Chapter XI (2)

Everybody writes what you say of Sir G. Villiers[467]--that he is not the least altered, which I own surprises me, because as far as I am concerned he has been decidedly “changed at nurse,” and just simply because he would not answer the two long letters I wrote him, I settled that he was not the original G. Villiers, with whom one could talk and laugh any number of hours, and whose visits were a bright spot in the day, but that he was a mixture of a Spanish Grandee in a reserved black cloak, with a mysterious hat and plume, etc., or a Diplomat in a French comedy who speaks blank verse. But “it is the greatest of comforts,” as Mrs. Bennett said about long sleeves, to know that he is unaltered. I should be sorry if those horrid Spaniards had gone and spoilt one of our pleasantest men, and I still think that a system of sending out bores to foreign courts would be an improvement.

Foreigners would never know how it was. A bore would be softened by being translated into another language, or he might simply pass as an original--_un Anglais enfin_; and then we might keep all the amusing people to ourselves. I should like to have seen your brother; and how I should like to see your children! I have no doubt they are as pretty as you say; the little boy[468] always had a turn that way. I cannot make out whether there are any more coming, but I suppose you would have mentioned it if there were, and I think you are apt to increase your family in a dawdling way, not in that rapid manner with which my sister used to produce ten or twelve children all of a sudden, and before one was prepared for the shock.

We came back to these dear good hills about a fortnight ago, and I love them more dearly than ever. The thermometer was at 91 in our tents, and after two days’ toiling up the hills, we found snow in our garden here. That is all gone, and the flowers are beginning to spring up. The snowy range is so clean and bright, it looks as if one might walk to it, and the red rhododendrons are looking like gigantic scarlet geraniums in the foreground. I cannot sketch hills at all: they are too large here, and there is no beginning nor end to them--no waterfalls, or convents, or old buildings to finish them off.

We were about four months and a half in camp this year, so the blessing of being in a house again is not to be described. I never am well in the plains, and this year it would have been perverse not to have had constant fever. We had rain every week, which kept the tents constantly dripping, and we were very often apparently pitched in a lake, and had to be carried through the water to dress. I was hardly a month the whole time free from ague, and how George and Fanny are so constantly well is a matter of astonishment to our doctor and every one else.

The Punjab was an interesting bit of our tour, and I am very glad we have seen Runjeet Singh[469] and all his Indians in their savage grandeur. He very nearly died just before we came away, which would have been a dreadful blow in the political way, but he has happily rallied again.

I should like to show you some of my Sikh sketches, though I have horrible misgivings that, except to those who have run up Sikh intimacies, and who prefer Shere Singh[470] to Kurruck Singh, or _vice versa_, they may be tiresome performances. I have, in the meanwhile, had several of my sketches copied by the miniature painters at Delhi, and they have made some very soft likenesses from them. Do you ever draw now? Or have you no time?

There are 96 ladies here whose husbands are gone to the wars, and about 26 gentlemen--at least there will, with good luck, be about that number. We have a very dancing set of Aides-de-Camp just now, and they are utterly desperate at the notion of our having no balls. I suppose we must begin on one in a fortnight, but it will be difficult, and there are several young ladies here with whom some of our gentlemen are much smitten. As they will have no rivals here, I am horribly afraid the flirtations may become serious, and then we shall lose some active Aides-de-Camp, and they will find themselves on Ensign’s pay with a wife to keep. However, they _will_ have these balls, so it is not my fault. Your ever affectionate

E. EDEN.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lister._

SIMLA, _June 17, 1839_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I have had a letter of yours to answer more than a month, but this is a bad time of year for writing home. We try all sorts of plans; but, first, the monsoon cripples one steamer, and the next comes back with all the letters still on board that we fondly thought were in England. Then we try an Arab sailing vessel; but I always feel convinced that an Arab ship sails wildly about drinking coffee and robbing other ships. This is to go to the Persian Gulf, and if you are living at your nice little villa, Hafiz Lodge, on the banks of the Gulf, I think it just possible this letter may find you. Otherwise, I do not see why it should.

