A Winter in India: Light Impressions of its Cities, Peoples and Customs 9781138822542, 9781315734965

Citation preview

A WINTER IN INDIA

This page intentionally left blank

A WINTER IN INDIA LIGHT IMPRESSIONS OF ITS CITIES, PEOPLES, AND CUSTOMS

ARCHIBALD B. SPENS

With a new Introduction by PETER ROBB

National Archives of India

LONDON NEW YORK NEW DELHI

First published 2014 in India by Routledge 912 Tolstoy House, 15–17 Tolstoy Marg, Connaught Place, New Delhi 110 001 Simultaneously published in the UK by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN

Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

© 2014 National Archives of India © Peter Robb, “Introduction” This book is published as part of “Archives in India: Historical Reprints.”

Typeset by Glyph Graphics Private Limited 23, Khosla Complex Vasundhara Enclave Delhi 110 096

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-138-82254-2

DEDICATED WITH AFFECTION TO MY MOTHER AND FATHER

This page intentionally left blank

Introduction by Peter Robb

ix

List of Illustrations xli Preface

xliii

Port Said and the Suez Canal

4

Toussoum 14 Red Sea 18 Aden 20 Umballa 22 Peshawar and Khyber Pass

53

Lahore 83 Amritsar 87 Simla 94 Patiala 104 Agra, Fatehpur Sikri and Sikandra

110

Cawnpore 127 Lucknow 140 Benares 153 Delhi 163 Gwalior 189 Jaipur 200 Amber 212 Bombay 223 The Suez Canal by Count Charles De Lesseps

235

This page intentionally left blank

Introduction Peter Robb

I

was surprised when I heard that the National Archives of India and Routledge Publishers wanted to reprint Archibald Spens’ A Winter in India. Its descriptive powers have been rightly praised, but its witticisms and drolleries seem dated, and its attitudes are not ours. In many ways it is a disagreeable text, in its casual assumptions of British superiority, its glorification of empire, and its obsession with the Mutiny, as it calls it, of 1857. What is the point of re-reading it now, more than a century after it first appeared? Is it to congratulate ourselves on our present virtues, or to castigate long-gone (or possibly present-day) Europeans? Perhaps all of these, but there is more to say about the book, more to learn from it, than an easy confirmation of old assumptions. It turns out after all to be quite often entertaining, interesting and relevant. Firstly, we should consider it as an historical text, in the terms of its own day and circumstances. It purports to be a diary of the winter months of 1912–13 (and I have used the dates to reference my quotations from it). But little is explained, neither the whys nor the whos of this journey. Spens’ then wife is at best a shadowy presence, never allowed to speak. His hosts, and those who provide him with funds at one point, and information, and ready access to prisons and princes, are virtual strangers to the story. Spens himself is effectively anonymous. Once he seems to describe himself as a “sun-dried Anglo-Indian” (6 December 1912), apparently on the strength of an earlier visit to South India where he “landed at Tuticorin” six years before (10 January 1913); but his Indian experience and connections are at once evident and invisible.1 A Goan servant, Peter, hired upon arrival in Bombay is more fully described. On the other hand, excellent trains or hotels and charming or interesting sights are itemized. Moreover, “you,” meaning a British reader, are a character in the story. Spens imagines a little of your own life and family at home. Your interests and prejudices are consulted. You are being advised to go to India, and what you should see there, and how you should react. Spens is taking you by the hand

x

A Winter in India

on his travels, leading you, as it were, through places, histories, and experiences. Partly by deliberate design, therefore, A Winter in India may be taken to sum up a typical British attitude to empire and to India in the early twentieth century. Let us begun there. It is reasonable to consider our guide a man of his class and time. Archibald Borthwick Spens (1879–1966) was a Scot who epitomized the middle class and gentry of the period. Well-connected, he was born in the comfortable Glasgow suburb of Hillshead, the seventh child of William George Spens (1845–1916), manager of Scottish Amicable Insurance, and the Honourable Catherine Borthwick (c.1845–1928), daughter of Lord Archibald Borthwick, who had died before her marriage. Archibald Spens was educated at Trinity College, Glenalmond, a Scottish Episcopal boarding school co-founded by W.E. Gladstone in 1847. Spens qualified as a chartered accountant in 1903, perhaps thereby following his father. He served as a Captain in the Royal Army Service Corps, 1915–18, and in the 2nd/18th Essex Regiment in 1920. He was made OBE in 1919. He married Margaret Gladys Buchanan Macgeorge (d.1958) in 1903, but then divorced and in 1917 married Diana Clare Mallory (d.1955). He had a daughter from his first marriage and a son and two more daughters from his second. Including A Winter in India, he was the author of five books.2 To establish his credentials in A Winter in India, Spens alternates between ironic detachment, authority, and engagement. Setting a mood for what is to come, the book starts (6 December) with a flourish of drollery: at an over-enthusiastic French taxi-driver, a damsel’s love of dancing, a snoring “Australian of uncertain age and indubitably prodigious weight,” and a sea “as smooth, even and fascinating as any speech of Sir Herbert Maxwell or Lord Rosebery.”3 Spens’ stance is often playful, but all the more to underline the moments when his descriptions are finely-worked or his tone is grave. He wishes to amuse but also to instruct. He affects (22 December) a faux caution and humility (“much travelling has convinced me of the futility and impertinence of dogmatism on any subject or country to which one has not dedicated half a lifetime”) and pretends that he is on a voyage of discovery himself (“in a few months I shall be better qualified”); but he is happiest in the role of sympathetic, informed guide and teacher. It is a fiction, of course. No one was likely to take Spens on

Introduction

xi

their Indian journey in preference to Murray’s guide, which he used himself,4 and there is nothing original about Spens’ accounts unless it be their imagined reconstructions while supposedly standing on the very spots where history was made. Moreover, though Spens constantly purports to be instructing future visitors on how to see India, really he is writing for an audience of armchair tourists and telling them what he thinks will most interest them. Often different attitudes are mixed together, starting in Egypt: And now we are forging along, approaching nearer and nearer to the fascinating Gate of the East, which on my first arrival, some six years ago, gradually opened its mist-closed doors to the command of the Egyptian sun at dawn. Already I seem to scent that indescribable smell of incense, spices, garlic, sugar, goats and refuse, and see the thousand and one coolies crossing and recrossing in a never-ending shuffle of rags, dust and uproar the wooden hyphen connecting the coal barges with the ship’s bunkers. Port Said is indeed the meeting-place of East and West, at once the home of thousands of natives — the off scouring of Africa — so low in the social scale of humanity as to be almost indistinguishable from apes, and at the same time the eye that controls the latest movements of our modern liners as they pass through Lesseps’ great monument of engineering and perseverance across the desert to Suez (9 December).

What is at once “fascinating” is also “indescribable”; a “never-ending … uproar” — a mark of indiscipline and irrationality, perhaps — reflects low status on the “social scale of humanity” (the first of two unforgiveable references to monkeys); while, like “modern liners”, the Suez canal proclaims the advances and the promise of future progress brought about by European character and effort, a “great monument of engineering and perseverance”.5 I argue that this particular combination of elements is not random, but strategic. Together the elements comprise Spens’ treatment of India and empire. First, obvious enough, are the products of power: the pathology of racial superiority and the blindness of arrogance. Related to these, secondly, is something else: ways of making decent people feel good about themselves as citizens and beneficiaries of empire. The spoken or unspoken words are “duty” and “progress.”

xii

A Winter in India

Third are the instances of genuine incomprehension and incompatibility. Spens claims he does not want to condemn the ways of others, but some things, particularly Hindu things, he admits that he simply cannot fathom. Finally, there are admiration, fascination, and affection. I will illustrate each of these elements before asking how we should regard them, and what they tell us.

Power and Duty For Spens, the Mutiny is the core of his readers’ presumed interest in India. He is right: it was a constant refrain in the British story of their empire in India. Thus the standard litany of treachery and heroism in 1857 is recited repeatedly. The Mutiny is also the litmus test for national character, Indian and European, and the basis of discourses on the need for control. Many of Spens’ ideas about power and duty may be discerned in these accounts. Arriving in Delhi by train, for example, Spens describes how “a thrill passed through me as before my eyes were unfolded scene upon scene — the Ridge, the Jumna, the Mosque — in all the almost unparalleled glory of their ancient and modern memories of war and splendour, treachery and heroism” (22 December). He contrives a link, we note, between all memories of conflict and valour, as if they belong to a common humanity, but this is merely a rhetorical flourish: it is the particular events of the Mutiny that obsess him. He passes on to Meerut, describing it as “the earliest chosen spot of the long succeeding series of revolting outrages that saturated India with the blood of defenceless women and children in that awful summer of 1857.” Now there is continuity between today’s bright sunshine and the sunshine fifty-five years before, between this peaceful Sunday afternoon and the Sunday before the mutiny broke out. Spens “re-peoples” Meerut with those “planning the murder of every European” and could somehow in the silence of this afternoon hear the distant echo of shot upon shot, cry upon cry of women and children’s voices; I could see the mean, sneaking devils murdering their officers and burning the houses of the cantonment. I could smell the powder and the dust, and follow the dense mass — the advance guard of the great Mutiny — filing off, alas! unpunished and unpursued, on the grand trunk road to Delhi (22 December).

Introduction

xiii

Similarly, at the mutiny memorial in Cawnpore (Kanpur), Spens claims to be “writing at a distance and without conscious heat,” but translates present-day Indians into murderous rebels, and readily believes the savage reprisals of the British to be “but scant retribution for the inhuman enormities committed” (8 February). He knows he should “let the dead bury their dead,” and that “Macaulay’s brilliant nephew” (Trevelyan) “is doubtless right,” but cannot bring himself to show the same “earnest, genuine and Christian” forgiveness.6 At Lucknow, too, naturally Spens’ account is dominated by 1857 and the siege. The loveliness of the scene and the gaze of future visitors are harnessed only to the cause of the British dead: How can I portray to you the infinite beauty of this sacred spot! Guns, monuments, flowers and memories; imperishable fame; undying dust; God’s acre of inexpressible beatitude. Ah! go to this hallowed plot; wander beneath its shady trees; gaze on its priceless jewels of immortality; step softly round the sleeping host of heroes who dared and died for Honour, who bled for their far-off land, who live for evermore (9 February).

Finally coming on an extended visit to Delhi, he remarks: “The whole city whispers Mutiny. Its walls exhale it; its atmosphere encircles you.” (11 February). At Delhi Gate, the Jama Masjid and Chandni Chauk, Spens’ descriptions are sprinkled with Mutiny references, before they turn into another detailed account, finally focusing on the Ridge (12 February). The repeated equation of rebels and their present-day descendants, and of British heroes and theirs, is no accident: it is the core of the message, justifying British rule as a beneficial conquest, above all for the Indians of course, but also for their rulers. It seems, for example, that living and ruling abroad, and dominating other peoples, was actually good for you: it produced muscularity. Some of the British at home might have become a bit soft and effete, so wrote our accountant from Glasgow, but the desired manly qualities might still be found in Britons who had settled in new lands: Without doubt the Colonies are strong and extremely virile! Not only in physique but in mind and outlook. Their gods are strength and

xiv

A Winter in India

inches — and their creed muscle and equality. Nevertheless it is probable that it would do the “old country” a power of good were some of this same spirit and muscular humanity reimported into the higher civilized, less primitive and perhaps less manly communities of our great business cities (6 December).

There is little or no other criticism of any Europeans in this book. Excesses and over-reactions during the Mutiny are either justified or understandable; there is some irony about ineffectual and “apparently elastic cantonment laws” (Christmas Day, 1912). Obliquely, in these examples, Spens is blaming Indians, in one case for a serious transgression and in the other for a trivial one. As a consequence of the echoes of the Mutiny, and again in common with the consensus among many Britons, Spens stresses that India is held by force and vigilance, expanding the idea to include order that is provided for all. Thus, reacting (on Christmas Day) to a church parade of troops bearing arms, he is stirred by the thought that they and a handful more hold, rule and protect over three hundred and twenty million people, or one-fifth of the population of the globe, or, to put it another way, a country whose area exceeds one million seven hundred and seventy-three thousand square miles.

Note “hold, rule and protect”, not the imagined descendants of mutineers, but one-fifth of the world’s people. While aggrandizing the British, this is also close to the distinction often made at this time between “real Indians” and Indians of ill-will. The mutineers are condemned because they represent an anarchy and oppression which victimized not only European women and children (thereby deepening the crime and defining the perpetrators) but also ordinary Indians. It was an appeal to the “masses” to become complicit in the imperial project, and a kind of riposte to Savarkar’s Indian War of Independence (1909) which Spens could have but surely did not read. His attitude to loyalists is explicit, for example in regard to the Gurkhas: “Fine fellows all! We have much cause to be proud” of them, as allies in 1857 (11 February). At Delhi Ridge, he notes: Our loss during the siege amounted to 2168; that of the native troops to 1686. Do we sometimes forget the latter fact? Do we often enough

Introduction

xv

remember that if the 60th Rifles lost 389 men out of a total of 890, the Gurkhas and the Sikhs also fell in hundreds side by side with the British? Do we forget? (12 February).

The way is clear to a justification of vengeance as “justice”. Implicitly, in contrast with the Gurkhas and Sikhs, some Indians were wilful conspirators, and (as said) guilt persists through the generations. Spens hears a thirty-nine gun royal salute, and is reminded (from what he calls an “actual eye-witness” account) of the six men who were executed in Ferozepore in 1857 by being blown from cannons: I wondered, as I scanned the crowd, how many of the old grey-beards present had witnessed similar scenes to the one I have just described. Had they, then young, mutinous, brutal and arrogant, been forced to watch their hideous dreams of further mutiny, murder and imagined freedom fade away in the smoke of the White Man’s avenging guns, and been compelled to hear their leaders’ vain boastings drowned for ever in the roar of Britain’s inexorable might and unfaltering justice.

It is not only justice, however, that commends this ruthless reestablishment of British power. Indians accepted it, Spens believes, also through fear and passivity. So, he goes on, he is thrilled by the marching troops, including the Royal Horse Artillery “magnificent in their blaze of gold and blue, symbolic, to the native mind, of unconquerable power, and reminiscent, doubtless, of tales of horror and vengeance imprinted by an earlier generation on their fatalistic souls” (1 January). The benefits of such power for Indians are ultimately an advancement of civilization: Spens makes no clear reference to comparative social theories, but, as for so many Britons who came to India, some of his basic assumptions had been sketched in by the likes of Henry Maine. Certainly, Spens is no advocate of relativism. He explains, for example, when you talk of murder, you speak geographically. Which applies to marriage, convention and ethics. Of the eight hundred convicts in Peshawar jail fully one-half were what we call murderers. But murder in North-West India is as necessary, in thousands of instances, as a “not at home” intimation in Highgate. Blood feuds must be carried on; mysterious deaths avenged; everyday social conventions observed.

xvi

A Winter in India

For in this border country insults, wife-snatching, killing and theft are only punishable by the spit of a Lee Metford rifle, not by the decree of a bewigged, impartial and incorruptible judge (11 January).

But of course he does not approve. Unspoken here is the need for such savages to be ruled. The bewigged should prevail. What is more, they will be welcomed. At the Ambala gaol, witnessing an inspection by “Colonel Z”, its governor and medical inspector, Spens concludes that almost every one of these half-civilized rascals palpably respected and liked the Colonel. His manner to all was kindly; his attitude personal and individual; all had a right to speak, to explain, to petition; and in the whole two and a half hours during which I accompanied him on tour of inspection never once did I hear him address a single convict in terms or tone less hearty, fair, or sympathetic than you would employ to a trusted and valued servant. No wonder, if he is a typical specimen of British justice and rule, that the world today acknowledges our country’s unique capability for governing subject races (6 January).

Spens then describes his own feelings, as if he shares the Colonel’s paternalistic sympathy: Of course the law must be upheld; order must be preserved; crime must be discouraged; but as I left the prison — a casual stranger, unversed in Indian manners, customs and temptations — my sympathies somehow went out to the wearers of yellow, red and brown — semi-barbarous children, uneducated, naturally cunning, and, many of them, with the full blood of a thousand lawless generations coursing through their fettered veins.

The Indian criminals, he implies, cannot help themselves because criminality is in their blood; it is the old view of thagi, dakaiti and Criminal Tribes, enhanced by social Darwinism and entrenched in British imagination and law during the nineteenth century. It is a small step away from the belief that all Indians are children who need the guidance which the British are uniquely capable of providing. Spens repeats an “absolutely true” story (12 January) of a boy of seventeen set by his mother to revenge the murder of his father which had occurred while he was still a baby. He failed in his attempt, and

Introduction

xvii

was himself pursued by his enemies. His mother saved him through her ingenuity, courage and ultimate sacrifice. Spens jokes that such behaviour would “add a piquancy to life in Grosvenor Square,” and doubts that a Mayfair “Lady Skinflint” would show similar mettle. But the wry comparison is intended to rebound against the Indians. Barbarity is the problem. In northwest India, a valiant and resourceful mother died for her son but only in order that he might fulfil a vendetta. A “portly” matron of Mayfair did not need such courage because her menfolk had created a more rational, ordered world. This message is rammed home by the British men being attacked by “fanatics” — the commandant at one fort seriously wounded, an “extremely promising”, daring, and courageous captain killed: From one end of the North-West Frontier to the other these attacks are ever being made upon our outposts; it is the British frontier officer who holds the Empire for us, living his daily life in ignorance of his heroism, and, when necessary, sacrificing that life without a thought of self on the high altar of Duty. And he, and such as he, have made the British Empire what it is. And we who sit at home, are we not sometimes apt to lose sight of the builders of the Empire in the very vastness of the Empire that they built? (13 January).

Alienation and Love The vastness of India is one reason that it is unknowable, but paradoxically it is also the basis of Spens’ self-assumed authority. He stresses India’s diversity, its 147 languages, that it stretches from the gentle south (Trichinopoly) to Peshawar where “wealth is measured not in bearer bonds, but in Lee Metford rifles” (10 January). This fits with the unwillingness to judge that Spens sometimes professes. It implies a range covering all types of society rather than the broad stereotypes he also employs: the very ambivalence, it seems to me, of the experienced Indian civil servant, dealing in both sweeping arrogance and nuanced understanding, sometimes within the one sentence. However, though it is progress, such as a well-run railway, that enables colonial observation, this viewer also admires what he sees. We will now explore these rather contradictory ideas.

xviii

A Winter in India

After somewhat over-coloured accounts of Egypt, a calmer summary records Spens’ train journey to Umballa (Ambala) en route from Bombay to Nasik or Burhanpur, and on to Bhopal, taking the widegauge railway northeast to Delhi. As he recalls: From station to station the distances were as immense as the scenery was wild or beautiful. Here were range upon range of mountain ridges, formed into a thousand fantastic shapes by a million years of tropical rainfall: there vast tracts of vivid green and well-cultivated plains. Here miles of forest; there field upon field of rice, banana and cotton (22 December).

It is a celebration both of the flourishing agriculture of the empire, and of a landscape shaped over millennia. Not only had an easy and comfortable journey rid Spens of the fear of the unknown, but “so far, all along the thousand miles of journey, and especially in the Punjab, the weather indicates a climate infinitely preferable, and more healthy, than that of the over-lauded Riviera or over-irrigated Egypt” (22 December). Moreover, like travel, this “study of nature” is character-forming. In the familiar romantic trope, the world is wondrous and instructive. Spens evokes its magic and beauty, as already on the sea journey through the Mediterranean: The day is another peep of a marine paradise; the sea sparkles in the clear sunshine; on the far horizon banked-up clouds as of lately fallen snow poise themselves (as a background of fantastically devised mountains) above the sunlit sea… (8 December).

