly; they trusted him and loved him as their official father. I
fancy that this type of Indian Civil servant, knowing the people he has
to deal with down to the very marrow of their bones, has become rarer
of late years. The Brahmin clerk was a very intelligent man, and spoke
English admirably, but I took a great dislike to him, noting the abject
way in which the natives fawned on him. Colonel Erskine had to
discharge him soon afterwards, as he found that he had been exploiting
the villagers mercilessly for years, taking bribes right and left. From
much experience Colonel Erskine was an adept at travelling with what he
termed "a light camp." He took with him a portable office-desk, a
bookcase with a small reference library, and two portable arm-chairs.
All these were carried in addition to our baggage and bedding on
coolies' heads, for our sleeping-places were seldom more than fifteen
miles apart.
The Commissioner's old Khansama had very strict ideas as to how a
"Sahib's" dinner should be served. He insisted on decorating the table
with rhododendron flowers, and placing on it every night four dishes of
Moradabad metal work containing respectively six figs, six French
plums, six dates, and six biscuits, all reposing on the orthodox
lace-paper mats, and the moment dinner was over he carefully replaced
these in pickle-jars for use next evening. We would have broken his
heart had we spoiled the symmetry of his dishes by eating any of these.
It takes a little practice to master bills of fare written in "Kitmutar
English," and for "Irishishtew" and "Anchoto" to be resolved into
Irish-stew and Anchovy-toast. Once when a Viceroy was on tour there was
a roast gosling for dinner. This duly appeared on the bill-of-fare as
"Roasted goose's pup." In justice, however, we must own that we would
make far greater blunders in trying to write a menu in Urdu.
The Kumaon district is beautiful, not unlike an enlarged Scotland, with
deep ravines scooped out by clear, rushing rivers, their precipitous
sides clothed with dense growths of deodaras. In the early morning the
view of the long range of the snowy pinnacles of the Himalayas was
splendid. I learnt a great deal from wise old Colonel Erskine with his
intimate knowledge of the workings of the native mind, and of the
psychology of the Oriental.
There is something very touching in the fidelity of Indian native
servants to their employers. Lady Lansdowne returned to India eighteen
years after leaving it, for the marriage of her son (who was killed in
the first three months of the war) to Lord Minto's daughter, and I
accompanied her. One afternoon all the pensioned Government House
servants who had been in Lord Lansdowne's employment arrived in a body
to offer their "salaams" to my sister. They presented a very different
appearance to the resplendent beings in scarlet and gold whom I had
formerly known, for on taking their pension they had ceased troubling
to dye their beards, and they were merely dressed in plain white
cotton. These grey-bearded, toothless old men with their high, aquiline
features (they were nearly all Mohammedans), flowing white garments and
turbans, might have stepped bodily out of stained-glass windows. They
had brought with them all the little presents (principally watches)
which my sister had given them; they remembered all the berths she had
secured for their sons, and the letters she had written on their
behalf. An Oriental has a very long memory for a kindness as well as
for an injury done him. Lady Lansdowne, whose Hindustani had become
rather rusty, began feverishly turning over the pages of a dictionary
in an endeavour to express her feelings and the pleasure she
experienced in seeing these faithful retainers again: she wept, and the
old men wept, and we all agreed, as elderly people will, that in former
days the sun was brighter and life altogether rosier than in these
degenerate times. Before leaving, the old servants simultaneously
lifted their arms in the Mahommedan gesture of blessing, with all the
innate dignity of the Oriental; it was really a very touching sight,
nor do I think that the very substantial memento of their visit which
each of them received had anything to do with their attitude: they only
wished to show that they were "faithful to their salt."
It is difficult to determine the age of a native, as wrinkles and lines
do not show on a dark skin. Dark skins have other advantages. One of
the European Examiners of Calcutta University told me that there had
been great trouble about the examination-papers. By some means the
native students always managed to obtain what we may term "advance"
copies of these papers. My informant devised a scheme to stop this
leakage. Instead of having the papers printed in the usual fashion, he
called in the services of a single white printer on whom he could
absolutely rely. The white printer had the papers handed to him early
on the morning of the examination day, and he duly set them up on a
hand-press in the building itself. The printer had one assistant, a
coolie clad only in loin-cloth and turban, and every time the coolie
left the room he was made to remove both his loin-cloth and turban, so
that by no possibility could he have any papers concealed about him. In
spite of these precautions, it was clear from internal evidence that
some of the students had had a previous knowledge of the questions. How
had it been managed? It eventually appeared that the coolie, taking
advantage of the momentary absence of the white printer, had whipped
off his loin-cloth, SAT DOWN ON THE "FORM," and then replaced his
solitary garment. When made to strip on going out, the printing-ink did
not show on his dark skin: he had only to sit down elsewhere on a large
sheet of white paper for the questions to be printed off on it, and
they could then easily be read in a mirror. The Oriental mind is very
subtle.