And now for your letter. First: I see you are now Lady Theresa.[471] Ought I to make any difference in my little familiarities? Secondly: as touching Lord Clarendon’s marriage,[472] which had been mentioned so often as decidedly settled that I began to fear there could be no foundation for it--I never have faith in a report that lasts three months without becoming a fact. However, I am very glad it is all right now. I remember he always liked her, and she has had rather a trying life of it, which will fit her all the more for the enjoyment of happiness.

You talk of your uncle’s will as if it had been unsatisfactory. I was in hopes Lord Clarendon was rolling in riches--I do not know why. You should never write as if I knew anything. If you mention a will, you should state it, beginning with “sound health of mind and body,” and ending with the witnesses’ names; otherwise we never know anything in India, and what little we do know we forget, for want of people to talk it over with.

We cannot remember if that poor Lady H. Villiers[473] died; but I think she did, and if so, I do not see who the late Lord C. could leave his money to, except to the present one. However, he will be well off now, at all events. Lady Verulam,[474] I own, I think a sad and very large objection, but only at first; and as I rather hope to hear by the next mail that your brother is in office, politics and business will prevent any very wearisome intercourse.

Thirdly: as to those unfortunate H. Gordons. His memorial for leave to retire is gone home to the Court of Directors, and George has no more to say to it than you or I have. It rests entirely with the Court, but George thinks they will give him leave to go home, as the idea of his paying that large debt out of his wretched income is absurd, and he is, in fact, a mere expense to them. But about the pension--there again no authority, not even the Court, can help him. I see constantly in the Calcutta papers that when anything the least unusual, or even doubtful, with regard to the Pension Fund is contemplated, then it is put to the vote of the whole Army, and always carried economically. Still, if the Court give him leave to go home, I am sure it would not be worth his while to live here in misery for the sake of the small addition to his pension. I suppose it cannot be more than £100 a year altogether, and I should really think it could not hurt Lady C. Cavendish[475] to make that up out of her own allowance. You will have had my letter explaining the absolute impossibility of George’s doing anything here for him. There is no such thing, Heaven knows, as a sinecure in India. For military men there are Staff appointments, which are, of course, in the gift of the Commander-in-Chief.

We have been uncommonly gay at Simla this year, and have had some beautiful tableaux with music, and one or two very well acted farces, which are a happy change from the everlasting quadrilles, and everybody has been pleased and amused, except the two clergymen who are here, and who have begun a course of sermons against what they call a destructive torrent of worldly gaiety. They had much better preach against the destructive torrent of rain which has now set in for the next three months, and not only washes away all gaiety, but all the paths, in the literal sense, which lead to it. At least I know the last storm has washed away the paths to Government House.

The whole amount of gaiety has been nine evening parties in three months--six here, and three at other houses. Our parties begin at half-past eight, and at twelve o’clock we always get up and make our courtesies and everybody goes at once. Instead of dancing every time, we have had alternations of tableaux and charades, and the result has been three Aides-de-Camp engaged to three very nice English girls, and the dismissal of various native Mrs. Aides-de-Camp. Moreover, instead of the low spirits and constant _tracasseries_, which are the foundation of an Indian station, everybody this year has been in good humour, and they all delight in Simla, and none of them look ill.

Our public affairs are prospering much, but I will not bore you with details. We really are within sight of going home, dearest Theresa, but it makes me shiver to think of it. I am so afraid something will happen to prevent it.

I do not count Simla as any grievance--nice climate, beautiful place, constant fresh air, active clergymen, plenty of fleas, not much society, everything that is desirable; and when we leave it, we shall only have a year and a half of India. The march is a bad bit; I am always ill marching, and our hot season in Calcutta makes me simmer to think of it. Then, the last five months will be cool, and we shall be packing. And then, the 4th of March 1841, we embark, and in July of the same you will be “my neighbour Lister,” and we shall be calling and talking and making much of each other. I should like to see your children. No, I do not approve of Alice for your girl.[476] There is an unconscious prejudice in favour of the name “Alice” which has risen to an alarming height, and I think it my duty to oppose it. It gives me an idea of a slammerkin milk-and-water girl. However, do as you like, only don’t blame me if Alice never looks tidy. Love to Mrs. Villiers. Ever your affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lister._

SIMLA, _June 29, 1839_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, To-day an old sea letter of yours (January 23) has come to hand, containing all that I wanted to know, so as there is an odd opportunity of writing (a Chinese clipper going from Calcutta to Aden, and the letters to find their own way from thence--such a post office arrangement!) I take advantage of it....