The lessons drawn and the self-improvement gained, however, depend on a sense of difference that is always present. It is the mechanism for the benefits of travel and landscape. It is also a necessary counterpoint of national identity, and a geographical as well as an intellectual, social and moral truth for Spens, already demarcated when he “drifted beyond the boundary line of Europe, out of the calmer spirit of the West, watching the sombre shades of the Mediterranean give place to the dazzling, flamboyant, gaudy colours of Egypt” (10 December). The political and ethical consequences are repeatedly laid out. Off Bombay, on first seeing “the flash of the Colaba light” as

Introduction

xix

a “humble” tourist, Spens both distances himself from and celebrates “the genesis of the East India Company and the birth of Lord Clive’s imperishable fame”: he has had sight of the British Indian empire, that “great, unintelligible and paradoxical legacy of a few enterprising tradesmen and the fruit of the discontent of a restless and ambitious clerk” (22 December). He then leaves the country, it seems, more or less as he began, in Bombay (20 March), recollecting the “the gorgeous and enthralling picture of India”, but also, on a visit to the Elephanta caves (a “delightful and profitable hoax”), that “The East is the East — and unsuited to Western eyes. All unintelligible, almost repulsive and totally inexplicable.” Finally, ready to depart, he pities the degradation of an opium den: “Vice seats herself at a thousand lamp-lit altars for the worship of pedestrian Bombay. The songs of singing girls are wafted from an open window to the street; and we pass up an ill-lit stair to the brightly illuminated “diwankhana” above, to hear at closer quarters the strange, weird melodies of Hindustan” (20 March). Here are three major elements in this story: the empire, alienation, and a sympathy that, among other things, implies a duty of care. We have heard something of empire; let us now trace Spens’ outpourings of disapproval and his unwillingness to understand. As just seen, he has a poor opinion of Indian music: it is “monotonous, unmusical uproar,” “discordant blows and semi-detached duck notes,” a “maddening Eastern babel” (25 December). Though he is also “amused” by the complaints of his fellow Europeans, his reaction is avowedly from a position of unembarrassed ignorance. He does not want to understand this music, he is merely repelled by it. Even more generically, he admits himself quite defeated by Hinduism. Of Benares (10 February), he does not “know what to say, what to write. What is it all about, this worship of filthy cows, this sprinkling of lotus and marigold upon doubly unclean floors, this mixture of religion and commerce, this mingling of apparent godliness and immorality?” He feels “like a second Lord Rossmore: there is so much I may not tell”. Following in Rossmore’s footsteps, he tries instead to describe things he can tell.7 These include one temple “famous merely for its indelicate carving”; and another, to Durga, that “smells like nothing on earth — “a corps of money-grubbing priests follows you from filth to slaughterhouse …; the whole atmosphere is false, commercial and unreal.” Then

xx

A Winter in India

there are the burning ghats, vividly described, “a maze of fanaticism as well as a labyrinth of slime and filth”. Professing to “be sorry to cast aspersions on the religion of any nation, class or caste,” Spens concludes that “the fundamentals of some branches of Hinduism — culled from apparently credible sources and corroborated by one’s own two eyes  — fill a Western mind with mingled amazement and disgust.” Faced with what seems to him “gross materialism”, he admits: “There must be hundreds of thousands of Hindus who consider their rites devout, moral and deeply religious.” But he has, he says, “seen Hindus in many parts of India, so I have camels; but I profess no knowledge of the internal brain-cells of either.” For Spens the border between West and East lies between responsibility, honour and efficiency, and their opposites: fecklessness, dishonesty and stagnation. From the start, a stereotype of “native corruption” (with the author its authoritative purveyor) is casually assumed, for example to frame a knowing little joke about sea-faring comfort. Spens explains that, given “the deck steward’s administrations of beef-tea and biscuits”, “one is sometimes inclined on board ship to describe one’s regular and legitimate meals in the same language as a retired native Indian official once characterized his pay, as “but the chutni which we eat with our meat”” (8 December). Perhaps the implied criticism is that the pay was too small, but the main point is that the Indian official was venal. By contrast, well-known, unrefuted allegations of corruption in one European officer, and his bloody high-handedness in 1857, are both excused — perhaps with some unease — by his heroism in the Mutiny,8 while it is with very little hesitation that the Indians’ violence is taken to “prove” their general perfidy and debasement. At the Ambala district courts, “presided over alternately by Eurasians, Indians and Europeans,” we find Spens indulging in many of the usual derogatory remarks: The buildings are one-storied and somewhat rambling; while the compounds were literally packed with litigants, barristers, oxen, police, munshis, criminals and Civil Service officials. A few of the Indians were apparently busy, but the great majority squatted in the sun, chattering like a zooful of monkeys, as though (the exact truth) time had no meaning or value for them.

Introduction

xxi

And a little later: Picture a succession of small circles of Indians, all sitting on their heels, dressed in their dirty pugarees, not overclean dhotis, and, according to their several callings and stations, dictating or engrossing the myths and inexactitudes that constitute evidence in this land of prevarication, and you have some idea of an Indian solicitor’s clerk amongst his clientele (4 January).

Spens’ deliberately humorous accounts of court proceedings create a picture that is quite convincing in its way, but the distancing devices demean the Indians (whether clerks, lawyers, litigants, or onlookers) and represent the District Commissioner as knowing and just. So far so redolent of prejudice. Spens’ alienation is often expressed in the language of the picturesque, such an “orientalist” reflex we might say. And yet (as also in Western orientalist art) the treatment wavers between disgust and celebration. Spens’ first impressions of Ambala were gained, for example, with a Hindu language-teacher as guide, from “a most uncomfortable conveyance, baptized by the name of a “tum-tum” — a low, springless ancestor of a pony-trap”: All along the roads buffaloes, donkeys and oxen strayed at will or were yoked to loads of varying dimensions; the dust rose in a succession of thirst-inducing clouds;and I clung on to the side post of our extremely rickety carriage when corners and ruts demanded a closer study of the laws of equilibration. At last, however, we reached a pond, in which some buffaloes were immersed, and a gateway through which we passed and which led one straight back a thousand years into the neverchanging Eastern panorama of colour, flies and paradox (23 December).

“Paradox”, amidst the bustle of the bazaar and the tumult of all sorts of selling and manufacture, refers among other things to varieties of custom and humankind: “one of Umballa’s purdah ladies” crouching on a sedan-chair “entirely obscured from view by an extremely dirty white dust-sheet”; a “young woman nursing her baby boy” amongst indescribable debris; “Mahommedan women in full trousers — red, mauve, orange, and occasionally torn” shuffling along the crowded street; “a man, naked save for a dirty loin-cloth, … mechanically

xxii

A Winter in India

roasting corn”; “three little children moulding with their tiny hands the refuse of the street into cakes, for future consumption, when dried, as fuel”; and finally, “so incomprehensible” is the East, “a man as totally bereft of clothing as of sanity being ministered to by one and all of Umballa’s matrons.” How do we read this first venture out into Ambala? Spens distances himself from Eastern muddle and contradictions; he pretends to understand nothing, especially the naked man in the street receiving alms from women in purdah. The man was, Spens goes on, “being fed by all and sundry, whose religion commends the poor and insane to their kind-heartedness and charity”. Is that admirable or absurd in his view, or is it both? In the end, however, there is magic. Romance comes to the fore in Peshawar, for example: On my right sat the sherbet-sellers on their four-foot wooden booths; on my left a patriarch puffed his blow-pipe into the charcoal; fakirs, all but naked, intoned strange noises from the fetid gutter; three wildeyed, hawk-nosed Pathans strode past in their picturesque lungis; while tailors, hens, Mahommedans, dogs, fruit-stalls, beggars, Hindoos, oxen, Afridis, buffaloes, Singer sewing machines, Kuki Khels, pickle-sellers, Mohmands, tent-makers, Utmans and crime jostled each other in this fascinating, cosmopolitan street known as Kissa Kahani, or the place where stories are read. For here the ancestors of this varied community were wont to sit and listen to strange tales of love and war brought from far Bokhara, the Samarkand, sun-parched Hyderabad and the snows of Russia (11 January).

Even in Benares, Spens urges his readers to go to the holy Ganges. There all is altered. Personally, I think the scenes upon the river’s bank far surpass in colour, fascination and incongruity any I have yet seen in India. To follow it all, the purpose of the Hindu rites, the apparently necessitous insanitary condition of river, ghaut and temple, is beyond the European mind; but for a short visit the Rome of India is emphatically worth the longest crosscountry journey (10 February).

“Rome,” that cradle of classical civilization, as imparted to Spens even in a Scottish education! The “Rome of India”? — its true font and

Introduction

xxiii

origin? — a somewhat mixed compliment to both India and Benares. But then Spens describes early morning at the bathing ghats: Never, absolutely never, have I seen such colour. The eye was entranced by it; it was simply intoxicating. Green jostled yellow, black strode along with blue. Brilliant red “killed” magenta; chocolate and brown cried quits. Scarlet was there with poppy; aquamarine with grey; orange vied with marigold; the crowd with the rainbow itself. Slowly mounted the sun; in an endless stream descended the Hindu. First look up. You see the clouds riding away above the temple domes; you hear the birds but faintly amid the hum on the river-bank; windows glisten in the sunlight; Benares is at prayer.

This rhapsody revels in strangeness: “It is all so inexplicable! So grotesque! So unintelligible!” Every detail speaks of profligacy and excess; there is constant confusion between the public and the private, between ritual and informality, between religion and sociability, between prayer and ablutions, between death and life. But it is as if the incomprehensibility, otherwise alienating, adds to the delight, combining exoticism and mystery. After all, that is the “orientalist” position, in the derogatory sense. But Spens does not leave it there. Rather, he includes more than one paean of praise for the country he has encountered. It is heard in his vivid description of the Golden Temple in Amritsar (15 January), and in his visit to Simla for the mountain scenery rather than imperial pomp (25 January). It is heard when I dropped the book I was reading and involuntarily exclaimed: “The Taj!” Across an arid plain of dust and brushwood I first set eyes upon it. There was no possibility of mistake. Familiar through the medium of a thousand photographs, I instantly recognized the central marble dome and offspring cupolas, the sentinel minarets and guardian redstone mosques (5 February).

Already, we see, tourist sites had become familiar before they were visited, as is even more the case in today’s digital age, when image may outperform reality. Still, the awe inspired by the Taj Mahal was unfeigned then, as so often since. Spens adds similar captivated accounts of Fatehpur Sikri, enhanced by imaginative recreations of the

xxiv

A Winter in India

Mughal past (6 February), of Akbar’s tomb at Sikandra and its “latticework cloisters of surpassing beauty”, and of Itimad-ud-daula with the “beauty unspeakable” of nightfall in Agra (7 February). Similarly, at Kutab Minar, he is overwhelmed by a sense of history and achievement (11 February): “as you gaze upwards and reflect that it has overshadowed one Delhi, patrolled a second, and from a distance sentinelled a further five, you begin to wonder what manner of workman was this who fashioned such a marvellous monument.” At the Delhi fort too he is “absolutely delighted” (12 December): “forget the Mutiny, pass through to the wonders of Shah Jahan’s exquisite palace.” In a different way Gwalior too is “grilling, but a merciful breeze makes life not only endurable, but positively ideal”. By now Spens has, “alas!,” said his “last good-bye to Umballa” and “reluctantly” torn himself away from Delhi (9 March). In Jaipur state (14 March), “the sunshine lit up the Aravili hills and flooded in a perfect blaze of gold and silver the picturesque city below”; and, “reluctantly” once again, “I tore myself away from one of the most charming landscapes I ever recollect.” Amber (15 March) proves redolent of romantic imagined tales and scenes drawn from its history. Even the Parsi towers of silence (21 March) recall “a unique, moving and strange rite.” Finally, thinking about his departure the next day, Spens concludes (21 March): I have travelled, comparatively speaking, a good many miles across the earth, have visited some thirty-four countries; but of them all none will hold kindlier or happier recollections than the great stretch of land which we vaguely call India. Nowhere, I think, will you find such a combination of historical interest, lovely scenery, quaint customs and healthy climatic conditions as this vast dependency affords in the winter, tourist, season; nowhere, I am certain, will one meet with greater kindliness, courtesy and hospitality than in strange, inexplicable and enthralling Hindustan.

Progress and Princes Spens mocked the pretensions of Indians and those of mixed race, such as a librarian unable to locate any books who expressed “the undying loyalty of his house to the British race”; or “a Eurasian girl — as usual, more English than the dwellers in Peckham Rye” — who told

Introduction

xxv

how a European draper in Bombay when “asked for flesh-coloured stockings produced tan,” and another who spoke of his return “home” shortly and proposed to put up for a while at the dak bungalow. But these hallucinations, he insists, are no greater than the pretences and illusions among his British readers: that it is their ancestors depicted in recently-acquired portraits, or “that last 12th [of August, start of the shooting season] you shot a hundred brace of grouse” (1 January). Is this equation, this recognition of general human foibles, a way of saying that Indians are not so different after all? This question was a current one in British India, because it reflected on the positive expectations of advancement that served to justify the empire, alongside the undercurrent that dismissed Indians as lower beings, unable to aspire or progress. The question then was: could Indians do it on their own? It was a question beginning to be asked in influential circles, for example in the Round Table groups and among advocates of imperial federation. In May 1916, barely three years after Spens’ tour, the Viceroy Lord Chelmsford set his Council to consider the “ultimate goal” of British rule and the “first steps” towards it, very much the question posed by S. P. (later Lord) Sinha in his Congress Presidential address of December 1915. The interim answer was “Indian self-government,” subject to maintaining the “supreme authority of British Rule.”9 Spens own position seems similarly ambivalent. On one hand, he is very ready to assert Indian incapacity. On the other hand, as we shall see, he admires much that is being done in what he calls “Independent India” (3 February), in some princely states. He is pleased, for example, with his visit to Patiala. After inspecting a spacious and cheerful prison and a modern hospital, he remarks that there are no “sights” properly-speaking in the state, but many signs of native power. He finds there once again “that Indian hospitality leaves nothing to be desired.” He encounters a curious mix of East and West (“a short, square-set Sikh — the Home Minister — garbed in polo costume crowned by a long black beard”), but also “public-spirited men,” “working together … for the betterment of this enlightened native state,” and meal-time companions who are “most amusing, courteous and well-read,” creating “the faint echo of a resurrected “salon” of eighteenth-century France”:

xxvi

A Winter in India

I am not exaggerating when I state that the range of subjects essayed and scaled by the Indians would put to shame, confusion and muffled inarticulation the prandial oratory of your average dogmatic and insular Briton. It may be unpalatable, it may be controversial, but I think — and I most assuredly include myself in the mute battalions — that as a nation we are far behind our continental and, apparently, some Asiatic, neighbours in the neglected art of conversation (3 February).

Fortified by these impressions, and without having met any members of the Indian National Congress, he believes what “authoritative sources” tell him, that “not one in five [of them] believes what he is paid to preach.” It is a delicate touch of disdain in an age that valued supposedly amateur politicians. Of course these included the leaders of Congress at the time, but it is instead his Patiala acquaintances whom Spens equates with “the men of independent position who in England enter public life not as a means of livelihood, but with a desire to work for their empire.” He understands that these “Indians honestly and conscientiously…voicing what they thought to be best for the country,” were saying that it is “absolutely imperative that Great Britain should hold India; necessary to introduce British laws throughout every native state;” and (an interesting plea for minimal taxation, elevated to an argument for empire) “most desirable to assess the individual at as low a rate as possible” (3 February). Spens recommends a visit to Gwalior too, not for historical reasons (the famous fort) or present attractions, but (9 March) “to glean some slight knowledge of, and to faintly picture, the setting of the Scindia family.” The place is about the size of Greece; its modern capital, Lashkar lies just outside the palace gates and is an illustration of what can be done with unlimited means guided aright. Wide streets, spotlessly clean, lit by electricity, with here and there a dash of green where shady trees cast their welcome shadows upon white, carved balconies, I was almost dumb-struck with the contrast to any other native city visited in India.

In Jaipur too he is surrounded by “native troops, institutions, police and independence” (11 March), amidst an even greater appearance of “prosperity, cleanliness and progress”, with “‘noble’ proportions

Introduction

xxvii

and a new spirit pervading all.” He praises the college, “emblem of educational progress,” and Jai Singh’s observatory (Yantr Samrat), somehow still evoking “science, knowledge, war and progress”. Significantly, he adds: “There is something quite unique in the whole atmosphere; something that seems to breathe of the West rather than the East: something that appears to be struggling towards the dawn of efficiency rather than to be dreaming in the twilight of stagnation and lethargy.” He presents this as an alternative to violent opposition and incivility: “discontent, national congress, the death of the salaam, the birth of anarchism.” Spens’ attitude to princely states assumes European ideals of governance and progress. In Patiala, at least, he thinks that he encounters Oriental splendour “guided … by disinterested Indian gentlemen, and controlled by the unobtrusive and observant British Political Agent” (3 February). Gwalior too, with a population of just under three million, “ostensibly governed by the Maharaja, is in reality guided by a tactful, unseen British Political Agent.” Spens suggests that in spite of blunders, impeachments and latter-day arm-chair criticism I feel that we ought, all of us, more deeply to bow the knee of admiration to the little band of pioneers beginning with Clive and Warren Hastings and ending, perchance, with the Lawrences, who supplied us with those ingredients necessary to painting in colours of red the vast dependency that stretches from Cape Comorin to Peshawar.

Even Indian achievements in Jaipur, by this token, are tributes to British rule, “the honest and painstaking endeavour of the “most benevolent government on earth” to uplift and enlighten humanity” (11 March). But his accounts of Jaipur and the romance he finds in Mughal monuments and even in Hindu rites are moments at least when he allows India and its history to exist on their own terms. Overall it is not obvious, just as it was not at this time for more far-sighted constitutional reformers, British as well as India, that Spens is certain European tutelage will always be needed, or perhaps always be sustainable. For example, his account of a travelling Indian company’s (all-male) version of “King Liar” (sic) in the “Native Theatre”, Ambala (25 December), might be read as an amusing account of cross-cultural

xxviii

A Winter in India

exchange and misunderstanding, the joke being the Indians’ inevitably imperfect rendition of the Shakespearean original. It might also be read as presenting the cultural translation of a European text into an Indian medium — after all, Spens says that at ten o’clock he decided to forego the remaining 500 acts and three and half hours. The performance was thereby a mix of indigenous and foreign elements. But, then, where exactly does Spens stand in regard to European theatre? Describing a noisy scene in which the Indian company’s proprietor, playing the King (Lear), eventually kills an admirer of his supposedly faithless daughter, Spens likens the Indian performance to one by Dan Roylat, a famous actor of Edwardian times. It is not clear whether this is a joke against Roylat, known for melodramatic roles, or a tribute to the Indian Lear. The most interesting conclusion about Spens’ attitudes might be that, even out of a miasma of ill-disguised racism and imperial arrogance, he almost comes to contemplate that Indians might be able, or might need, to rule themselves. Already straws in the wind were carrying such messages, from Western liberal thinkers and European nationalists to whom Spens might well listen, from the Indian National Congress that he derides, and from radicals whom he would dismiss out of hand, represented, for example, by J. A. Hobson’s anti-capitalist, anti-colonial Imperialism, published in 1902. It seems to me that Spens’ main impulse towards this yet-unstated endorsement of “independent India” was a qualified affection for his Indian experiences. The same was possibly true also for some of the civilians who sat around the Viceroy’s table in 1916. They included (by the way) an Indian, Sir Sankaran Nair, who advocated “good government … according to Western ideals”, but thought self-government not yet possible in India due to barriers of caste and class, and the low status of women.10

On Colonialism There is an argument that one reason colonialism is bad is the moral effect it has upon the colonists and the colonized. It is a good argument, illustrated in many ways by Spens. But the more usual conclusion goes further: that arrogance and racism characterized British rule in India, and still disfigure anything inherited from that era. These ideas sometimes lead on to the assumption that only what is “native” is