This is no place to speak of the marvels of Mogul architecture in Agra
and Delhi. I do not believe that there exists in the world a more
exquisitely beautiful hall than the Diwan-i-Khas in Delhi palace. This
hall, open on one side to a garden, is entirely built of transparent
white marble inlaid with precious stones, and with its intricate gilded
ceilings, and wonderful pierced-marble screens it justifies the famous
Persian inscription that runs round it:
"If heaven can be on the face of the earth,
It is this, it is this, it is this."
I always regret that Shah Jehan did not carry out his original
intention of erecting a second Taj of black marble for himself at Agra,
opposite the wonderful tomb he built for his beloved Muntaz-i-Mahal;
probably the money ran out. Few people take in that the dome of the
Taj, that great airy white soap-bubble, is actually higher than the
dome of St. Paul's. The play of fancy and invention of Shah Jehan's
architects seems inexhaustible. All the exquisite white marble
pavilions of Agra palace differ absolutely both in design and
decoration, and Akbar's massive red sandstone buildings make the most
perfect foil to them that could be conceived.
Lucknow is one of the pleasantest stations in India, with its ring of
encircling parks, and the broad, tree-shaded roads of its cantonments,
but the pretentious monuments with which the city is studded will not
bear examination after the wonders of Agra and Delhi. The King of Oude
wished to surpass the Mogul Emperors by the magnificence of his
buildings, but he wished, too, to do it on the cheap. So in Lucknow
stucco, with very debased details, replaces the stately red sandstone
and marble of the older cities.
In 1890 after a long day's sight-seeing in Lucknow, in the course of
which we ascended the long exterior flight of steps of the great
Imambarah on an elephant (who proved himself as nimble as a German
waiter in going upstairs), Lady Lansdowne and I were taken to the
Husainabad just as the short-lived Indian twilight was falling. On
passing through its great gateway I thought that I had never in my life
seen anything so beautiful. At the end of a long white marble-paved
court, a stately black-and-white marble tomb with a gilded dome rose
from a flight of steps. Down the centre of the court ran a long pool of
clear water, surrounded by a gilded railing. On either side of the
court stood great clumps of flowering shrubs, also enclosed in gilded
railings. At the far end, a group of palms were outlined in jet black
against that vivid lemon-coloured afterglow only seen in hot countries;
peacocks, perched on the walls of the court, stood out duskily purple
against the glowing expanse of saffron sky, and the sleeping waters of
the long pool reflected the golden glory of the flaming vault above
them.
In the hush of the evening, and the half-light, the scene was lovely
beyond description, and for eighteen years I treasured in my mind the
memory of the Husainabad at sunset as the vision of my life.
On returning to Lucknow in 1906, I insisted on going at once to revisit
the Husainabad, though I was warned that there was nothing to see
there. Alas! in broad daylight and in the glare of the fierce sun the
whole place looked abominably tawdry. What I had taken for
black-and-white marble was only painted stucco, and coarsely daubed at
that; the details of the decoration were deplorable, and the Husainabad
was just a piece of showy, meretricious tinsel. The gathering dusk and
the golden expanse of the Indian sunset sky had by some subtle wizardry
thrown a veil of glamour over this poor travesty of the marvels of
Delhi and Agra. So a long-cherished ideal was hopelessly shattered,
which is always a melancholy thing.
We are all slaves to the economic conditions under which we live, and
the present exorbitant price of paper is a very potent factor in the
making of books. I am warned by my heartless publishers that I have
already exceeded my limits. There are many things in India of which I
would speak: of big-game hunts in Assam; of near views of the mighty
snows of the Himalayas; of jugglers and their tricks, and of certain
unfamiliar aspects of native life. The telling of these must be
reserved for another occasion, for it is impossible in the brief
compass of a single chapter to do more than touch the surface of things
in the vast Empire, the origin of whose history is lost in the mists of
time.