This letter is six months old, but still very acceptable, and it shows that I still have some right original English feelings,--that I have been brought up in good Knightsbridge principles.

That old Lord Clarendon[477] was a brute; I always thought so. But what can be the use of carrying on a farce of that sort to the end? He cannot pop his head up even for a minute to say, “How I have tricked you!”--supposing he was proud of it. My only hope is that Lady Clarendon, who will find it difficult amongst her own nieces to hit upon a worthy heir, will do what Lord Clarendon ought to have done. This must go forthwith. Ever, dearest Theresa, your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to her Brother, Robert Eden [Vicar of Battersea]._

PINJORE, _November 2, 1839_.

MY DEAREST ROBERT, Here we are again fairly in the plains, and to be sure the plains are not the hills--an axiom the profound wisdom of which you cannot appreciate, unless you had been yesterday luncheoning with us at the Fir Tree Bungalow, with the snow in sight, the cool air rushing about, and everything as it ought to be in October, the cones tumbling off the fir trees, and the fern red and autumnal, and then you should have been snapped up by your _Jhanpannies_ and run away with down-hill, till in two hours you found yourself at Barr, the thermometer at 90 in the tents, a man pulling the punkah for a little artificial air, and nothing but dust and camels to be seen for miles round.

We came on eight miles to this place this morning, and stay two days to allow time for our goods to arrive; but it is almost hotter than Barr. Poor dear Simla! I had a great mind to cry when I saw the last glimpse of it yesterday; but still I look upon this march as one step towards home.

The army is on its way back from Cabul, but as Dost Mahomed is supposed to be not far from the frontier, a larger force remains behind than was at first intended. However, nothing can be known till the spring, for the boundary between here and Cabul is impassable from snow, even for a messenger during the winter. However well the expedition has succeeded with reference to Russia and Persia, and to the safety of this country from foreign enemies, I really think it is more important in the effect it has had in India itself. Natives are totally unlike anything we know at home; and they have had for some years an idea that their fate, or what they call the good-luck of England, was to change, and the Nepalese have been fomenting this notion with great care, so that there were many petty states quite ready for an outbreak.

Every post now brings letters from Residents all over India, saying that the success in Afghanistan has not only astounded the natives, but given them faith again in English luck in general, and in their Lord Sahib in particular. The further the news spreads, the more effect it seems to make. There has been one very odd proof at Kurnaul in the Madras Presidency of the _thinness_ of the crust over the volcano on which we all sit in this country. The only wonder is it does not explode oftener. The Nawáb of Kurnaul has been often accused of disaffection, and lately of having concealed stores. He was uncommonly angry, as people are when they are accused of anything true or false, and desired three commissioners should be sent to examine his jaghir. They found nothing and were coming away, but some of the military authorities got information from the Nawáb’s own people, summoned more forces, and asked for another search. He said they were quite welcome to go into his fort, and his prime Minister should go with them. Nothing was visible; but his workmen betrayed him. They pointed out dead walls which were covered up, concealed pits that were opened, etc., and everywhere arms were discovered. More guns than belong to the whole army of [illegible]; rooms full of double-barrelled guns, and bags of shot attached to each; and shells, which the natives were supposed not to know how to make. His Zenána was turned into a Foundry, etc. There never was a thing done more handsomely. As he has an income of only £100,000 a year, of course he must be in league with richer and greater potentates, and his own 1500 followers could not have made much use of all this artillery. He made a little fight for it, but he is in prison and his territories are seized by the Company--one of the cases in which Lord Brougham would probably like to talk about native wrong and British encroachments. George says the Directors occasionally write a fine sentence about not attending exclusively to British interests, just as if the British were here for any other purpose, or as if everybody’s interest were not to keep the country at peace.