Introduction

xxix

legitimate and appropriate (presumably everywhere, not just India), a view that is sadly stereotypical, uncritical, and demonstrably wrong. Taken together, such conclusions are undiscriminating equally about colonialism, its legacy, and indigeneity. More must be said, if we want to understand more precisely what was wrong with Europeans ruling in India, and how to cope with the consequences of that regime and that long association between different peoples. In other words, why read Spens today? We talk of colonial India, but strictly-speaking India was not a British colony, except in the sense that it provided “outdoor relief” for the middle classes11 — and few of those were settlers. British India was an empire, not only in its relationship to other countries under the British crown, but also internally, with regard to the political disposition of states, protectorates and provinces. If India was colonized, it was not by migrants but by institutions and ideas: the British tried to settle “British” elements in India, in ways that somewhat resembled their transfer across the world by British colonists; the empire introduced or changed technologies, patterns of production and consumption, governance, institutions, and minds. The outcome for India was mixed and muted, however. One reason was, as we see in Spens, that the imperial ideologies and practices were dominant, but the British took contradictory positions about Indians: that their norms and traditions were inferior, and should and could be made better, or that they were sophisticated, dangerous to challenge, and too powerful to be replaced; that is, that Indians were or were not capable of improvement. The uncertainties continue to resonate. There was some “colonial” displacement of “indigenous” by “foreign” ideas and institutions, and a complex mix of old and new resulted, but which were the moving parts, and what were their origins? Interpretations are clouded by politics. Today, for example, because British India was an imperial possession, it is often regarded as wholly illegitimate, even in Britain. There are apologists, and one day British rule in India may be treated like the Roman conquest of Britain, which it resembled;12 but generally British school-children nowadays are taught to feel shame, and populist prime ministers are tempted to atone for their predecessors’ sins — ironically (we might think) the very attitude taken by Spens towards Indians, decades after the Mutiny. By contrast,

xxx

A Winter in India

one-time colonies are mostly accepted as legitimate: in the Americas, parts of Asia, and Australasia — despite the land-grabbing and atrocities committed by settlers. Early Britain was colonized in this way too; all is now forgiven. Recent ex-colonies are hardly questioned even when they were also empires. It seems almost a secret that the United States, Russia and China were also imperial in origin and character before they became “nations.” Earlier inhabitants of both colonies and empires contested their loss. Some have been accommodated; rarely have they recovered political dominance — only where they remained in the majority, as in South Africa, Kenya or Algeria. We can go further. Ex-colonies are places where foreigners mostly wiped out or completely subjugated the existing inhabitants, but they are acceptable today. Those empires that did not become “nations” were places where existing people remained, suffering or even flourishing; yet they are all unacceptable. Why? It is primarily because of nineteenth- and twentieth-century nationalism. The argument is quite weak. Imperial domination is considered worse because it involves rule by “others.” It is, therefore, unfair. But almost everyone is ruled by others, in some sense, even in a democracy. Nations are constructs in which internal differences have been wiped out or subordinated, and in which imperial sway is enjoyed by some groups or classes. Perhaps that is why, in the cynical words of George Bernard Shaw, “Revolutions have never lightened the burden of tyranny; they have only shifted it to another shoulder,”13 and why “Democracy is not identical with majority rule,” as Lenin wrote in State and Revolution (1919) — history may make the latter seem even more cynical, but it still has merit even in an age of instant communication and opinion polls. Standardization, sometimes brutal, created Britain, France, or indeed India. Englishness in particular is merely a mélange of diverse and submerged or subordinated identities, a process that is continuing. Call the result a nation, and there is little objection. So it is that America, Russia, and China also are forgiven the aggression that made them. The deciding criterion is said to be self-rule; but how is a nation peopled? It is by ongoing processes and definitions that evolve. Here we find a curious ambivalence. On one hand, nations make atavistic claims, and their boundaries are seldom entirely arbitrary. They rest on

Introduction

xxxi

allegiances and common ground, inherited or created. Long-term cultural characteristics do exist. On the other hand, we seem increasingly unwilling to refer to them: they have been discredited by racism and undermined by studies of the “invention” of tradition. Many national traditions are modern manufactures, like Scottish kilts woven in the nineteenth-century to evoke a mythical Highland past. We regard national boundaries as products of history, subject to power and open to debate. Much-fragmented Germany, for example, owed much to thirteenth- and fourteenth-century colonization to the east by Prussia and Austria. Modern Germany (like Italy) was quite recently formed from many different elements, and largely denied foreign empire. Both countries are relatively insistent on their cultural or linguistic unity; and perhaps relatively reluctant to accept diversity. It is by comparison with such supposedly ancient, “natural” nations that imperialism is condemned. Invented nations are on shakier ground. The key concepts in the definition of “nation”, as the term is used today, are “state” and “territory”, matters that are verifiable objectively. Race and nationality take us to a different set of calculations; they depend much more on subjective stereotypes, harking back to an earlier, more general sense of “nation” as any “type” or “race” with shared characteristics and history. Now consider these propositions, as a sequence: Englishmen should not rule Indians; Muslims should not rule over Hindus; black people should not rule white; or women men. Only the very last of these categories has a fairly secure biological basis, and of course in this usage it too is largely a social construct. So it was that John Knox famously sounded his trumpet against women’s “monstrous regiment” (1558), meaning government; and to this day many societies unquestioningly reject female rule, or accept it only within a male hegemony. But, clearly, my sequence of propositions represents, at least in Western society, a rapidly declining scale of acceptability. Why are objections to religious, racial or gender prejudice different in principle from the rejection of imperialism? All of the statements depend for acceptance on prevailing sensitivities, and on cultural and historical context, especially given that the relevant categories are all more or less concocted. What seems unexceptionable in one time becomes wicked in another. Let there be no doubt: empires do wicked things, but so do nations. Why is violence by an empire an atrocity; and violence by

xxxii

A Winter in India

its subject nation a freedom fight? Is our judgement not related more to the perpetrator than the nature of the violence? The attitudes are hard-wired in us: resistance to usurpation and tyranny is justified. But are there moral limits? If we take away the wickedness of empire, then the ethics are slippery and we need to walk carefully. These arguments should not be taken as implying that empires are no worse than any other form of government. It is axiomatic that empires offend most against those good yardsticks, representation and, as it would now be called, subsidiarity.14 Rather, these arguments are an attempt to think through our assumptions and back to first principles. Spens helps by revealing the ambiguities of imperialism, the soft underbelly, as it were, of all that wickedness. As for the empire’s legacy, it matters if its air of superiority and instruction is not confined to colonial situations; one gets a hint of that when the educator in Spens makes ironic jokes about his readers, just as British imperialists brought boons and ills from abroad to their own peoples at home. Similarly, if India experienced a universal flow of ideas, technologies and laws during the empire, the relics of these imports may be traced without vexation or posturing. How else should we assess the British Indian empire? It might be questioned in other ways, in regard to its legitimacy, and its efficiency, both of which would affect its “fairness.” Its legitimacy is tricky. It was established by a mixture of conquest, duplicity, invitation, treaty, and consent. Most of the time its government was largely Indian in numerical terms and even to some extent in character and ambition. More to the point, I cannot see that there is any necessary correlation between a government’s legitimacy and its equity, or particularly between its justness and its indigeneity. With regard to efficiency, British rule was both hailed as potentially beneficial and condemned as disastrous. Empires, we are told, drain wealth, and that is certainly their aim. But many of the world’s nations are ruled by home-grown kleptocracies. Where are the ruling elites that do not amass wealth? Power generally accumulates: one day, for example, nations may be able to restrain the greed of global companies and their executives, as was tried in the age of empires, for example through the international labour conferences; it has yet to happen in our day. A different point, argued by some Indian and British critics, is

Introduction

xxxiii

that an “alien” government must be less able to mobilize and improve the “nation” than an “Indian” one. The idea was related to “no taxation without representation,” and came close to a pragmatic rejection of imperial rule. It relied on a modern notion of the state as the guide and shepherd of its peoples, and obviously also on stereotypical identities. But it is not obvious that either the benevolent state or the national identity are invariable conditions. In any case, this is a practical argument that is different in kind from the principled rejection of “alien” government. It needs to be decided empirically, case by case. And what of “improvement,” the “white man’s burden.” a term that makes us cringe today but which was important for Spens’ assessment? British colonial settlers, though they were often coerced or economic migrants, often dreamt of creating new and perfected societies. Many British imperialists, by contrast, had the model of ancient Rome in their minds: a system more than a settlement. It was on that basis that they intended to transplant institutions and ideas, while promoting their own prestige, power and trade. Europe and the Mediterranean regions were profoundly affected by similar enterprise under ancient Rome. Was India immune to the British effort centuries later? For some it seems disloyal, anti-national or even racist, to suggest that there were consequences from British rule and, worse, that some of them were positive. That attitude repeats the wickedness of empire, as a mantra. It essentializes nation and empire as wholly distinct and in binary opposition to each other. The assumption also seems to be that good outcomes occur only where there are good motives; but is that so? The reverse is not true. Many recent studies stress the influence of exploration and empire on European countries. That it was much greater than was once thought in Eurocentric accounts ought to be no surprise, given the very evident porousness of Europe to outside cultural influences over centuries, including from Christianity, Islam, China and Japan, India, Africa, and the Americas, and with regard to belief systems, science and technology, art, food, and items of trade and consumption. Turning to India, there have also been revisionists who saw some manifestations (features of caste for example, or the religious discord between Hindus and Muslims) as relatively modern, and even as a product of colonial rule. But the staying power of traditions and practices in the Indian

xxxiv

A Winter in India

subcontinent has never been in doubt. Many studies, most notably C. A. Bayly’s essays on Indian patriotism,15 have stressed instead the local identities and allegiances growing up in early-modern times. But other recent scholars have made a fetish of indigeneity, arguing for the essential foreignness of many of the ideas and institutions created in colonial India. Unwittingly they are thus playing into ideas that they oppose: the colonialists’ diatribes against India’s unchanging backwardness, and the more recent, fanciful claims of Hindu nationalists. If modern India is not an ever-evolving amalgam of diversity, but some primal inheritance, then we must assume a hermetic, timeless “Indianness.” It is an interpretation that owes everything to nationalism and current politics. The downside is the attribution of all Indian “evils” to the “wicked” empire, encouraging the image of a “virtuous” India, that was already familiar among Indian religious and nationalist thinkers in the nineteenth century, and advanced politically from Hobson’s Imperialism to Gandhi and Nehru. During British rule, some nationalists thought India had no need to change, but not many. Should it, could it be improved? The imperialists became pessimistic just when Indian modernizers were at their most optimistic. India’s harshest critics thought it so hide-bound that it could not be changed. They painted it as somehow isolated, homogeneous and autochthonous; and, following this imperialist denigration, it was often assumed that radical influences came from outside, from the West, and conservative ones or continuities from India. Nowadays this is rightly rejected, which does not mean that no such instances occurred. I have described the way the frontier tribes (and incidentally topology) prevented the establishment of clear state borders and forced the strategy of the thick frontier, or the transitional zone, or of buffer peoples and territory, upon the British in India.16 There was also a very important middle ground where foreign influences fitted with existing tendencies, or empowered ideas (say, equality) and groups (for example, Dalits) that would not otherwise have thrived. What is quite misleading is to suggest that India was incapable of change. Also we know that it too is and has been notably involved in the world. There may be some closed inward-looking places — certain periods in China, parts of the United States today, the minds of the ignorant and bigoted everywhere — but India has rarely been one of them. The images of

Introduction

xxxv

conservative Brahmanism, fanatical Muslims and unchanging village communities were, in large part, self-serving myths put about by evangelical Christians and badly-informed imperialists: we have seen quite enough of that in Spens, but also how in part he succumbed to India after all. Where does that leave colonial impact? If India was evolving, and comparatively open and indeed plural for much of its history, then it would be surprising indeed if it had resisted external influences, uniquely, at a time when they were backed most strongly by a combination of power, prestige, technology, and institutions. As said at the outset, historical assessments need to start with the viewpoint of the time being studied. Anything developing in India had India’s past as its bedrock, as said; but that past itself was complex and varied. Therefore, it can be seen firstly that over a very long time, from well before there was a British empire, India experienced considerable influences from Europe, as many places did from India; and secondly that there was a step-change once British political rule was established. Then a mainly Protestant Britishness became proselytizing and institutionalized; it was made into norms and rules, just like Muslim influence previously (for similar reasons). By contrast, some “foreigners” in India were marginal and inward-looking. For example, Parsis or Armenians had kept to themselves, and instead partook of British influence, becoming loyal imperial capitalists. Britons like Spens or indeed Indians who admired the empire should not be judged, therefore, as offending against some absolute or primordial ideal. If we proceed instead by asking historical rather than ethical questions, one of them is: did the British empire bring improvement, as its defenders claimed it did, both through moral purpose, and from new technologies of government, law, industry, and commerce? Apologists used to cite railways and canals, and anti-colonial critics have fastened on their shortcomings. What of the legal and political system, or science? They may be dismissed because of the failings of Indian justice or democracy, or because of social deprivation and environmental crises where science and capitalism have marched hand-in-hand; and quite often it is empire once again that is painted as the ultimate villain. But those arguments are mixing the issues, taking two stages at once. The first order of questions concerns impact; the second order outcomes. My perspective is anyway different. I recognize the motive

xxxvi

A Winter in India

power of certain Western ideas, and of government and capitalism, but I also emphasize the extent to which it did not comprise unitary or hegemonic phenomena, but rather forces that took different forms in different places, and which, in India, were specified in large measure by Indian conditions or to meet state and other needs. How then, finally, should we react to Spens’ account? One way would be to focus on its sentimental reconstructions of the events of 1857, its denigrations of “otherness,” and its glorification of empire, and say that these features are typical of imperialists, as indeed they are. In effect, rather a lot of writing about empire, even today, does not get much further than condemning such views, depicting them in the broad-brush manner of Edward Said.17 One might say that Spens paints his British fireside reader as just such a diehard apologist for empire. But Spens was also a visitor; and to focus only on his imperialism is to overlook his engagement with India, and, more interesting, the effect of India on the Britons who ruled and worked there. Many were the diehards who succumbed in the end to pragmatism, to co-operation, or to what India showed them. Reading Spens as a typical racist is not enough, therefore; it is a distortion of contemporary opinion and therefore of empire too. Spens shows how matters were complicated. There is praise from him when Indians appear to be playing the European’s game, according to European standards: Sikh soldiers, modernizing princes. But what of his romantic imagining of Indian as well as British history  — mostly Mughal but inspired by superb buildings and remarkable tales — and what of his half-horrified, half-exhilarated reactions to Benares at dawn? Disgust co-existed with fascination, admiration with scorn. This is a metaphor for empire in India as well, and enables us to reconsider its legacy. On one level, what Spens and his contemporaries thought is neither here nor there: today the legacies of empire are either useful or not, regardless of the suspect motives and pretensions of the past. At other levels, what the British thought is relevant, because they made the empire ambivalent too. It wanted to change India in its own image, but also to value India for itself. It roundly despised Indians for their own traditions and also when they purported to engage in those of the British: interminable; noisy; delightfully-misnamed King Liars; and

Introduction

xxxvii

all that. But the empire nonetheless accommodated the qualities of Indians; quite often it admired them and their historical and cultural achievements; and it depended utterly on their service and adaptability. Largely because of this engagement, the British Raj was a complex creation that, for better or worse, helped create modern India. During the long span of imperial rule, there are many British lovers of India to be found, as well as many unmitigated racialists. Spens is a kind of typical middle ground. Read him for a partial sense of the complexity.

Notes 1. I have not been able to trace any direct link with the East India Company’s Lt Colonel Archibald Spens (1765–1845), a descendant of the Earl of Lathallann, or his son, also Archibald (1809–69), who served in Bombay from 1828 to 1854. Archibald Borthwick Spens had a somewhat remote connection with the Scottish peerage on the paternal side. His grandfather, William (1807–68), was the eighth child of a doctor, Thomas Spens (1728–1815), the fifth child of Nathaniel Spens, 1st Lord Graigsanquhar (1763–1842). 2. The others were Bobbie’s Ward (1911), Love’s Outlaws (1911), Half Hours in the Levant: Personal Impressions of Cities & Peoples in the Near East (1912), and The Bond of Freedom (1913). Three are novels of thwarted or interrupted love, involving conflicts of class and religious denomination, and between art and marriage; failing estates; accusations of murder; and so on, sometimes in foreign locations (Italy, France and India). The fourth, despite the reference to the Levant, is a travelogue in diary form of holiday voyages around the western and eastern Mediterranean (Europe and North Africa), or rather from Portugal to Turkey, presumably in 1910 and 1911. As a trial-run for Winter in India, it is similar in its attitudes but less stylish and less passionate: some Roman Catholic churches are “tawdry and undignified” (p. 39); a mosque is “unimproved by a liberal selection from the Koran” on its whitewashed walls; while an old man playing there is “all very beautiful, very sincere and all so wonderful” (pp. 70–1); and altogether “there is something very charming and fascinating about the unfathomable East” (p. 46); and so on. A “vision” in Pompeii (pp. 89–90) seems an experiment leading to the many imaginary Indian reconstructions. 3. Even-handed in terms of political party (though both were arguably “conservative” and certainly establishment figures, of whom fun could

xxxviii

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

A Winter in India

be made), this choice of two supposedly soporific speech-makers may be related to the fact that they were both of Scottish extraction, as was Spens: the Rt. Hon. Sir Herbert Eustace Maxwell, 7th Baronet of Monreith (1845–1937), Conservative MP (1880–1906), novelist, essayist and horticulturalist; and Archibald Philip Primrose, 5th Earl of Rosebery, 1st Earl of Midlothian (1847–1929), Liberal member of the House of Lords from 1828, Prime Minister 1894–95, later a writer, and critic of CampbellBannerman’s and Asquith’s Liberal governments. [John] Murray’s Handbooks for Travellers were published on many tourist destinations from 1836. Spens may have had the fifth edition of the guide for India, Burma and Ceylon, published in 1911. Reinforcing this point for “lovers of history and romance,” Spens appends a translation of an essay on the canal “written by the Comte Charles de Lesseps, son of the engineer himself.” As well as celebrating this feat of enterprise, a product of Anglo-French co-operation, the essay places it in a familiar tradition of “Western” civilization — Egyptian, Biblical, Classical, even Renaissance — formerly interrupted by Oriental (Turkish) rule. Sir George Trevelyan (1838–1928), Indian Civil servant, Liberal MP, author of a biography of his maternal uncle, Lord Macaulay (1876), and of Cawnpore (1866). Spens’ account of Kanpur in 1857 is largely based on Trevelyan’s, which he calls “a classic now.” The Kanpur memorial, the Angel of the Redemption by Carlo Marochetti (1805–67), was a place of pilgrimage for the British in India. Raised over a well that had contained the bodies of murdered European women and children, it stood from 1865 to 1947 in what, after Indian Independence, was named Nana Rao Park. The Irish peer, Derrick Westernra, 5th Baron Rossmore (1853–1921), served in the British army, was Lord Lieutenant of County Monaghan (1887–1921), and published a gossipy autobiography, Things I can Tell, in 1912. William Stephen Raikes Hodson (1821–58), once disgraced by his poor judgement and allegations of theft and fraud, became famous for raising 2,000 irregular cavalry (Hodson’s Horse) that helped re-take Delhi. Spens describes also (13 January 1913) his bravery as “a bold young subaltern” riding with urgent despatches “through a country overrun by mutineers,” and his later gruesome execution of the heir (Abu Bukt), another son, and a grandson of the King of Delhi. See P. G. Robb, The Government of India and Reform. Policies towards Politics and the Constitution, 1916–1921, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976, ch, 3. It may not be realized today that this formula described the

Introduction

10. 11.

12.

13. 14.

15.

16. 17.

xxxix

then legal (though not de facto) position of the British dominions such as Canada, Australia and New Zealand. Robb, Government of India, p. 54. John Bright’s phrase, on British foreign policy, was that it provided “a gigantic system of outdoor relief for the aristocracy of Great Britain” (speech, 29 October 1858). The Romans conquered lands with local, tribal and kingly loyalties. Though their power varied from place to place, they treated Britain as a single province, with a unified army, bureaucracy, money, and language of rule. They introduced technologies and ideas, created cities, promoted title to land, improved communications, and encouraged international contacts. They permitted some cultural and economy mobility, and generated new forms of society and polity. Britain had already felt some of these influences, and rejected some; but overall it indigenized the Roman experience. George Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman, London: Constable and Co. 1903. The implication is that local, inclusive government is to be preferred except where larger issues need to be treated in broader formats, which also should be collaborative, pooled rather than imposed, in other words non-imperial. C. A. Bayly, Origins of Nationality in South Asia: Patriotism and Ethical Government in the Making of Modern India, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001. Peter Robb, Liberalism, Modernity, and the Nation, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2007, ch. 5. Notably in the influential Edward Said, Orientalism, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1978.

This page intentionally left blank

List of Illustrations MAP OF INDIA PORT SAID, FROM SUEZ CANAL OFFICES THE MARKET, UMBALLA STREET SCENE, UMBALLA NATIVE CROWD AT EMPEROR’S DAY REVIEW, UMBALLA BRITISH OFFICER, NATIVE CAVALRY REGIMENT STREET SCENE, PESHAWAR A CARAVAN IN THE KHYBER PASS MY HOST’S ORDERLIES, PESHAWAR ZAKKA KHEL COMPOUND, KHYBER PASS A GATEWAY OF THE FORT, LAHORE THE MARBLE CAUSEWAY, AMRITSAR THE OLD FAKIR AND HIS MONKEYS, ON SUMMIT OF JAKKO, SIMLA GATEWAY OF MAHARAJA OF PATIALA’S PALACE SKETCH MAP OF WHEELER’S INTRENCHMENT, CAWNPORE “MACKILLOP’S” WELL, CAWNPORE MASSACRE GHAUT, CAWNPORE TREE ON WHICH GENERAL NEILL HANGED THE REBELS AT CAWNPORE THE RESIDENCY, LUCKNOW GENERAL NEILL’S GRAVE, LUCKNOW THE SECUNDRABAGH, LUCKNOW THE BATHING GHAUT, BENARES

xliv 8 29 29 36 38 56 65 73 76 83 91 101 105 129 131 136 138 141 145 151 160

xlii

List of Illustrations A Winter in India

HOUSE FROM WHICH BOMB IS BELIEVED TO HAVE BEEN THROWN AT THE VICEROY, CHANDNI CHAUK, DELHI THE POWDER MAGAZINE, DELHI THE RIDGE, DELHI, SHOWING HINDU RAO’S HOUSE, WHERE NICHOLSON DIED THE KASHMIR BREACH, DELHI THE KASHMIR GATE, DELHI KASHMIR BASTION, DELHI STATUE OF JOHN NICHOLSON, DELHI MY ELEPHANT IN THE FORT, GWALIOR MY ELEPHANT IN THE FORT, GWALIOR THE TELI-KA-MAN-DIR TEMPLE, GWALIOR THE JAIBILAS PALACE, HOME OF MAHARAJA OF GWALIOR CHANDRA MAHAL, JAIPUR THE ALBERT HALL, JAIPUR JAIPUR, FROM GALTA ONE OF THE INHABITANTS OF THE MONKEY GOD TEMPLE, GALTA, JAIPUR THE PALACE OF THE DESERTED CITY OF AMBER THE DIWAN-I-AM, AMBER A STREET OF THE DESERTED CITY OF AMBER A TEMPLE IN THE DESERTED CITY OF AMBER THE DESERTED CITY OF AMBER BAY OF BOMBAY

174 174 178 178 182 182 186 194 196 197 199 205 207 209 210 213 216 218 219 221 225

Preface

T

his book in no way purports to describe untrodden pathways; nor does the author, on the conclusion of a second visit to the country, presume either to criticize or discuss its manifold and inscrutable customs, problems and aspirations, an intimate knowledge of which requires the constant study of a lifetime. If, however, in these pages the reader may spend a pleasant hour or two wandering through the grim fastnesses of the Khyber Pass, dreaming on the immortal battlefields of the Mutiny, and inhaling some faint spirit of the ancient splendour of the Mogul Emperors, then the writer will not have written entirely in vain. All the photographs, except five of the Khyber (where cameras are forbidden), were taken by the author, with a No. 8a Folding Pocket Kodak, for simplicity and portability an ideal camera for travellers. For those of the Pass he is indebted to Mr Holmes, of Peshawar, who has an excellent and most interesting selection of photographs for sale. Thanks are also due to Mr John Murray for kind permission to use the plans of the battlefields at Delhi, Lucknow and Cawnpore; and to the P. & O. Steam Navigation Company for allowing the insertion of the essay on the Suez Canal. And, lastly, the author wishes to thank all those — Commissioners, soldiers, police and native rulers — who so kindly assisted him in his journeys through India; and to express his matured conviction that in no country in the world could hospitality and friendship to a stranger be more cordially or liberally interpreted. Archibald B. Spens

A Winter in India P. & O. S.S. “maloja,” 6th December, 1912.

I

am seated in the warm and comfortable divan of this semi-historic ship — so called because she preceded His Majesty’s ship “Medina” to the epoch-making Durbar of exactly a year ago, with the famous, the wealthy, journalists, and even cinematograph experts on board. To chronicle correctly I should, however, preface this remark by the statement that my wife and I journeyed from the Louvre Hotel to Mole C in a taxi-cab, and in such comfort as coincides with the obsession of a chauffeur ineradicably convinced that the Cannebière is a local Brooklands track and his motor an aspirant to record-breaking fame. However, except for the imprecations of a tramcar driver, the fury of a matron of France, whose diminutive off-spring I last saw seated — having evaded annihilation by a hair’s breadth — on the dusty road, and the firm belief of my wife (latterly shared by myself) that our Indian tour would end in European mud — or the Chāteau d’ If — we finally drew up without disaster face to face with a bewildered French cart-horse emerging from the dock gates, an insistent vendor of post cards, and the P. & O. steamship “Maloja.” Following the eternal law of embarkation disorder, we found the decks smothered with heated and agitated passengers seeking strayed luggage and their legitimate cabins. We have a large one on the promenade deck, on the port, or shady, side of the ship, a matter, off Marseilles, of little import, but off Mecca, when one is stifled, peevish and surfeited by Red Sea vapours, of vast comfort and self-satisfaction. It is affording me a considerable amount of more or less harmless amusement to watch the methods displayed by young and old, according to the number of their journeys on the deep, in the pursuit of amusement, oblivion and distraction. One youthful damsel, whose mind and feet know not the waters of the Mediterranean, is,

2

A Winter in India

in imagination, already dancing to the satisfaction of her shoemaker round (and presumably over, as they are fixtures) the countless tables in the music saloon, entirely disregarding the piano on the promenade deck — the latter possibly a more suitable and airy ballroom. An Australian of uncertain age and indubitably prodigious weight has commandeered my only chair, in which he is comfortably snoring, and an energetic individual (who instinct tells me is the future purveyor of our athletic sustenance on board) is hurrying from deck to deck companioned by a passenger list. Shortly he will receive my contribution towards his dawning schemes of unrest and exercise, and (if he be a novice) some faint indication of the love sun-dried Anglo-Indians bear to quoits and shovelboard. The great lottery has now been drawn: tables were allotted this morning before lunch. At ours, within speaking distance, are, next to G., R. H., beyond him a Mrs B. and as my vis-à-vis two Australians. It is indeed “a small world! Of all the passengers on the “Maloja” our next-door neighbour — R. H. to wit — is going to the very station in India that we are making for. Without doubt the Colonies are strong and extremely virile! Not only in physique but in mind and outlook. Their gods are strength and inches — and their creed muscle and equality. Nevertheless it is probable that it would do the “old country” a power of good were some of this same spirit and muscular humanity reimported into the higher civilized, less primitive and perhaps less manly communities of our great business cities. I have forgotten, so far, to render my humble tribute of gratitude to the Gulf of Lions, but now hasten to remedy the omission. All day, and right upto this moment — that preceding my entry into a comfortable bunk, and oblivion — the sea has been as smooth, even and fascinating as any speech of Sir Herbert Maxwell or Lord Rosebery.

7th December.

A

nd today the language of the sea flows on again in rhythm and charm as soothing and peaceful as that of yesterday. So calm indeed is it that as I write a rumour reaches me that my unknown

A Winter in India

3

dancing enthusiast may not after all require to wait till Eastern latitudes are passed to gratify her love of “Bunny Hugs” and Two-steps.

8th December.

T

he rumour was founded on fact — and my pitying superiority of Friday has returned, like any common boomerang, to humiliate myself. The dance last night was fairly strongly patronized, and apparently popular. But, you ask, what is the good of maundering on in an infantile and futile effort to portray life on board a liner? It has all been written before, billions of times; there is nothing new to relate, nothing further to explore. True, but as a rejected aspirant to conjugal bliss once remarked, on being advised to console himself in a life of exploration: there is nothing left nowadays to explore except the end of the Cromwell Road. So, having, as it were, taken the weary sighing winds out of your mental sails, I shall carry on. The day is another peep of a marine paradise; the sea sparkles in the clear sunshine; on the far horizon banked-up clouds as of lately fallen snow poise themselves (as a background of fantastically devised mountains) above the sunlit sea; and one’s study of nature is suddenly interrupted by the deck steward’s administrations of beef-tea and biscuits. Indeed one is sometimes inclined on board ship to describe one’s regular and legitimate meals in the same language as a retired native Indian official once characterized his pay, as “but the chutni which we eat with our meat.”

PORT SAID AND THE SUEZ CANAL

9th December.

A

mong my friends I am considered no slugabed, indeed I myself hitherto imagined I was an early riser, but my vis-à-vis at table never, apparently, goes to bed at all. Whether he sleeps in the saloon all night I cannot say, but no matter when I turn up for breakfast — and today I almost anticipated the advertised hour — there sits Energy, washing his hands with invisible soap, with some statistical problem for me to solve. This morning while I was making the usual inane, selfevident platitude upon the weather — which is glorious — he burst in on my mediocrity with the conundrum as to what had been done with all the earth dug out of the globe in making the London tubes. Of course I hadn’t the foggiest notion, and admitted so at once. I read yesterday, in a book on India, that an ingenious syce, all arguments, chastisement and blasphemy having failed to budge his obdurate pony, at last hit upon the novel device of slamming a handful of mud into its open mouth, with satisfactory results; but it appearing futile to suggest that the British Workman had been need for the double purpose of excavating and consuming subterranean London, I ordered eggs and bacon and insisted on the charm of the morning. And now we are forging along, approaching nearer and nearer to the fascinating Gate of the East, which on my first arrival, some six years ago, gradually opened its mist-closed doors to the command of the Egyptian sun at dawn. Already I seem to scent that indescribable smell of incense, spices, garlic, sugar, goats and refuse, and see the thousand and one coolies crossing and recrossing in a never-ending shuffle of rags, dust and uproar the wooden hyphen connecting the coal barges with the ship’s bunkers. Port Said is indeed the meetingplace of East and West, at once the home of thousands of natives — the offscouring of Africa — so low in the social scale of humanity as to be almost indistinguishable from apes, and at the same time the eye that controls the latest movements of our modern liners as they pass

Port Said and the Suez Canal

5

through Lesseps’ great monument of engineering and perseverance across the desert to Suez.

10th December.

W

e arrived at Port Said shortly after noon, slowly steaming through the open vestibule of Africa with an almost majestic grandeur; passing on the south end of the west jetty the statue of the man who laid the foundation of the town’s prosperity, and gradually hearing the ever decreasing swish of the vessel die down beneath the swelling volume of that pandemonium so inseparable from the East. Inch by inch we drifted beyond the boundary line of Europe, out of the calmer spirit of the West, watching the sombre shades of the Mediterranean give place to the dazzling, flamboyant, gaudy colours of Egypt. Hardly were we moored than there sprang up a cordon of reds, blues, oranges and yellows, police tugs and rowing-boats — a shouting, gesticulating and surging circle of squabbling humanity. Leaving the quay one noticed, with apprehension, the approach of those harbingers of dust and suffocation, the Port Said coal lighters, each manned by a hundred black-ragged, cowl-capped automatons, some seated, some standing, many quarrelling, and all shouting at the top of their voices. A tender comes alongside; Egyptians, officials, police, news-vendors, representatives of Cook, Cox, and most of the reputable hotels of Cairo spring up the gangway in a panoramic scramble of haste and colour; and you are finally initiated into the perennial mystery of Eastern competition. One hotel is not better than another: none except his own exists, in the purview of each representative in turn, but to afford a comparison beside which the superiority of the Savoy to Lock-hart’s Tea Rooms is entirely fractional. Going ashore in one of the countless rowing-boats, I set out somewhat aimlessly to re-explore for the fourth or fifth time this scented lodge-gate of the desert. Guides at once surrounded me — guides devoted to British rule; guides pursuing their calling in the interests of philanthropy alone; and guides whose knowledge of the town was not entirely confined to the long and narrow street at the moment

6

A Winter in India

facing me. Assuring each in turn, however, that I was convinced of his respective loyalty, disinterestedness, and what Mr Pepys would have doubtless described as a mighty fine knowledge of all the roguishness in the world, I went in search of some handkerchiefs, which I eventually bought, at, I imagine, a fifty per cent profit for the café au lait-tinted rascal who sold them. The main street, especially after a torrential shower, reminded me not a little of a double row of “river” bungalows, each house or shop having a covered balcony, or verandah, abutting over the pavement. Shawls, jewellery, post cards, Sudanese, beads, conjurers, Nubians, the riff-raff of Africa, broken-down fiacres, knock-kneed donkeys and straight-backed Egyptians — were inextricably mingled; while the incessant cries of street touts — each more insistent than the last — fell upon the ear with the regularity of rain in Greenock. Here was a smiling youth, garbed in a black coat, yellow nether garments — apparently but not definitely trousers — riding past a cross-road on a Liliputian donkey and in abundant delight at having just avoided the baton of the law; there a shuffling individual in a white tea-gown, called a galabeah, crowned by a coal-black face and orthodox tarbush; here a fellow-traveller following his better half into a maze of dialect, lace, scarfs, and impending bankruptcy; there a shop overcrammed to the kerb with the fusion of Cairo and Birmingham. Avoiding detention as opportunity occurred, I at last reached the harbourage of the Continental Hotel, where I sat me down, drank bock, and watched the living cinematograph of colours, customs, and incongruities. For what, after all, is the East but the playground of half-barbarous children, the eternal clash of splendour and rubbish, the sublime hyphened to the ridiculous? The panorama opened with the close of a fortune-teller’s efforts to reveal to me the unwritten chapters of my destiny. An enormous Nubian grasped the slender neck and dirty galabeah of Doom’s discounter — at the moment enquiring if the list of my acquaintances included Madame Melba — and in a flash the future was again veiled in a splash of mud, and its riddle — about to be solved in mysterious mutterings and incantations — drowned in language alike unintelligible and potent. For the purlieus of the Continental Hotel are sacred alone to its customers and to the purchased good-will of its autocratic “chucker-out.”

Port Said and the Suez Canal

7

Turning my attention to stationary and distant objects inside the arcade, my eyes fell upon the European orchestra, and my ears caught the well-known strains of the “Merry Widow” waltz, at the moment being rendered to a row of half-tenanted wicker chairs, a few empty glasses, and an army of waiters and frock-coated hotel dignitaries. But near me there was a stream of colour passing by — a black-faced rogue of ten summers was waving a yellow duster, emitting, apparently, chickens, plates, laughter and mystery, in the face of a spectacled and but half-convinced Briton: a smart upholder of the law marched down the arcade resplendent in a dark blue uniform, red tarbush, gilt buttons, and carrying behind his spine a silver-topped black cane. A brace of “Malojans” entered (looking, if they did not feel, extremely foolish, as it was at the moment pelting) mushroomed beneath two enormous solah topees; and a small bootblack, garbed in a galabeah which may have been white four months ago, endeavoured to put a shine on the boots of an Egyptian gentleman whose face would have been a lasting and compelling advertisement to Day and Martin. Suddenly my eye was caught by the flash of knives, and I beheld half a dozen ascending and descending in alarming proximity to my person, while a conjuring musician in yellow and green chanted discordant noises in rhythm to the mercifully soon-interrupted exercise. Up struck “Yip-i-addy”; and, the rain having ceased, I left the café. Then I wandered to the mosque, similar to a hundred I have seen in Cairo, Constantinople and Algiers; squelched the mud in the Arab quarter; watched the local baker inserting loaves into his oven and ejecting stray cats from his doorway; thrust my hands deep into my pockets in the native, and thieving, densely crowded market; and finally returned to the ship. And now it is night — dark, fascinating and intensely Eastern. I have just been leaning over the rail of the promenade deck, gazing across an expanse of scintillating water. On my right twinkled a hundred red lights, and one blue, from a hundred and one ships at the mouth of the Suez Canal: here and there one saw occasional flashes of brilliant lightning; and in one’s ears rang — and still rings — the never-ending dirge from a thousand half-human ants coaling a vessel less than eighty yards away. Six large flares picked out the now almost hollow lighters and the planks leading up to and down from the deck (for the ship had no coal pockets) and the wail-roar from the thousand throats somehow

PORT SAID, FROM SUEZ CANAL OFFICES

Port Said and the Suez Canal

9

seemed to me similar to the street cries one would expect to hear on a Sunday night in town, if war were declared by a foreign power. Port Said to-night is an Eastern Inferno. A police patrol boat has just hooted its approach, swished past, and hidden itself in the darkness. The atmosphere is too fascinating for adequate description; but I am going off to bed, to sleep, if the coaling ceases soon; if not, to recudgel my brain as to where the precise charm lies in this port of babel, shipping, and coal dust.

11th December.

I

landed this morning shortly before nine, followed up my introduction of yesterday to the P. & O. agent, and was on my way — in his private boat, which he kindly placed at my disposal — to the Suez Canal offices in as short a time as was required to write a further introduction to the French captain of the port. The building, so well known to the Eastern traveller, lies on your right as you enter the canal, and is in architecture somewhat similar to a double row of miniature Marble Arches, topped by two cupolas, or domes, of mosaic-like, blue design. A gigantic flag-staff, standing sentinel a few yards from the office, towers far above the topmost of the cupolas; and as you land you notice the first sign of grass, surrounding a few trees and shrubs. After being bowed from passage to passage, from clerk to chief, and from the ground to the first floor, I found myself in the room where the movements of every liner, cargo barge and tramp are noted hour by hour on their approximate hundred miles of desert journey. The wooden plan of the canal, described in Murray’s Handbook for India, is now entirely obsolete, merely calling up a shrug, a pair of upturned palms and a smile when I asked if I might see it. True, there it was, on a brown board about thirty feet long by one and a half broad, and pegged by some fifteen tiny “flags,” representing the positions of ships on the outward and homeward voyages. The plan is of wood, like two diminutive tramcar lines, with here and there faded ivory slabs on which are engraved the names, now indistinct from age, of the principal stations on the canal. But when studying that superannuated plan, in presence

10

A Winter in India

of the science close at hand, one experiences merely that sensation which historical associations call up in most of us, and I examined it with such interest as would attach to a visit to the old “Victory” were a super-Dreadnought lying near. So with this feeling, half sad, half pathetic, and of course totally impractical, I turned to the pulsating life and hum of the office. Picture a room with three large windows (one of them open); a floor innocent of covering; walls washed down with brown paripan at a date, I would venture to hazard, corresponding with the age of the wooden plan; half a dozen tape machines, all tick, tick, ticking news from various stations along the great waterway; telephone bells ringing (one call came through from Ismailia as I was examining the switch-board); and lastly a huge chart, a copy of which lies beneath my nose at the moment, of the entire canal, and you have perhaps a thin sketch of the working-room of the Suez Canal officials. It may have been your, as it has sometimes been my, misfortune to be incarcerated within four bare walls, ministered to by a lady (offensively cheerful) in blue and white, and compelled by the same autocrat to gulp for three minutes, twice daily, with a glass instrument tickling the back of your throat, the said abomination momentarily threatening to crash into a thousand pieces beneath the combined pressure of teeth and unutterable language. And after this, apparently, interminable comedy (from the nurse’s point of view) you may have seen her produce a much-ruled sheet of paper across which she proceeds to spill half the contents of her fountain-pen. Well, that sheet, magnified perhaps ten times and painted in colours resembling a somewhat jaundiced rainbow, gives you some faint idea of what a Suez Canal chart is like. And now I shall describe it. True, it may not be interesting, but it may be instructive — which is good for you, if boring. The chart announces at the top, “Marche Des Navires Dans Le Canal,” and, below, is bisected into somewhere about two thousand and sixteen squares. On the extreme top left-hand square is noted “Port Said”: on the extreme right “Suez.” On the left side, descending the farthest-flung rungs of this bewildering ladder, are noted the hours and minutes: on the top, in a continuous line, the miles and kilometres, and here and there, at intervals, the various stations or “gares.” Across the entire chart are painted colours illustrating the width, curves, lakes, narrows and stations of the canal — a blaze of