Lord Elphinstone[478] has done this Kurnaul business very sensibly and well.

SHAH-I-BAD, _November 8, 1839_.

I have kept this open in hopes of the overland post. It won’t come. We are progressing slowly and painfully. George and I think we have been a year in camp; but other people say only a week. The heat is quite dreadful, and I think I feel my brain simmering up in small bubbles, just as water does before it begins to boil. We are in Mr. Clerk’s[479] district, and he has let Henry Vansittart come with the camp, which delights him, and he learns a little bit of camp business, regulates the price of flour at the bazaar, talks big about the roads, and by way of showing how good they are, overturned his buggy and himself last night. But he is pleasanter on his own ground than at Simla. My best love to Mary. Ever yours most aff.

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lister._

CAMP UMBALLA, _November 5, 1839_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I have not heard from you for a long time, but one of the last overland letters mentioned that you had been ill, so it is tempting to write and hope that you are well again.

The wife of the Private Secretary[480] came with me from Simla, because in compliment to my weaker health I made shorter marches to the foot of the hills with the last fat baby, Auckland Colvin[481] refusing to sit anywhere but in her lap, and the baby before that refusing to go to sleep unless she slept in the same tent with him, in which there were the three children, two Portuguese Ayahs, and the children’s favourite bearers. No light, because the candles had been sent on by mistake to the next ground; no carpets, because ditto; so that the servants kicked up a dust even in their sleep. Several Pariah dogs were playfully avoiding the Jackals, and about thirty bearers sleeping or smoking on the kynants, or the space between the lining and the outside of the tent. “_That I saw_,” as Sydney Smith used to say in his charity sermons when he was stating a particular case of distress which he not only never had seen, but never heard of.

This was in our encampment in the hills, when the climate was still delicious. Now the thermometer stands at 90 in the tents, and these unfortunate ladies begin to march at four in the evening. I do not know that the horn signifies, as I defy anybody to sleep in camp more than two hours, and it is being uncommonly acute to snatch at that the first week, till the sentries have learnt to stop the tent-pitchers and camel-drivers from knocking down and packing up all night at unlawful hours. I got Captain Codrington, our Quarter-master, to stay behind last night instead of going on to pitch the advanced camp, that he might see and hear what a quantity of illicit pitching and packing went on, and the result was that he imprisoned 160 tent-pitchers, 56 camels, and removed out of hearing the neighing horses of half the clerks in the public offices, and we all went to sleep for at least half-an-hour, which was very grand. Moreover, it is a rule that nothing should leave the ground till the Governor-General’s carriage goes by, and a gun is fired to announce that highly important event; so to-day this rule was enforced, and in a country of hot dust, which this is, a very good rule it is. But it was funny to see the crowds of old men and beasts the advance guard had stopped, camels and elephants innumerable, our own band, several hundreds of grass-cutters’ ponies laden with grass for sale, palanquins full of small half-caste babies, everybody’s pet dog with their bearers, sofas and arm-chairs. My own tame pheasants in their wooden house I saw in the _mêlée_.

Marching disagrees so much with me, that by the doctor’s advice, and George’s desire, I leave the camp at Agra, and go straight down to Calcutta, where I hope to be the middle of February. George does not expect to be there before the 1st of April, but I rather hope he will, driven by the heat, cut off some of his tour as the time draws nearer. We have been joined on the march by several officers returning from Cabul, and very flourishing they look, and they cannot make out that their sufferings have been what the papers tried to make out. Captain Dawkins, of Lord Auckland’s Bodyguard, who has been through the campaign with a regiment to which he lawfully belongs, has come back looking fatter than most Falstaffs, and he brought back three of the sheep which he left with us at Ferozepore last year, so that danger of starving was not great.

God bless you, dearest Theresa. This is a very stupid letter, but then it is better than none, which is what I have had from you. And you cannot imagine how hot it is. Your most affectionate

E. EDEN.