Port Said and the Suez Canal

11

dark blues, whites, yellows, blacks and Cambridge blues; and if you were to look at it yourself you would agree with me as to its entire suitability, in lieu of a more orthodox kilt, wherewith to enwrap the limbs of Mr Macpheerson of the back of Argyllshire’s Beyond. And now the “Maloja” has, in imagination, started. In about one and a half hours a telegraph tape will wriggle into view with the announcement that she has reached Raz-el-Ech, some fourteen kilomètres, or eight miles off. In about seven hours the telephone will ring, from Timsah, or Ismailia, and inform the office in clear and leisurely tones that the “Maloja” has just passed that point; and so on till the final “gare” is left behind, and she steams out to and beyond Suez, having been followed all the way by a French pen from square to square. The chart, reading from left, that is, Port Said, to right, or Suez, is coloured as follows: first, the squares are white, crossed by broad, slanting lines of Cambridge blue. This denotes a lake, or, in this instance, the harbourage of Port Said. Then we have four and a half squares of deep blue, signifying wide water; then two squares of white, or narrow passage, followed here and there by thin blue lines — intermediate stations — and thicker ones — the larger “gares.” Then we come across a yellow line, denoting a curve in the canal; then more white; a blue line; another yellow one till we see a wide expanse of white slashed across by Cambridge blue. This is the portion denoting the Bitter Lakes, the ancient Gulf of Heraeopolis, believed by some authorities to have been the point of passage by the Israelites in the flight from Egypt. Then follow great, broad stripes of yellow, sharp bends in the canal; more blue, or deep water; and after another deep band of yellow — perhaps the sharpest curve of all — Suez. And now I have detained you long enough. The “Maloja” is, still in imagination, now passing Suez; the passage has taken fourteen hours or so; and if you have thus far followed me across my Arabian halma-board, I dare swear you mutter, “I quite believe it!” But now it is really good-bye to Mr Macpheerson’s kilt; and I am, literally, back again in Port Said, taking a photograph of the harbour, the multitude of shipping, and the “Maloja” in the distance, from the shady balcony of the canal offices. Having struggled with Indian time-tables, finance, and a cheeky Nubian boy (who accosted me as Mr Macdonald from Dublin), I left Cook’s office and returned to the ship, feeling, if not looking, like a

12

A Winter in India

miniature, warm and unpadded Father Christmas, laden as I was with a camera, sun umbrella, a tin of Sanatogen, a fan (for Red Sea purposes), flowers, post cards, a “Daily Mail” — since discovered to have been fully digested at Marseilles — and my somewhat voluminous note-book. Hardly had I returned than we heard that the “Isis,” the P. & O. ferryboat from Brindisi, was in sight. Soon she popped up on the horizon, then gradually grew larger till she lay alongside — a very diminutive and juvenile member of the great Peninsular & Oriental sisterhood. And then the eternal chorus of babel recommenced; planks were cast from ship to ship; Arabs of all sizes, shapes and costumes shuffled across, bearing bag upon bag of mails — seven thousand of them — in one continuous stream of chatter, uncleanliness and colour, each man pitching his load down to the bottomless abyss far beneath our feet. In a way it was humorous, and in some degree sad. Humorous when, as one bag descended with a particularly resounding thud to the depth of the hidden hold, a fellow-traveller murmured his lugubrious conviction that his watch (left behind and being forwarded) had that instant thundered to perdition; and sad when one thought of the Christmas messages of good-will being flung to all the corners of the Indian Empire from loving hands and hearts at home. And now, hour after hour, the hubbub continues; winches groan and squeak beneath the heavy loads of Christmas parcels — five hundred cases of them — continuously being swung on board; young officers stand, statuesque and patient in the main, but occasionally compelled to enforce discipline into the chattering ranks of tatters and muscle that push across the gangways, each cipher with his “tally” stick in his hand and a heavy sack on his shoulder. But now at last, the captain and pilot mount the bridge; the dark, struggling mass of African humanity raises its equivalent for a cheer as the last case and sacks wing over the ship’s side — and we begin to move. Slowly — so slowly — we pass the flaring advertisement of Sir Thomas Lipton’s tea, creep towards the Suez Canal offices, and then drift into the narrow mouth of the canal itself. The great searchlight at the bow turns the darkness into day, changes the black banks to snow; and a silence suddenly falls upon the earth. For a few yards the desert is lit up into fantastic mirages and wayside lakes; a jackal is heard; the distant grunt of a camel; and then stillness once more. The silence envelops one, such silence as I have felt in the

Port Said and the Suez Canal

13

side canals in Venice, on a sweltering night in the southern plains of India, in a lonely bungalow in mid-Ceylon. Gradually group by group of fellow-travellers melt away, and I remain absolutely alone, gazing out into the glare of the searchlight and across the bisected deserts of Egypt and Arabia, dreaming of the wanderings of the Israelites on either shore, and the Biblical associations of long centuries ago. For those who are lovers of history and romance I would strongly recommend to their notice, in the appendix of this little book, a translation of an essay on the story of the canal, written by the Comte Charles de Lesseps, son of the engineer himself. There you will hear echoes of Abraham, Jacob, Cleopatra, and Napoleon; you will read of the passage of Moses’ army of wanderers through the Bitter Lakes, at low tide; of how Pharaoh’s pursuing hosts were engulfed (as so nearly happened to Napoleon himself centuries later) by the succeeding, rising tide that swept in from the Red Sea; you will see Lesseps building his little chapel near Ismailia, hear him urging his great enterprise to kings; you will . . . but read the story for yourself: you will not be disappointed. And now, leaving distant history and speaking only of yesterday, how often did the great M. Ferdinand de Lesseps, between the years 1859 and 1869, gaze across this same eternal silence of sand, aridness and desolation, heartbroken at the insatiable thirst of the desert as it drank up in a single day the labour of a month, and trembling for the safety of his banks as the dam at Port Said was gradually lowered to flood the great, dry desert bed? And what must have been his feelings as he stood beside the Khedive, the Empress Eugénie, and the Royal representatives of Prussia and the Netherlands as his work was finally crowned with lasting success and immortal honour at the brilliant opening ceremony at Port Said? Whatever they were they must have been but fractional compensations for that decade of nightmares, of silting sand, pitiless perversity of water, heartbreaking evaporation by day and eternal brain fag by night. So still gazing upon the banks of ghostly snow, backgrounded only by isolated huts and “gares,” and listening to the enveloping silence of the mysterious desert, I reluctantly recalled my thoughts from those memorable years of Lesseps’ great undertaking to the necessity and importunity of sleep.

TOUSSOUM

12th December.

B

y half-past seven I was on deck. Looking at my chess-board chart of the canal, and then at one of the numbered piles beyond the fairway, I discovered we were just leaving Timsah (or Ismailia), painted white on the chart and numbered forty-five on the pile. Crossing to the starboard, or Egyptian, side, my attention was first drawn to three stately camels majestically moving across a waste of sand towards the bank of the canal. Then my eyes fell upon a solitary felucca lying silent and inert on the water close at hand, with a huge white sail idly flapping in the gentle breeze, and manned by a solitary fellah asleep in the sunbaked bow. The whole desert on either bank was a blaze of monochrome — sand eternal — sand in hills, sand in valleys, sand in a million fantastic, wind-blown shapes. And with the sand the same everlasting silence. Not an echo across the undulating seas of desert; not a cry from any living man or creature: merely the even and musical rhythm of the ship’s slowly revolving screws and the unfathomable riddle of the sand. Now appear in the distance two small huts, either supporting either on the sloping banks, forefronted at the moment by one diminutive boy and two somewhat skinny hens, the trio giving forth such noises as are peculiar to their respective breed and sex. So we gradually creep on in the brilliant sunshine, here passing a wind-formed desert hill patterned by the late tread of camels’ feet; there, on the Arabian shore, skirting a miniature grand-stand, from which at sunset one would have an uninterrupted view of Egypt’s most compelling and beautiful daily rite — the veiling of the desert. Soon a vessel shows up ahead of us, which on closer inspection proves to be the P. & O. “Simla” on her way home, and which, not being the carrier of His Majesty’s mails, was moored up on the Arabian shore to give us precedence. We are at Toussoum, and the banks are dotted with Arabs, mooring-posts and a few British quartermasters from the “Simla.” On the completion of a hasty breakfast I discovered we were

Toussoum

15

entering the Bitter Lakes, where, between a double row of buoys, we are slipping along at close on twelve knots an hour. We have now passed through the lakes, a wide expanse of dazzling glass today, with here and there a full-set sail interrupting the view to the golden desert of Arabia, and are at the moment leaving Kabret behind as we slowly crawl on, at reduced speed again, to Le Gare de Genéffé. And what a perfect Venetian scene it is as one almost imperceptibly drifts across a deep blue lagoon of mirrored infinitude, so clear as to reveal the very tints and colours of the high-hung, isolated clouds of snow that afford the sole sky marks in a turquoise and illimitable dome. Between the lagoons and the desert one’s eyes are caught by shafts of golden light, cast by some jutting islets that dazzle in the brilliant Eastern sun: a train — a mere toy, silent, smokeless and soon gone — glides across the sand towards Suez; and in the far distance, on the skyline, a range of hills affords a perfect background to a lovely and unforgettable land and sea scape. A solitary pelican stands in the shallows of the lagoon, a speck of purest white against the blue; and the ripple of the ship’s wash breaks in a frill of lace upon the projecting ridge of an adjacent island. Genéffé itself is but a cluster of palms, cocoa-nut trees, pines and a flagstaff, adjoining a little station which houses a few officials and their telephone and telegraphic apparatus. Near by are a number of huts, a group of gesticulating natives, each enveloped in his picturesque white burnous, and two either amused or inquisitive camels who twist their long necks in an apparent determination to read the name of our ship, or, it may be, as a protest against the interruption of their leisure and solitude. And now — 12.20 — we are in the famous deep cutting of Shaluf, where, so Murray informs us, in the layers of limestone on either bank have been found fossil remains of sharks, tortoises and whales. As I write, we — the Royal Mail boat — are stopping, are actually mooring up on the Egyptian bank. I shall leave my journal for a moment to enquire as to the cause of this indignity to His Majesty’s mails, and of the interruption to the sedate, if slow, progress of his subjects. I am back, pen in hand, and, as is so common in life — after the positive years of youth, infallibility and dogmatism are gone — I am humbled once more in the dust of prosaic fact. Whereas a moment ago I sprang up full of surprise at this untoward occurrence in the assurance of

16

A Winter in India

preconceived ideas and childlike faith in the reliability of hearsay, now I have to admit that my canal lore was sadly at fault. Not long ago I entered the museum at Colchester and interested myself ina study of the “tear bottles” there displayed. As I was examining them a courteous curator approached and entered into conversation with me. “You are interested in perfume bottles?” he enquired, to which, with the echoes of Greece scarce dead within my ears. I replied: “I am most interested in tear bottles,” Alas! instead of thereby receiving a new-born respect for my knowledge of the antique in general and funereal rites in particular, my unknown friend merely smiled, and said: “Oh, of course, that old theory is quite exploded nowadays. It has been conclusively proved that the bottles buried with the dead were filled with perfumes, not tears.” I protested, quoting Scripture and every guide in Greece and Europe as the authority for my belief. All to no avail; so, humbled, and perhaps just the tiniest bit shaken in my preconceived theory, I sought distraction in the undisputed authenticity of Georgian coins. And so today I am humbled anew. For whereas I have preached, with all the confidence of a one-room boy, the indisputable fact that mail ships stop for no man, cause, or traffic in the canal save only for petroleum barges and battleships in commission, now I learn from an officer on board that we are hugging the shore not to view the passage of petrol nor yet to do honour to the remnant of His Majesty’s overseas navy, but just because the tide, and hence the canal signal, is against us. As I write, an old tramp, rejoicing in the name of “Penoliver,” is creeping up, drawing, I notice, twenty-one feet of water, and, I may add, drawing also upon her unblushing and unpainted sides the indignant glare of some five hundred impatient travellers. And now we are close to Suez. On my right you might imagine that some Titan infant had just ceased from playing on the Arabian shore where the sand has been thrown up in great fantastic dunes, and that he has pushed a monster roller over the more distant, dead-level stretch of desert. A jackal is slouching past us, now sniffing a morsel of carrion and again proceeding, in its peculiar running-walking-ambling gait, across the illimitable plain of arid, golden sand — a pariah, a wanderer, a strange mixture of wolf and dingo dog. As one passes along the sea-front of Suez one is somehow reminded of Bath. Not that this back door of the canal in any way, architecturally,

Toussoum

17

resembles the magnificent circus or crescent — the once brilliant stage on which Beau Nash played his famous social role of autocrat — but because both places seem to whisper of memories long dead and of present eclipse. For with its fine row of houses, pretty peeps of garden beauty, and its avenue of well-grown and shady trees one somehow expects to see today’s sunlit scene peopled with more life than that indicated by a few tugs, a string of sleepy fishing boats, three wandering goats (standing on tiptoes at their afternoon meal off some shrubs in forbidden and railed-in territory), and a thin sprinkling of natives, busy in the Eastern art of killing time. But that was all I saw. In the early part of the eighteenth century Suez was what it has again reverted to, little more than a fishing village, occasionally stirred into commercial activity by the passage of caravans from Egypt to Asia, and vice versa; but when in 1837 the route through Egypt was adopted for the transit of the Indian mail, and shortly afterwards the P. & O. ran a regular line of steamers between India and Suez, the town gradually grew in importance and population. This prosperity, however, was very soon destined to extinction by the completion of the Suez Canal; and today the once filled storehouses and groaning winches are respectively empty or silent. Gradually the speed of the ship is increased as we steam out to the Roads, then again reduced to allow the P. & O. tug to catch us up. At last it pants alongside; our pilot runs down the gangway, springs on board, followed by an orange-coloured, diminutive mail-bag, labelled “Commander, Brindisi”; and both ships diverge, the tug to return to the sleepy port behind us, and we to cram on every available ounce of steam (being ten hours late owing to the delay caused by the transhipment of the enormous Christmas mails) for our thirteen hundred mile race through the Red Sea, and the Strait of Bab-el-Mandeb, to Aden. And as the revolutions increase I look round at the dying glory of the day. It is four o’clock, and the sun is slowly sinking on our starboard horizon behind two parallel strips of dark, thunder-laden clouds. Further aft the Old Town of Suez is lit by its slanting rays; and the striking range of Gebel Attakah shows up in all the beauty of its dark violet heights, hemming in the shores of the Red Sea and crowning the level flats of the intervening desert with a coronet of gold.

RED SEA 13th December.

T

he Red Sea is a blaze of blue; the fans which were to whirl air and a semblance of content into our perspiring frames are as inert as the ship’s humanity was forecasted to be at this period of our marine pilgrimage; and I am sitting on deck, cool, happy, and unsteamed, rejoicing in the breeze that makes life this morning a positive joy. Mount Sinai (only visible with the eye of faith, be it truthfully admitted, being thirty-seven miles inland) is far behind us; the Gulf of Suez has given place to the Red Sea — so called owing to the colour of its sand — and the vibration tells me that any individual who draws a lower number than 400 will not win the sweep today. One yet greater than my late informant on canal procedure has arisen. Yet another rent has been made in the already tattered rags of misrepresentation that are hourly falling from me. The captain has just knocked the entire bottom out of the old shibboleth of mail-ship preference. We took eighteen hours yesterday, in place of the average fourteen, to pass through the canal (and this, mark you! with a “preference” order from the authorities), being tied up no less than four times. One’s brain reels to calculate the eternity we would have taken over the journey had we set forth without this talisman of speed. It is all so much nonsense. The mail ship takes her impartial and unfavoured turn with humble cargo boats and adverse tides, whether laden with the politely worded expression of the authorities’ goodwill or not. So fades another fairy tale. If any further rulings of the lower maritime courts are reversed by the “Maloja’s” House of Lords, I shall begin to doubt the very existence of the canal itself or the evidence of my bewildered eyes and brain.

14th December.

A

nother divine day. Fans are whirling; a gentle warm breeze is blowing, and people are lazily flirting in couples or hurling quoits with

Red Sea

19

preposterous energy up and down the starboard side of the deck. The day is now wearing itself out in increasing vapour and clamminess; the revolutions of the fans number their thousand a minute, and half the passengers are warm and half are cold. “Energy,” for instance (whom you may recollect we last saw seated in the saloon at dawn washing his hands with invisible soap), is now himself invisible, having succumbed either to the heat or to the contortions indubitably occasioned in winding his circumference into a black cummerbund whose length, breadth, and thickness would, I feel sure, be more suitable for the purposes of dressmaking than for combating plague, cholera, or whatever microbe specializes in corpulent colonials. But then again the other half of the passengers are cool, and eye with visibly increasing temperature the humming fleet of whirling fans that impartially drive, at meals, their unwelcome draughts upon heads innocent of protection, heads Eurasian, and heads whose glory Bond Street never guaranteed against such mighty winds. By dinner-time, however, “Energy” — minus his swathing bands — reappeared, and added to the general conviviality by announcing in stentorian tones that, as viewed from the Red Sea, Australia was a powerful long way off, but that when once there the eleven thousand miles which separate the old country from the new seemed a most suitable and desirable distance. Had we been sailing in more northerly latitudes his sentiments would, I feel convinced, have been cloaked in language less frank, and possibly in tones less heartfelt.

15th December. 2.4 p.m. Stop Press News. An inquisitive and greedy descendant of Jonah’s temporary conveyance has just swallowed the log. An old one, less flashy, has been cast into the deep to replace the one now residing in obscurity and unrevolving peace. Official.

ADEN

17th December.

T

he approach to Aden was covered by night and shrouded in fascinating mystery. The light on Ras Marshag, at first indistinct, gradually grew clearer and larger until, as we slowly steamed into our harbourage, it was eclipsed by the more brilliant dazzle from a searchlight of a British gunboat, which threw a powerful ribbon of silver across the glassy water; while the moon, not to be outshone by this pigmy of electricity, cast a parallel band of white from the topmost ghostly ridges of the Rock, one thousand seven hundred feet above the sea. Then, the anchor being dropped, out of the darkness there slowly glided a fleet of lighters, manned by an army of Arabs recruited from the Arabian Yemen,Turkey and Egypt; Swahelis from East Africa, and shock-headed Peters from Somaliland, all chattering and gesticulating after the manner of their amusing and unintelligible kind. Another instant, and night was turned to day, peace to pandemonium; dark shadows for’ard and aft into, straining winches; and prospective sleep into enforced wakefulness. The following morning — Monday — I woke (I admit to a little sleep) to hear the eternal dirge of the Arabs, the squeak of winches, and — unexpected music — the distant strains of a regimental band on shore. I looked at my watch, by the aid of electricity, to discover it was half-past five. At seven o’clock we staggered on board the tender for our short journey to the connecting “ferry-boat,” the “Arcadia,” in my opinion a delightful and peaceful private residence after the busier life of the P. & O.’s Hotel Cecil. And now the Indian Ocean is a blaze of turquoise; the ship is half empty (the majority of the passengers having gone on to Colombo, China and Australia), and most of my fellow-travellers are reposing in

Aden

21

un-picturesque attitudes of somnolence. Which gives me a good idea, imitation being the sincerest form of flattery.

19th December.

Y

esterday was devoid of interest and unworthy of comment. Whereas, on the Indian Ocean, one expects to sit on deck, gently moving across an illimitable lake of glass, surrounded by love-sick couples, cooling beverages, and insensible humanity, a detestable wind has upset all such utopianisms, the whisperings of love having been entirely drowned in the groans of mal de mer. And today is, climatically, a thing of ridicule and absurdity. The wind is, if anything, stronger — and the resisting power of anatomy appreciably weaker. And now the comfortable voyage which should have ended this morning but for the inevitable delay caused by the enormous Christmas mails, is slowly drawing to a close. An air of unrest is prevalent; Customs’ declaration forms rustle in hands uncertain how to fill them up, and, at the moment, a worried-looking mortal with an accordion-pleated forehead has definitely realized that his baggage is totally indivisible by the number of his boxes.

UMBALLA

22nd December.

I

am now at Umballa. Since I wrote of mathematical impossibilities as applied to impedimenta I have travelled by rail over a thousand miles, swallowed incalculable dust, and sat enraptured with the panoramas of hills and valleys, plains and forests that alternately unfolded their varying beauty and fascination before my eyes. Arriving in the vicinity of Bombay about 12.40 on Friday night, I left the cabin in pursuit of air and knowledge. Nothing, however, was to be seen but a few smoking-room habitués, a white inanimate mass (to avoid falling over which I all but dislocated my spine, and which on closer inspection proved to be a human being sleeping on deck), and the flash of the Colaba light — the first message from the great, unintelligible and paradoxical legacy of a few enterprising tradesmen and the fruit of the discontent of a restless and ambitious clerk. To return, however, from the genesis of the East India Company and the birth of Lord Clive’s imperishable fame to the impressions of a humble P. & 0. tourist. The sea was as restful as the dead; the silence as that of its tomb; till faintly I heard the sound of oars in the eerie distance, to discover the pilot’s boat approaching to starboard. The Colaba light flashed brilliantly at frequent intervals; the voices of the oarsmen floated across the shadowy waters with ever-increasing clearness; and finally a young fellow in a white solah topee sprang up the rope ladder, lowered ready for his use, and leapt on to the bridge. Once more we slowly moved towards our hidden anchorage until a rattle of chain followed by startling silence told me that we had reached the end of our journey across the seas. As long ago as 42 b.c., Publius Syrus stated that “money alone sets all the world in motion.” How painfully true! Without it at 2.30 a.m. I found to my cost that its equivalent (in the form of a Credit on Messrs. Cook and Son) was as incapable of stirring Bombay as were my justifiable wrath and futile vapourings. A coloured and spectacled representative of the firm, whom I interviewed on the gangway of

Umballa

23

the “Arcadia,” denied all knowledge of finance, or receipt of any Marconigrams in reference thereto. Realizing that we should arrive at night, instead of, as usual, early in the morning, I had with intelligent forethought marconigramed Cook to send some money on board; but now here was I stranded in India with exactly one pound and four miserable annas as my total available assets, and with liabilities, the railway fares to Umballa, excess weight on some few tons of luggage, not to mention a tip to my steward, due and unpaid. But Cook spread forth Eurasian palms, hitched up a pair of be-uniformed shoulders, and passed out of my life. The unfortunate episode bears only this moral: better risk robbery of your gold than tie up all your capital in possible unrealizable credit notes. As I made my way to our cabin I gripped Publius Syrus warmly by the hand. En route, however, I met the Punjab express attendant, explained that I was as bankrupt as any male lunatic after three minutes in a charity bazaar, and asked him what he could do for me. Everything. All I had to do was to go to the station, buy my tickets, pay for excess luggage, ask for cash for running expenses — and all would be well. So we landed on the chance that the railway magnate had spoken truth; and he had — absolutely. And here I render my deep thanks both to my informant and to the saint who saw us through an unpleasant hour. His name I shall forbear to disclose, as he might not appreciate a public acknowledgment of his great kindness; but I thank him very heartily all the same. Landing in a launch at the Ballard Pier, we dragged our somewhat weary limbs and depressed spirits up a flight of wet, stone steps, at whose summit, beneath a blazing arc light, there stood revealed a struggling mass of colour, topees, luggage and scrimmage. Out of this hurlyburly I finally extricated myself and went in search of the “boy” ordered to meet us at Bombay. I found him outside the Customs’ enclosure, and bade him return with me to assist in the excavation of our clothes and saddles, golf-clubs and etceteras which at that moment littered a considerable portion of Bombay. Even in my temporary bankruptcy I could not help smiling at “Peter” — for so men call him — and envying him the muscular development of his neck. Peter shares with me the limitations of a foreign vocabulary, “Very good” pouring from his Goanese lips in never-ceasing reiteration, inevitably accompanied by a preposterously energetic shake of his black, curly head. I have not yet

24

A Winter in India

seen it nod, but perhaps when its owner admits any dubiety as to my orders it will do so. Meanwhile, however, it merely shakes, ejaculating a “Very good!” to all instructions, enquiries and observations. And now leaving him to coax, command or cajole an army of coolies in the discharge of their duties, my wife and I hired a taxi and drove off in search of our unknown Samaritan and the sinews of motion. The moon shone down upon silent and deserted streets, shadowed on either side by tall avenues of trees which looked almost ghostly in the darkness. Here and there, however, white forms appeared — the Indian porters of Bombay — shuffling along beneath the trees, bearing boxes on their heads. Gliding along in fascinating silence, we soon shot past the General Post Office — an imposing building which reminded me of the Gare de Lyon, in Paris — and arrived at the palatial Victoria terminus, where our financial troubles were, sure enough, instantly smoothed away. Hitherto I have only entered India from the extreme south, at Tuticorin, and then merely to travel some one hundred and ninety-five miles, so the experience of the coming journey of over a thousand was entirely new to me. But the oft-alleged comfort of Indian travel is, in my opinion, in no way exaggerated; and the journey passed most pleasantly, one being alternately occupied in watching the ever-changing scenery, the habits and customs of travelling India, as illustrated on the various station platforms, and in recurring intervals of meals and sleep. The carriages are thoroughly adapted to the European’s love of fresh air and hatred of mosquitoes; but it must be frankly admitted that some sort of dust-coat is most desirable, as at the end of our journey we were plentifully coated in a white powder of dust. Compared, however, to the heat, the discomfort, the sulphur fumes, and the nerve-destroying gyrations of your continental train de luxe, the more leisurely progress of the Punjab mail express is no less preferable than is the motion of a gondola to that of a wiggle woggle. So, when you take the journey, fortify yourself with a dust-coat, soap, towels, blankets and sheets (for no bedding is supplied), and you will enjoy the experience as much as I did. Meals are served on board, the bunks are comfortable, and a Wolseley’s valise — an elder and stronger brother of the holdall — is a most useful and handy contrivance or carrying bedding, rugs, cushions, and the invariable overflow of one’s boxes.

Umballa

25

Our train was due to start at 6.20, and as we glided across the Sion causeway, linking the islands of Bombay and Salsette, the eastern horizon glowed a deep and brilliant red — the false dawn of an Indian morning, until, gradually, as we approached Kalyan junction, the sun rose quite suddenly. And then we slowly ascended from the Konkan to the Deccan plateau through the wonderful pass of Thal Ghat, until, mounting ever higher and higher, we at last reached Wigatpura, appropriately called “the town of difficulties” on account of the precipitous road which was ancestor of the railway. On again till holy Nasik — the western Benares — is passed, to give place to Burhanpur, a city of the Central Provinces, and famous as the death-place of Arjmand Banu, the inspirer of the Taj Mahal, and the adored wife of Shah Jahan. From station to station the distances were as immense as the scenery was wild or beautiful. Here were range upon range of mountain ridges, formed into a thousand fantastic shapes by a million years of tropical rainfall: there vast tracts of vivid green and well-cultivated plains. Here miles of forest; there field upon field of rice, banana and cotton. Hour after hour we forged ahead, now leaving behind us the Central Provinces to invade the widespread country of Rajputana, where our first stopping-place was Bhopal, noted on account of its energetic and broad-minded ruler, Her Highness Sultan Begam, g.c.s.i., g.c.i.e. Soon the Indian night fell with the swiftness so noticeable in the East, and I turned in early to sleep till close on seven o’clock the following morning. During the night we had passed two cities made famous by the Mutiny — Jhansi and Gwalior, the latter of which I hope to visit when my touring proper begins. Waking early, I was just in time to see our passage through Agra, immortalized by Shah Jahan’s surpassing monument of love, the Taj bibi ka Roza — or the Crown Lady’s Tomb — and the first city reached in the United Provinces. On yet again, and Delhi was heralded by the Kutab Minar, or tower of victory, that stands up boldly on the level plains. Then the minarets of the Jama Masjid, or Great Mosque, showed up on the horizon, till gradually its three huge domes of white marble took shape and reflected the brilliant colours of the Indian sun; and lastly we steamed into the city itself, and a thrill passed through me as before my eyes were

26

A Winter in India

unfolded scene upon scene — the Ridge, the Jumna, the Mosque — in all the almost unparalleled glory of their ancient and modern memories of war and splendour, treachery and heroism. But till I re-enter Delhi myself, to lift for a moment the fringes of its rich curtain of history and its veil of future possibilities, I shall pass on, with the mails, to Meerut, the earliest chosen spot of the long succeeding series of revolting outrages that saturated India with the blood of defenceless women and children in that awful summer of 1857. And today, fifty-five years after, Meerut was bathed in sunshine, and as peaceful as a Sunday afternoon in rural England. But where today the long lines of the 7th Army Division stand, one could repeople with the mutinous 3rd Bengal Cavalry and the 11th and 20th regiments of Native Infantry. One could picture them watching for the 60th Rifles to file in to evening service, and listen to them planning the murder of every European while the British troops were in the church; I could somehow in the silence of this afternoon hear the distant echo of shot upon shot, cry upon cry of women and children’s voices; I could see the mean, sneaking devils murdering their officers and burning the houses of the cantonment. I could smell the powder and the dust, and follow the dense mass — the advance guard of the great Mutiny — filing off, alas! unpunished and unpursued, on the grand trunk road to Delhi. And then the train moved on again for the final hundred and eighteen miles that separated us from our destination. At last we arrived at Umballa; Peter staggered under miscellaneous impedimenta; while we greeted our friend, D. R., and revelled in the bright, warm sunshine. I may be wrong (for much travelling has convinced me of the futility and impertinence of dogmatism on any subject or country to which one has not dedicated half a lifetime), but so far, all along the thousand miles of journey, and especially in the Punjab, the weather indicates a climate infinitely preferable, and more healthy, than that of the over-lauded Riviera or over-irrigated Egypt; but in a few months I shall be better qualified to compare their respective claims to the tourist’s patronage. What, however, I am already justified in saying is that railway travelling in India, once experienced, rids one entirely of the dread (so often inseparable from things unknown) of journeys beside which a transit from Land’s End to John O’Groats is but, as it were, a jaunt from Barnes Common to Waterloo.

Umballa

27

We are stopping at Parry’s Hotel, a most comfortable establishment (with rooms whose roofs, compared with the confined areas of the past two weeks, seem to be no less distant from one than do the dome of St Sophia or the apexes of the Pyramids appear microscopic to the pigmy standing beneath them). I have a splendid room just off our dining-room, large enough for the combined purposes of sleep and work, and shared by a pair of charming, if talkative, little birds who live up on a couple of iron girders in the ceiling, and who, so far as I can judge lying on my back in the abyss beneath, appear to enliven the early hours in a continual flutter of General Post or Hide and Seek. And surrounding the angle of the hotel in which we are accommodated runs a delightful stone arcade beneath which one can work and which keeps at arm’s length the too inquisitive gaze of the midday Indian sun. The compound and garden are trim and pretty, respectively; the kitchen, larder and pantry (all of which the manager gladly showed me over) are models of cleanliness, with stone tables and fly-proof doors. And for those who know the alleged danger of wooden tables in Indian kitchens, where in the crevices meat decomposes and breeds cholera and all manner of hideous diseases, the advantages of stone tables need hardly be enlarged upon. In short, I am more than pleased with my first peep of our head-quarters. Soon, if all is well, I shall set out for Peshawar, the Khyber Pass, Amritsar, and, later, Simla, prior to my more extended tour through the heart of the Mutiny country.

23rd December.

I

worked all morning till a Hindu instructor of Urdu approached me with a view to business and with the assurance that under his tuition I should speak and read his language in such time as even the Berlitz School of Languages would blushingly hesitate to guarantee as sufficient for a thorough knowledge of Esperanto. In the course of conversation, however, I gathered that his pupils — the sahibs of Umballa — refused to have their Christmas festivities interrupted by linguistic study, so, being disengaged, he was prepared to show me the sights both of the cantonment and of the native town. At half-past one,

28

A Winter in India

accordingly, I joined my Hindu friend, stepped into a most uncomfortable conveyance, baptized by the name of a “tum-tum” — a low, springless ancestor of a pony-trap — and away we joggled through the cantonment dust, past the lines of the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment, the 1st Dragoon Guards, and the array of tents under which the South Lancashire Regiment are spending the winter. All along the roads buffaloes, donkeys and oxen strayed at will or were yoked to loads of varying dimensions; the dust rose in a succession of thirst-inducing clouds; and I clung on to the side post of our extremely rickety carriage when corners and ruts demanded a closer study of the laws of equilibration. At last, however, we reached a pond, in which some buffaloes were immersed, and a gateway through which we passed and which led one straight back a thousand years into the never-changing Eastern panorama of colour, flies and paradox. Hardly had I dismounted from the “tum-tum” than two coolies crossed my path, bearing a local sedan-chair made of bamboo poles and a bare wooden cage, upon which crouched one of Umballa’s purdah ladies, entirely obscured from view by an extremely dirty white dust-sheet. Next, looking through a half-closed doorway, one saw, and heard the rhythmic twang of, the “roi pinne-ka-tara” (a harp-shaped instrument) as it teased out and cleaned the raw cotton: opposite, amid indescribable dust, flour-pots, hookahs, tools, old shoes and general debris, sat a young woman nursing her baby boy: Mahommedan women in full trousers — red, mauve, orange, and occasionally torn — shuffled along in the crowded street; a man, naked save for a dirty loin-cloth, sat mechanically roasting corn: the local jeweller, arranging his booth-window with gaudy necklaces and tawdry beads, jostled the barber, busy clipping a client’s beard; women and children moved about, carrying on their noses, arms and ankles the savings of a lifetime; and as we reached the fruit market the flies seemed to reign supreme over apples, oranges, bananas, man and beast, and fill the stifled air with the incessant drone that is so prevalent (and apparently unnoticed) in the majority of Eastern bazaars. Then I visited the cotton factories, saw the gigantic squeezing presses completing the tread-mill labours of a dozen coolies busy stamping the cotton into the iron cage; and finally wandered into the “Soko” of Umballa, the grain market, where, standing on a borrowed

THE MARKET, UMBALLA

STREET SCENE, UMBALLA

30

A Winter in India

stool, I  photographed the moving mass of colours, buffaloes, carts, donkeys, men, women, children and dogs. Turning towards one of the many radiating alleys near the adjacent Mosque, I came upon three little children moulding with their tiny hands the refuse of the street into cakes, for future consumption, when dried, as fuel; the sugarrefiner ceased his mechanical labours for a moment as I passed him on my way to the residential part of the city, where I entered a native house — not particularly interesting — prior to a walk through the married quarters. Here the broad alleyways reminded me rather vividly of the excavated streets of Pompeii both in colour and proportions, and here at my approach the women sitting at their doorsteps in the sun — the husbands being at work in the city — instantly covered their faces, in accordance with local custom. But so paradoxical is the East, so incomprehensible, although I, fully clad and in my right mind, might neither peep at their copper-tanned features nor be peeped at in return, yet right in the middle of the road sat a man as totally bereft of clothing as of sanity being ministered to by one and all of Umballa’s matrons. There being presumably few, if any, vacancies in the lunatic asylums of the Punjab, this naked village idiot is permitted to wander at will from street to street, from bazaar to bazaar, being fed by all and sundry, whose religion commends the poor and insane to their kindheartedness and charity. And as I passed this creature, whose only garments were dust and dirt, woman after woman approached and gave him a handful of some unsavoury-looking mess which instantly disappeared. And so I wandered from the half-civilized to the absolutely primitive; I passed from the religious quarter of the town to that of ill repute; from the rites of Hindus to the observances of Mahommedans; from the pandemonium of the bazaars to the comparative peace of the dusty roads once more.

Christmas Day, 1912.

O

ne of the most beautiful days I ever recollect. In the morning we attended the military service in the English church — a most impressive sight; and the music, rendered by the string band of

Umballa

31

the 1st  King’s Dragoon Guards, magnificent. Shortly before eleven in poured some six hundred soldiers of the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment, all in red tunics and carrying white solah topees. The rattle of swords and rifles was a reminiscent echo of the outbreak of the Mutiny on that Sunday evening at Meerut, the 10th of May, 1857, and a reminder that we have not forgotten the dreadful lesson of attending service unarmed. Then in marched the Royal Horse Artillery, the K.D.G.’s, officers of every grade and in every shade of uniform, civilians, Eurasians, Generals, and a sprinkling of staff officers. D., like the other members of the staff, had on his left shoulder his badge of office, an aiglet, which added a touch of gold to his dark green Gurkha uniform. And it may be of interest to recall the fact that the aiglet worn by staff officers today is the descendant of the ancient cord and pegs carried by every squire for tethering his knight’s horse in olden times. Looking round, one’s eye was caught by a blaze of uniformed soldiers; and one’s imagination stirred by the thought that they and a handful more hold, rule and protect over three hundred and twenty million people, or one-fifth of the population of the globe, or, to put it another way, a country whose area exceeds one million seven hundred and seventy-three thousand square miles. To bring the stupendous statistics home to you, look at the map of Europe. “Burma alone is slightly smaller than Austria-Hungary; both Bengal and Bombay are bigger than Sweden; Madras is about the same size as Prussia and Denmark combined; while of the Native States Hyderabad is larger and Kashmer slightly smaller than Great Britain.” But to realize these facts one must travel through India’s apparently illimitable plains and hills. One can easily pile up statistics upon statistics, range comparison beside comparison, “but the result will probably merely leave those who have not actually seen and traversed the distances themselves in much the same vague state of confusion as the Astronomer Royal’s computation of the solar mileage left me at the close of his after-dinner speech not long ago. How true are Kipling’s words: “For what do they know of England who only England know?” In the afternoon we golfed. There are nine holes; the greens are “browns”; the turf for the most part sand; and the “Colonel” goes round in 36. I take off my topee to the mythological warrior. I masquerade

32

A Winter in India

at home under a handicap of six, but the Indian rajput and I will not arrange an exhibition match for a hundred pounds a side on the Umballa golf links. Indian life amuses me to an extent unintelligible to those who permanently justify their existence under its apparently elastic cantonment laws. In this, as probably in many another station, there are regulations regarding what are known respectively as “small” and “large” music, “Small” music embraces, for a few hours only, two or three drums, and a clarionet that emits sounds similar to the note of a duck (if you have ever heard one you will appreciate the point); while “large music” apparently denotes a limitless pandemonium, so loved by all the East. In the Sirhind Brigade Area Standing Orders, published for the perusal of all and sundry in the Umballa cantonment, I notice under section 67 sub-section 3 the following is enacted: — “‘Large and small music’ (the description tickles me to begin with) ‘is allowed in the Suddar Bazaar’ (situated at the back of our hotel) ‘at the discretion of the Cantonment Magistrate.’”

Now for the past three nights and days, drums, tom-toms and “ducks” have apparently made life altogether hideous for residential and European Umballa. The “largest music” in India has thumped its discordant blows and semi-detached duck notes into adjacent and jangled ears till every neighbouring sahib is craving to tear down the native theatre (from which edifice of matting and drama the noises emanate) and thereafter to rend in little pieces the Cantonment Magistrate who evidently lives beyond ear-shot of the monotonous, unmusical uproar. Personally, Umballa’s wrath amuses me enormously, as my workingroom, like the Magistrate, lies beyond the auricular boundary of this maddening Eastern babel. I have just returned from the Native Theatre — the home of the “large music” so beloved by European Umballa. The purveyors of to-night’s pandemonium were seated on six chairs in the compound, the honours being evenly divided between three coloured gentlemen who mercilessly pounded, flogged and hammered drums with varying fury and absolute independence, and three Hindu musicians who threatened to blow away their front teeth in a grim determination to

Umballa

33

waft the first two bars of “Auld Lang Syne” to the farthest corners of the Punjab. The piece to be played was “King Lear” (spelt Liar on the poster at the door) and translated into Urdu under the Hindustani equivalent for “White Blood,” a reference to the unfilial behaviour of the King’s daughter, of whom more anon. The hour was approaching nine-thirty; the crowd poured into the enclosure and disappeared behind the flap-door of the matting wall. A formidable creature in a white choga stood beside the pay-box, alternately admitting ticketholders and waving a diminutive tree-trunk in the faces of impecunious and over-inquisitive juveniles. A very civil and broken-down European advanced, offering to admit me, along with those who had, perforce, been given passes, free; rather wondered at the number of the “free” community until informed that any cessation of this courtesy to the railway officials would deprive the theatrical company of scenery at their next stopping-place. It would, of course, be unfortunate, but a disease common to Indian rolling-stock and diagnosed as “hot box” would be discovered about half-way on the journey, which would necessitate the uncoupling of the overheated truck. So I ceased from marvelling at the friendship shown to the railway world, paid my rupee, and passed into the theatre. The floor was of baked earth, the walls and roof of bamboo poles draped by matting, of which no two pieces were on nearer than speaking terms; while behind me sat row upon row of white, brown and grey-turbaned natives, listening solemnly to the musical efforts of the orchestra, which consisted of two harmoniums and some hidden instrument which necessitated a prodigious amount of exercise to play. Soon all were settled down, the majority companioned by buns and water, for the dramatic feast of four hours awaiting them. In the extreme forefront of the auditorium lounged the young “bloods” of Umballa, reclining in enormous deep-seated armchairs, and showing only the tops of their pugarees to the common herd behind. The curtain rose — upon the Indian interpretation of King “Liar’s” Palace. At the front of the stage stood six young women, waving copper-coloured hands and faces, and swaying their shot-green dresses in motion to a dreadful and horrible noise emitted from their halfdozen throats in a painful falsetto. Their opening chorus brought to a welcome close on the heights of an unmusical Mount Everest, in

34

A Winter in India

stalked the King himself (in private life the proprietor of the company), threatening every moment to cast the jewelled cross on his wobbling crown at the bare feet of his now kneeling courtiers. He, however, reached the throne without disaster, seated himself, and, without a moment’s hesitation, expressed his candid opinion, in ferocious Urdu, of his trembling daughter, an odd little party of paint, tawdriness and dawning manhood. For all King Lear’s female satellites were ladies but in name and costume; while his anathematized daughter of this evening showed me round the “green-room” yesterday in his more familiar, masculine attire. After a scene of painful agitation on all sides, the King heralded the downfall of the curtain (his crown meanwhile doing feats of balancing worthy of a Dan Roylat) by drawing a dagger, heaving his chest and lower anatomy about in simulated wrath and at incredible speed, and finally plunging his stiletto into the bowed neck of a too-pushful admirer of “White Blood.” Down whacked the curtain — and I retired at ten o’clock, taking the remaining five hundred acts as seen, and leaving the silent audience (too moved to clap) to witness a further three and a half hours of this adapted Shakespearean play.

1st January, 1913.

S

ince Friday life has flowed on without much incident to relate. I have ridden every morning. I have golfed, indifferently, and spent many hours in the Sirhind Club library, in the laudable pursuit of knowledge, statistics, and books which when asked for are invariably stated by the librarian — a delightful old Babu — as “not.” “Have you a book on the Khyber, Babu?” I ask, and the reply comes back with monotonous regularity: “Not!” Neither more nor less, simply “not!” When, after a few minutes’ search, I discover it, the old gentleman bears neither malice nor expresses surprise. In fact he is a great friend of mine, confiding to me many details of his life and the expression of the undying loyalty of his house to the British race. At the moment my writing-table is littered with pamphlets embodying statistics of sums lent by his father to distressed refugees in the Mutiny, pamphlets

Umballa

35

giving the unabridged records of his genealogical tree, and pamphlets of testimonials, signed by persons varying in importance from the great John Nicholson down to the smallest local magistrate. But he is a nice old chap, if more proficient in descanting on his relations than on the locality of the books in his library. I heard two little incidents (to Indians as old as the Himalayas) the other day that are so illustrative of the Eurasian point of view and conviction that 1 am inclined to include them in this book of light impressions. The first dealt with a Eurasian girl — as usual, more English than the dwellers in Peckham Rye — who illustrated the imbecility of a European draper in Bombay by relating how when she asked for flesh-coloured stockings he produced tan. The second concerns an individual who was speaking rapturously of his return “home” shortly, and who when asked where he would stop at in town, replied in a casual tone that for the first day or two he would probably put up in the däk-bungalow. But, after all, we all of us have our little weaknesses; and the Eurasian’s insistence on his European colour and birthplace is no less idiotic than your hallucination, so oft repeated as to also become a conviction, that last 12th you shot a hundred brace of grouse, or that the pictures you bought at a bankrupt sale twenty years ago are really those of your ancestors. But as George Graves lately said to Clara Evelyn, after a long digression in “Princess Caprice,” “Now, dearie, let’s get back to the piece.” And now, leaving banter behind, let me try to paint a pen picture, however thin and ill-drawn, of the magnificent Emperor’s Day Review which took place this morning. My wife and I set out in a “tum-tum” at half-past ten, reaching the King’s Dragoon Guards’ parade ground some twenty minutes later. All roads lead, in Italy, to Rome: all led, in Umballa today, to the King-Emperor’s Royal Enclosure. Soldiers, civilians, Eurasians, Punjabis, Hindus, Mahommedans and humble tourists one and all jogged along the highways in an endeavour to cast the dust of their feet and wheels into the teeth of their immediate fore-stragglers. Ahead of us rose a cloud of dust, cast by a native cavalry regiment marching to the parade ground; tum-tums, gharees and unattached officers mingled their varying colours in the dazzling sunshine; while

NATIVE CROWD AT EMPEROR’S DAY REVIEW, UMBALLA

Umballa

37

the cries of the native drivers alternated with the sharp demands for precedence of staff captains and other military dignitaries. At last I saw a long line of scarlet, two batteries of Royal Horse Artillery, waving pennants and native infantry. We drove up to the barrier of the Royal Enclosure, empty and guarded by British and native soldiery (for none, except the King-Emperor or the Viceroy, may enter it during the first part of the parade); and I took stock of my surroundings. Behind me, at some fifty yards distance, stood, squatted and sat countless hundreds of Indians, forming a picturesque, unrehearsed grouping of colour; beside me stood row upon row of tum-tums, private traps, uniformed officers and plainly dressed civilians; while in front stretched a long ribbon of scarlet and white — the South Lancashire and Duke of Wellington’s regiments — flanked by the A A and Z batteries of the Royal Horse Artillery, and backgrounded by the 1st King’s Dragoon Guards, the 9th Hodson’s Horse and the 30th Lancers (Gordon’s Horse) — both native cavalry regiments; while a speck of drab on the left indicated the remnant left in Umballa (the regiment being out in camp) of the 23rd Sikh Pioneers. Bang! thundered a gun — the first of thirty-one — and the Royal salute had begun. A puff of smoke, a silence of perhaps two seconds, then another half-deafening roar. The General, shadowed by D., his Brigade Major, sat his horse like a statue; but behind him S. was instantly employed in an endeavour to induce his more restive charger to stand on four legs instead of two. Bang! and a white horse pawed the air, turning his startled gaze towards the now clearing cloud of smoke. Click! Click! Click! Click! Click! rattled along the front rank of the scarlet lines, and the feu de joie had added to the homage to the King-Emperor. Bang! Bang! Bang! Click! Click! Click! Click! Click! and the salutes roared and rattled on. Silence. Then from the massed bands of the Duke of Wellingtons, the South Lancashires, and the 23rd Pioneers blared forth the National Anthem. All hands, swords, or rifles sprang to the salute. Beside me a bearded native officer stood as a pillar of marble, while civilians raised their topees ever so slightly above their heads. The first few bars died away across the sun-baked plain. Bang! thundered the next roar of the interrupted salute, this time from the farther, or Z battery. And as I looked, my thoughts fell back to a picture once so common, so appalling and so imperative in that awful summer of ’57. The plain

38

A Winter in India

BRITISH OFFICER, NATIVE CAVALRY REGIMENT

was not that of Umballa, but of its neighbour, Ferozepore. Long lines of troops, war-stained, hard-featured, merciless, and just, stood at attention. The guns were unlimbered; the natives gazed, awe-struck, at the grim preparations for the approaching retribution for murder, outrage, and mutiny. An officer marched forward, and, by the Brigadier’s orders, read the sentence of the court-martial. At its conclusion twelve men, under escort, walked towards the battery. A death-still silence fell upon British and native alike. Arrived at the guns, six culprits were handed over to the artillerymen, who seized their victims and bound them with strong ropes, the small of the back covering the muzzle, to the loaded cannons. And then — quite suddenly — the silence was broken by the oaths and yells — curses of hatred and screams of bitterness — of those about to die. While they were still yelling and cursing the sharp

Umballa

39

command of “Fire!” was heard. A thick cloud of smoke issued from the six muzzles of the cannons, followed by half a dozen simultaneous roars; while distinctly visible one could see the black heads of the victims thrown many feet into the air. And then a sickening, offensive stench — the pungent odour of burnt human flesh — filled one’s nostrils; while, horrible to relate, at each discharge of the guns the recoil threw back pieces of burning flesh, bespattering the men and covering them with blood and calcined remains. And that is a true picture, taken from the narrative of an actual eye-witness of those terrible sunset scenes of 1857. And today, as the guns thundered forth their Royal Salute, I turned to look at the descendants of those who were blown from the cannons’ mouths these fifty-five years ago. A deathly silence seemed to grip them; and I wondered, as I scanned the crowd, how many of the old grey-beards present had witnessed similar scenes to the one I have just described. Had they, then young, mutinous, brutal and arrogant, been forced to watch their hideous dreams of further mutiny, murder and imagined freedom fade away in the smoke of the White Man’s avenging guns, and been compelled to hear their leaders’ vain boastings drowned for ever in the roar of Britain’s inexorable might and unfaltering justice? I wondered — and I wonder still. After the last puffs, bangs, and rattle of the guns and rifles had died away, the General called for three cheers for the King-Emperor. Helmets — a flash of white — sprang high in the brilliant sunshine, a roar of cheering echoed across the plain, and the Proclamation Parade was over. Down fluttered the Union Jack from the flagstaff in the Royal Enclosure; up again it was run, and the second part of the parade had begun. The Royal Horse Artillery moved off to the passing line, raising a cloud of dust behind them as the guns rolled across the sunbaked ground; the General presented the Order of British India to two native officers of the 9th Hodson’s Horse and the 30th Lancers (Gordon’s Horse), and a Long Service medal to a staff-sergeant of the King’s Dragoon Guards; and then he rode into the enclosure, followed by his staff, to take the salute in the March Past. And a fine sight they were as regiment after regiment filed past the saluting point. First came the mounted band of the King’s Dragoon Guards, playing a stirring march, followed by the AA and Z Batteries

40

A Winter in India

of the Royal Horse Artillery, magnificent in their blaze of gold and blue, symbolic, to the native mind, of unconquerable power, and reminiscent, doubtless, of tales of horror and vengeance imprinted by an earlier generation on their fatalistic souls. And then as the dust respread itself, I saw the 3rd (Umballa) Cavalry Brigade approach, led by the 1st King’s Dragoon Guards, a moving mass of red and gold, followed by that splendid and historic regiment, the 9th Hodson’s Horse, marching in squadrons, and headed by its Colonel. Squadron after squadron passed, all in their uniforms of dark blue with white facings, and with heads swathed in Oriental and fascinating blue and gold lungis, or pugarees. In front of each squadron rode a British officer — the most picturesque figure I ever recollect, in his gorgeous lungi and brilliant native uniform — followed by his Risaldar Major and three Risaldars. And as they passed my thoughts again spanned the intervening chasm of over half a century; and the picture of a young subaltern outside the walls of Delhi rose up before my mind. I saw Hodson, stern, unkempt and as hard as nails, riding at the head of a squadron of the native Sikh cavalry regiment which his Commander-in-Chief had empowered him to raise, escorting the two eldest sons and the grandson of the King of Delhi towards the walls of the now fallen city. I heard the distant; echo of his “Halt!” on that 22nd of September, 1857; listened to his short enumeration to his men of the horrible crimes and brutalities of Abu Bukt, the heir-apparent to the throne, and of the two other prisoners. And then I saw Hodson ride up to the door of the gharee in which they were driving; heard the echo of six shots as he fired two into each heart. Then I followed that procession; saw the bodies rudely stripped, save for a loin-cloth, and flung down outside the Kotwali, or chief magistrate’s house, in the centre of the Chandni Chauk, on the very spot where our countrymen and women had suffered revolting contumely, agony and martyrdom. And this magnificent body of bearded Sikhs (our enemies of 1845–6, of 1848–9, and our staunch allies during the Mutiny) now passing me were the descendants of those irregulars raised in the crying necessity of ’57 by the bold young subaltern who rode with despatches from General Anson, at Karnal, to Meerut and back, through a country overrun by mutineers. Whatever his detractors may say as regards his possible untrustworthiness in financial matters or against his pitiless, drastic

Umballa

41

treatment of Abu Bukt, he was a man sorely needed in those inhuman, blood-mad days of rebellion, outrage and fanaticism. And as I saw the last of the regiment proudly marching past, my pulses quickened with the tramp, tramp, tramp of the horses’ feet. Would I could portray to you the haughty bearing of the men the pride of the prancing horses, and the dignity of the young British officers leading each squadron. And then followed another native cavalry regiment, the 30th Lancers (Gordon’s Horse) raised at Mominabad in 1826 by Sir John Gordon, as the 4th Regiment of Nizam’s Cavalry, resplendent in their rifle-green uniforms, with white facings, white breeches, and dark green and gold lungis, and with their lance pennants proudly fluttering in the gentle breeze. No sooner were they past us than the Prince of Wales’s Volunteers, better known as the South Lancashire Regiment, advanced in their scarlet coats with white facings, and white topees, followed by such of the Duke of Wellington’s (West Riding Regiment) and of the 23rd Sikh Pioneers, the latter dressed in drab with chocolate facings, who were not out in the Artillery Practice Camp. At last the bands ceased playing; the dust cloud gradually cleared away; and regiment after regiment, following the batteries of Horse Artillery, disappeared across the plain on the return march to cantonments. And as they left I asked myself once more what impression had the display of arms and power made upon the inscrutable native mind.

4th January.

T

oday has been a contrast of lights and shades, of humour and tragedy. Early this morning I set out on my bicycle to call on the Deputy-Commissioner of the Umballa district, a sphere embracing an area somewhat larger than half England. I arrived at his charming bungalow without incident; found his compound invaded by many (some far-travelled) Indians desirous of an interview with the “Presence”; and filled in the necessary time of waiting by keeping his courteous, busy wife from the discharge of her doubtless pressing household duties. At last, however, the D.C. appeared, having satisfied, or depressed, his various callers, and off I started for the courts

42

A Winter in India

on my “push” bicycle, followed some five minutes later by my host on his motor-cycle. All went famously till we overtook a drove of cows, when, Deputy-Commissioner or no Deputy-Commissioner, two of their number, apparently anti-petrolists, made straight for him. As, some time before, one fleet-footed lady had chased him for over three hundred yards before he outdistanced his irate pursuer, he advised me to dismount at once — meanwhile cutting off his engine — which I did pretty quick as one bovine matron lowered her head and charged my handle-bars. However, after sundry pleasantries exchanged, the overawed cow-herds ceased from grovelling in the dust and turned their attention and vocabulary to the cows, beating them handsomely, and finally routing them across the fields, while we proceeded in peace to the Cutcherry, or law courts. The buildings are one-storied and somewhat rambling; while the compounds were literally packed with litigants, barristers, oxen, police, munshis, criminals and Civil Service officials. A few of the Indians were apparently busy, but the great majority squatted in the sun, chattering like a zooful of monkeys, as though (the exact truth) time had no meaning or value for them. As we passed, the whole community rose; police rifles jerked to the salute; the natives covered their eyes with cool-black hands, bowing themselves to the earth; and we found ourselves in the Treasury, where a great portion of Umballa’s revenue is stored. This morning two lacs arrived, while behind the doubly locked iron doors of the inner cage lay vast sums of gold in dusty chests. Outside a soldier-man, clad in short khaki “footer” trousers, tunic and topee, sat watching an Indian weighing out small pyramids of rupees for regimental expenses; police sentries tramped to and fro with fixed bayonets; and a swarm of coloured officials dawdled over their work. Then we wandered on into courts presided over alternately by Eurasians, Indians and Europeans; paid an informal visit to the barristers’ quarters; and watched the munshis, or professional writers, squatting along with their clients, in the sun, scribing fairy tales of genealogy and statistics of imagination for production in court at a later hour. Picture a succession of small circles of Indians, all sitting on their heels, dressed in their dirty pugarees, not overclean dhotis, and, according to their several callings and stations, dictating or engrossing the myths and inexactitudes that constitute evidence in this land of

Umballa

43

prevarication, and you have some idea of an Indian solicitor’s clerk amongst his clientèle. Court after court we entered, walking between row upon row of natives, crouched in the orthodox attitude for leap-frog, who doubtless mistook me for another “Presence,” until we at last arrived at the Deputy-Commissioner’s court — the business residence of my host. The room had three large doors; the floor was covered by drab matting; a painting of King Edward hung upon the khaki-coloured wall; while in this lower, or audience, portion of the court stood a large wooden table, covered by a torn, green cloth, at which sat two of Umballa’s stout, turbaned barristers. Mounting a couple of steps one reached the D.C.’s platform, carpeted in blue with red stripes, and separated from the lower half of the room by a wooden railing. The Deputy-Commissioner sat down at a large table, littered with books and legal papers, while behind him squatted a police officer, dressed in a drab uniform relieved by red and black stripes on both arms, and head-geared in a red and blue pugaree, at the moment sorting a wilderness of papers beside a crackling fire. The orderly, a portly, imperious figure in a red tunic, gold waistband, black beard, and white turban, is instructed to produce the first petitioner. Enters a creature in grey coat and check trousers, plaided by a drab blanket, grey beard, white pugaree, and bare feet (one toe amputated), who stands with hands clasped as though in prayer. Forthwith emits from same a wail which, being interpreted, amounts to a firm persuasion that the income-tax assessment of fifty-two rupees is excessive. The D.C.’s clerk — a black-bearded gentleman who has not visited his dentist for some little time, I would hazard — reads out a statement; the claimant looks remarkably serious; the “Presence” speaks; exit the happy petitioner, ordered to pay forty-two rupees. Case No. 2. Enters a blind man — like the first, a moneylender, by the by — garbed in a grey coat, innocent of trousers, dirty pugaree and dhoti, and with hands, as usual, posed in supplication. He too is a poor man, moreover blind, and seeks some rebatement from the fifty-two rupees levied on his dwindled income. An object for pity surely. The clerk reads a gabble in Hindustani, at incredible speed, revealing the fact that the old gentleman has omitted to state that he

44

A Winter in India

has two able-bodied and sighted sons who competently carry on the Shylock business, which admits to a profit of 1500 rupees. Ordered to pay forty-two. Case No. 3. More complicated. A magistrate less honourable than the D.C. had fined an individual four rupees for assaulting the proprietor of some wheat at such time as he took delivery of same. Enters the alleged ruffian, a youth head-geared in a close-fitting drab skull cap; sharp featured; eyes of a serpent; clad in a khaki coat reaching a little below the waist; legs bare; finger-tips level with his hawk-shaped nose — a scoundrel of the first water. The case was false, the evidence corrupt, the statement that the present claimant (whose eyes are now residing in fervent innocence amongst the cobwebs overhead) had ever struck anyone in the whole course of his twenty-five years of sobriety preposterous. This from the mouth of a learned barrister — late of Lincoln’s Inn — clad in a dark tweed suit and round Hindu zari-ki-topi, who further advanced the proposition, in a mingled flow of pigeon English and Hindustani, that the four rupees ought at once to be refunded. The Deputy-Commissioner had merely to read the evidence of the trustworthy witnesses for the defendant in the late case to convince himself at once of the absurdity of the former ruling. Unfortunately the D.C. has the whole evidence before his nose at the moment, and says so. A pause. The clerk is instructed to read an extract from same. Does so. The present claimant is apparently a violent-tempered rascal; without doubt did inflict upon the wheat dealer a tremendous thrashing, with insufficient provocation, and has evidently been most fortunate to have escaped with so lenient a fine. Appeal dismissed. Exit humbled barrister and fire-eating injured innocence, leaving the coveted four rupees in the Treasury of the flinthearted Indian Government. Case No. 4 (and last). A man having been acquitted of assault in a lower court, his sworn enemy appeals for a reversal of judgement. Enter very portly barrister, in grey, and revengeful claimant in brown legs, blue galabeah, yellow pugaree, chin innocent of hair, and age comparatively tender. The clerk commences to intone his statement; the red-robed orderly subsides on to his heels in the centre of the court; the pursuer (blood-sucking rascal) stands as a model for a Greuze’s “Innocence” — a crumpled rose of outraged citizenship, while the D.C. sits patiently listening to the recital of the scrimmage. This finished,

Umballa

45

the barrister, so moved by the justice of his client’s case as to wave his dirty paws across the wooden barrier, in close proximity to the face of the “Presence,” relates how his client was indeed set upon by the vermin acquitted in the lower court; how his body was left a mass of bruises, and his ears, from which the joot-moot savagely tore a pair of ear-rings, two lacerated lobes of gore, “Produce the ears,” says the D.C. in level, unbiassed tones, whereupon the lobes are disclosed from beneath a pugaree of abnormal dimensions and questionable sanitation, and unfortunately found to be in an excellent state of repair. Appeal instantly dismissed. And so on in a never-ceasing stream of gesticulation, abuse and vivid imagination. Lies! All lies! But India loves litigation. Having procured a pass to see over the jail, I left the court, photographed a weeping individual, fettered to a couple of flint-hided police, on his way to the “Presence,” and rode off some two miles to the prison. From the outside one sees only a very high mud wall, a heavily barred gateway, and some half-dozen native police who spring to attention, and whose salutes I acknowledge as though to the manner born. I thrust my order of admission through the bars; a shout rings out; warders run for keys, dear life, and high officials; the great padlocks turn in obedience to a scrap of paper; the huge doors swing open, and I am locked into the enormous Umballa jail. So far, I am standing in a stone-covered archway with locked doors in front and behind; and the first object that catches my wandering eye is the tabulated register of last night’s lock-up. On the 4th January, 1913, there were incarcerated behind these bars, padlocks and mud walls 691 male convicts and 3 female, 40 male “undertrial” (awaiting trial) and 2 female, and 4 male condemned — a grand total of 735 male and 5 female. Males, blush for your sex, you lawless ruffians! I pass on through the archway to the second door, of enormous strength, painted black, and of course heavily padlocked. This also is pushed open, and I find myself in the broad, open enclosure of the prison grounds. Warders, officials and arch-officials press forward to render assistance to the friend of the “Presence”; and we set out towards the left where, bang in front of me, I notice two words, painted in black on a white background, that somehow cause me involuntarily to shudder. “Condemned cells” was what I read. The glorious sun was blazing down upon me; the morning seemed so sweet, so fresh — and these

46

A Winter in India

two words recalled me sharply to the dreadful fact that close by were four creatures about to be shut out from this brilliant light of heaven; soon to be thrust into oblivion and darkness; shortly to be called upon to pay the supreme price of crime. I walked towards the building, but when short of it the warder stopped, signed to me to follow, and mounted three steps that led from the ground into a square, mud-wall enclosure crowned and darkened by a corrugated iron roof. Automatically I stepped up after him — to face the gallows. As I have set out in an endeavour, however poorly realized, to portray Indian scenes — dark as well as light — and as what I then faced is a part (the last) of an Indian murderer’s life, I shall pause for a moment to describe the most awful of what Browne calls “the thousand doors that lead to death.” If, however, the description is likely to offend or outrage your feelings, stop below in the dazzling sunshine among the isolated trees and warders till I once more rejoin you, to pass on to less gruesome scenes. But to those who will follow me up those three brick steps I shall try to describe this grim machinery of death. To left and right stand two black triangular poles of iron to the apexes of which is connected another iron pole, stretching from one to the other — very similar in design to an ordinary horizontal bar visible in any gymnasium. On this cross or connecting pole hang three hooks, from which, at an execution, dangle three ropes. At the moment the trap-doors — two planks of wood running the entire length of the pole above — are open, revealing a drop of some fifteen feet. By pressing the lever towards you the two planks come up, join, and make into one solid platform, on which the condemned prisoners stand prior to execution. Last year two stood together on this awful board; the signal was given, the lever released, so opening the floor beneath them; the hooded figures dropped; the ropes around their necks jerked taut, and all was over till the warders cut them down and wheeled the bodies up the sloping alleyway into the daylight above. And now let us step down again and breathe the pure air of heaven before we proceed to inspect those wretched creatures who shall shortly have to stand on this platform of death and personally prove the fearful truth of Oscar Wilde’s burning lines that “it is not sweet with nimble feet to dance upon the air.”

Umballa

47

In about a minute I am looking through an archway into a tiny courtyard centred by a stone slab used for supporting the lamp that shines all night upon the convict, and acknowledging the salute of the khaki-clad, red-bearded warder who is pacing up and down, baton in hand, in front of the cells of the four condemned. Beyond the courtyard my eyes fall upon a network of bars and padlocks, behind which stands a man dressed in a brown blanket and little else, stoically gazing through me and the warders into the sunshine behind us. His eyes seem to be preternaturally bright, his face sharp and keen; but he makes no sound, no movement. “How long has he been here?” I ask, “Since the 12th of November,” the reply comes back. For his friends — which shows that he has some well-wishers who care nothing for murder — are appealing for a reprieve; but the chances, apparently, of his evasion of that dreadful trap-door just behind him are slender indeed. His case is bad, having, along with his brother — now in Cell No. 3 — murdered his uncle to inherit the family property; and now all that both are heirs to consists of a few feet of rope and earth. I pass on to Cell No. 2. Here we have another murderer — one who has mixed arsenic in flour, killing two people, but failing to poison the victim aimed at — who salaams low and peers across his bed of straw and blanket at me. Poor devil! His punishment is heavy now. And he has been gazing out into the sunshine since the 31st of October, doubtless alternately hoping and fearing the best and the worst from the appeal to the Viceroy. These two cases, however, are enough. I somehow felt unable to stand and look at these condemned creatures — perverted travesties of humanity — but their eyes, burning, timid and stoical in turn, still seem to pierce me through and through as they gaze into that sunshine which will never again warm their death-mortgaged souls and bodies. For one day very soon the four will be led out in the cold snap of dawn and made to stand on the wooden brink of Eternity ere they are hurled into the unknown abyss — but fifteen feet below — by the movement of a lever. And now let us pass on to the temporary residence of thieves. The first fellow reached was sitting on his heels behind his iron grill, busy polishing paper as a change from his normal occupation of stealing. Naked, save for a dhoti, or loin-cloth, his powerful muscles were visible,

48

A Winter in India

compelling respect, as he bent over his polishing board, clanking his letters as he worked. His ankles were gripped with a pair of iron rings; up his shins and thighs stretched two bars of black, joined to a ring which in turn was hooked to a waist rope; but apparently long custom had rendered him indifferent to his chains. His look was that of utter contempt; his physique magnificent; and I was not ill pleased that a trellis-work of stout bars separated us from one another. Round his neck, as a substitute for a collar, was a ring from which hung a wooden ticket showing his registered number, his offence, sentence, date of imprisonment, and probable date of release. For the past two years he has bent over his polishing board, doubtless dreaming of larceny past and future; and for a further one and a half will continue this monotonous industry. As I passed on to the next section a criminal lunatic wandering about in the sunshine gabbled some Hindustani which, being interpreted, amounted to a firm persuasion that he ought to be instantly released from jail — which is precisely what will come to pass, as a home has been prepared for him in a lunatic asylum. Poor fellow! but I suppose he knows nothing better. The hour was now past one, so I had to postpone my inspection of the mat factories and other occupations of the criminals till Monday, when, if all is well, I shall hope to see more of the life of this Indian prison. In the afternoon I attended the Umballa gymkhana, where D.’s pony, Sherry, won the two events for which he was entered. My wife harvested some seventy-five rupees; while S., poor chap, made five, but lost his saddle. Later. Sympathy wasted on S. The saddle has returned to its legitimate home.

6th January.

I

set out this morning for the jail at half-past eight, joggling along in a tum-tum through the rising mist, the regimental lines and a temperature more in keeping with a late autumnal day in Strathpeffer than with my thin Indian flannel suit. By the time, however, I had reached

Umballa

49

the sentries the sun was ushering in yet another of those perfect Punjab days which succeed each other, week by week, in a blaze of warmth and colour. I at once gained admittance, and joined Colonel Z., the Governor and medical superintendent of the jail, on his formal tour of weekly inspection. Entering a mud-walled enclosure, I first noticed some fifty pairs of slippers ranged in a straight row in the foreground; behind them stood a long line of black and brown, while the background consisted of the barrack wall. On my right stood a group of officials: the Governor, the head superintendent (a stout party in gold-rimmed spectacles, white pugaree, and companioned by a thick stick), the assistant superintendent (not so fat, and a more fluent English linguist), an enormous Sikh policeman, a native doctor, and an army of warders, paid and unpaid. At the moment the prisoners were standing facing me, each holding in his hand his Convict’s History Ticket — a manuscript sheet recording every detail of his life since arrival at the jail — while at their feet lay their bedding, ready for inspection. It was a strange sight — and rather pathetic. We started at the left of the line, with an old fellow garbed, like his neighbours in correction, in a brown coat-sweater and white “footer shorts.” On the top of his pile of blankets lay a yellow cap, the insignia of an habitual criminal. His record disclosed the facts that this was his fifth visit to jail (proved also by four notches on his wrist-ring); that his hobby when not polishing jail paper was dacoity — highway robbery; and that his weight had gone up during the last four months. His wooden neck-ticket informed me that he had entered the jail 12.2.08; that his sentence was 5Y; and that his date of release was 11.2.13. Below these statistics was nailed a tin disk, indicating that he was a “convalescent.” But, as Colonel Z. remarked, he himself would come under this Government definition were he standing along with the others, as everyone over forty-five is so described, in addition to those who are losing weight or are in any way unfit. And here I should like to say that almost every one of these halfcivilized rascals palpably respected and liked the Colonel. His manner to all was kindly; his attitude personal and individual; all had a right to speak, to explain, to petition; and in the whole two and a half hours during which I accompanied him on tour of inspection never once did I hear him address a single convict in terms or tone less hearty, fair, or

50

A Winter in India

sympathetic than you would employ to a trusted and valued servant. No wonder, if he is a typical specimen of British justice and rule, that the world today acknowledges our country’s unique capability for governing subject races. But I digress: we were looking at the tin disk on the old man’s wooden ticket. He grinned at us, and we passed on. A brown cap lay on this man’s bedding, indicative of a first visit to jail, and he had a grievance. He was sick, he said, and would like to wear a tin disk. The superintendent laughed — not over-sympathetically — and explained to me that he was a renowned slacker. His Convict’s History Ticket was inspected, showing damning statistics as to health and weight. The Governor shook his head, laughed and passed on. Next we came across a real sportsman from Peshawar. He had killed his man in a brawl (but there were extenuating circumstances); had been sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment; had tried to escape; and now moved slowly upon earth weighed down and trammelled by fetters on both ankles, and decorated by a red cap, the emblem of attempted flight. There he stood — great lusty Sikh that he was, and thoroughly pleased with himself — asking for sugar, for nourishment. I think everyone had a kindly feeling towards this cheery barbaric humorist. But no sugar did he get, merely a smile from the superintendents. And, unless he manages to snap his fetters, break the warders’ heads (which doubtless would afford him the keenest amusement and satisfaction) and climb a thirty-foot wall, he will have weekly opportunities for requesting supplies of sugar till the 10th of November, 1918. Now imagine we are at the extreme right of the ranks; listen to the sharp word of command that rings out across the silent square; and watch the long line of brown sweaters struggling over half a hundred heads. Now the prisoners stand in the costume patronized by the English Rugby fifteen (excepting the stockings, boots, and rose on the jersey) and we retrace our steps to inspect the white array. Here a jersey is torn; there trousers are thin as the excuse propounded in defence of sundry rents therein; here an order is given to reclothe; there advice to work with greater care. Here a brown chest is bared and the ailment diagnosed; there extra food is ordered. All are cared for; all decently clad; and, where proper, labour remitted in cases of genuine sickness. Convict warders — prisoners promoted to honour for good conduct, on the principle of setting a thief to catch a thief — stand

Umballa

51

in groups, serving out clothes, assisting the native doctor, holding prison documents and generally making themselves useful, forming a not unpicturesque background in their yellow pugarees, brown coats, yellow trousers, and orange sash half covered by a brown leather belt, on the clasp of which is inscribed “Convict Warder.” Then we passed on to the inspection of food, which the Governor tasted, before finally seating himself at a table in the open, facing a long row of prisoners about to receive certain remissions from their sentences on account of good conduct or work well done. The majority, curiously enough, were wearing the yellow cap of habitual crime; some clanked fetters beneath the red head-gear of essayed emancipation; while the remainder wore the brown symbol of first offenders. There they stood, forgers, murderers, dacoits, housebreakers, receivers of stolen goods, and dabblers in every unimagined grade and province of transgression. One by one they stepped up close to the Governor’s table, some removing their slippers, some defiant, some clanking their iron chains — a long procession of coloured lawlessness — looking for all the world like a string of athletes approaching for their cups and medals at a prize-giving instead of a squadron of rascals receiving seven or fifteen days remission from their varying sentences, One by one they listened to the Governor’s remarks, salaamed (either voluntarily or after muttered instruction from a warder) and marched back to their places in the ranks, there to squat on the ground, and, I imagine, accept the apparently inscrutable injustice of retribution with Eastern philosophy. Passing through a heavily barred door, under a stone-built arch (on the top of which stood a convict warder commanding a bird’s-eye view of the entire jail grounds and of any attempted scaling of the walls), I found myself in the prison paper factory. In the nearest building were nineteen men stamping pulp — a very heavy form of labour, I understand; in the next another gang were dabbling about in water tanks, making the paper; while farther on, in the open, others were plastering the sun-baked prison walls with the wet resulting squares of brown and white paper, soon to dry under the midday sun. Here one came across convicts sizing paper: there a gang busy polishing. In the adjoining factory, in the compound, a score were making prison beds; indoors others were monotonously pressing mustard seeds into

52

A Winter in India

oil, three prisoners pushing the heavy tree-trunk handle of the Kohlo round and round, while one tugged at a rope attached, and a fifth superintended operations. Again, up against the factory wall another gang sat making “chicks” — sun blinds that hang outside every doorway in India — automatically lifting and dropping the blue and red mudstones (corresponding to our reels) on either side of the bamboo pole from which the chicks grew before your eyes. In one room farther on a party of sixteen were busy making both white and green “durries,” or cotton carpets; while in an adjoining building a small gang of eight squatted at their unintellectual task of weaving threads into cloth. The factories were hives of industry, and the workers apparently content. But who can tell? The Governor told me that lacs of rupees are annually paid in fines (where optional) by convicted Indians in preference to the monotony and discomfort of prison life. For although the convicts are well looked after, properly clad and fed, the Indian Government do not supply board and lodging free without requiring from the lodgers regular returns of work — probably far in excess of their leisurely output when paying their own way in life. Of course the law must be upheld; order must be preserved; crime must be discouraged; but as I left the prison — a casual stranger, unversed in Indian manners, customs and temptations — my sympathies somehow went out to the wearers of yellow, red and brown — semi-barbarous children, uneducated, naturally cunning, and, many of them, with the full blood of a thousand lawless generations coursing through their fettered veins.

PESHAWAR AND KHYBER PASS

10th January.

I

am at the back-door of India, as Steevens so aptly describes Peshawar. Since 11.30 p.m. on Wednesday I have been travelling. True the distance from Umballa to this frontier town is under five hundred miles; but of the twenty-four hours occupied in the journey four were spent on a couch-bed in the Umballa waiting-room, two at Lahore, and, I should calculate, another three in the exchange of social amenities at the various stations en route. The train was an hour late in arriving at Umballa, so it was close on four o’clock when I pushed my way into a “sleeper” (apologizing to a somnolent bishop whom I perforce disturbed, and whose greeting was a pattern of long-suffering courtesy) prior to lying down in my clothes to continue my interrupted slumbers. When I awoke we were approaching Ludhiana, the centre of much fierce fighting in the first Sikh War of 1845–6. Then on we jogged past Amritsar, the Mecca of Sikhism, which I hope to visit on my way back, until Lahore was reached, where I had a belated breakfast and prolonged wait till close on noon, when off again we crawled. But lest I weary you as greatly by the recital of my northern pilgrimage as its actual joggling and procrastination tired and somewhat irritated me, I shall pass quickly over the country, merely stopping for a moment on the crowded banks of the Jhelum River to watch hundreds of Indians washing their clothes and bodies in its broadly flowing waters. I shall just glance back at that curiously broken tract of country — the Pabbi — and catch once more the sunlit glitter off the Himalayan snows; I shall spare you some five hours of barren desolation, similar, on a miniature scale, to our wildest highland scenery, and I shall run you up through the Punjab and into the rough North-West Frontier Province at a pace calculated to induce heart disease in every railway official in Northern India. We are now travelling so fast that Rawal Pindi — the largest military station in the country — has been left behind in a flash of gaslight; the country has long ago faded from pink to crimson, from crimson to

54

A Winter in India

orange-gold, from orange-gold to silver-lanterned night; and I have just had time to race down the Kala ki Sarai platform, spring on board the restaurant-car, eat a four-course meal, and rush back to my carriage at Attock. For now the Indian train has become, for you, a London tube; the guard shouts briskly, “Step on quickly, please!” and away we rattle over the magnificent iron girder bridge that spans the Indus; on through the starlit night to Nowshera, nestling on the bank of the Kabul River, until a jerk tells me that Peshawar has been reached at last. And as I spread out the map before me I traverse its thousands of miles in a moment; my eyes, disregarding railways, rivers and deserts, flash through the Punjab, down vast Rajputana, through the Central Provinces, Hyderabad and Madras, until they stop at Tuticorin, my first landing-place, six years ago, in this land of Babel, which in one hundred and forty-seven tongues spells home to a fifth of all the inhabitants of the world. Far down in hot Madras live peoples as mild and peaceable as up here in cold Peshawar they are fierce and warlike. The thoughts, customs and languages of Madrasis are as unlike those of the Mohmands, Utmans, Khels, and Afridis as those of Scandinavia are antipodean to those of Morocco. The lowly salaam of gentle Trichinopoly would be no less remarkable in wild Peshawar than would the Frenchman’s mode of greeting appear ridiculous in the Junior Carlton. In a city where murder is of almost daily occurrence; in a community where the standard of wealth is measured not in bearer bonds, but in Lee Metford rifles; in a land where the Sicilian would meet his peer in the intricacies of vendetta, one expects (and it is all you receive) the salutation of an equal, not the obeisance of a slave. But, as usual, I digress. I had been jerked into Peshawar station. My host was standing on the platform; I was whisked off in his trap, introduced to his wife, his hospitality, and, later on, to the welcome joy of a hot bath, after which I can record nothing till seven o’clock this morning. And when I did wake I experienced that familiar sensation of “Something is to happen today.” Slowly I dragged my confused senses into the light of dawn; and I recollected that this was Khyber morning. Peter appeared, extremely late, equally untidy and surcharged

Peshawar and Khyber Pass

55

with ill-timed humour. I had instructed him to call me at 7.15: at 7.50 a black-grey head peered round the curtain, followed by an idiotic grin. I produced my watch, for the twentieth time. “Why are you late, Peter?” I asked irritably. “Very good!” came back that well-known, monotonous reply, accompanied, as usual, by a vigorous shake of his unbrushed head. I repeated my question in louder and yet more querulous tones. Slowly intelligence dawned on his stupid face; and instead of a further repetition of “Very goods!” he mimicked the attitude of sleep, laying his dusty hair on his yet more dusty arm, when, highly pleased with his futile defence of his laziness, off he marched to prepare master’s bath. By half-past nine I was all ready for the nineteen miles’ journey into the wild, lawless Pass, so famed in history. My host informed me at breakfast, first, that the Kuki Khels — the tribes between Jamrud and Shadi Bagiar, where the Pass actually commences, were last week fighting alongside the very road I had to traverse this morning; secondly, that as only the actual road through the Khyber was considered British territory it behoved me not to wander off the highway; and, thirdly, I had better take my pistol: it was the custom round Peshawar. After a moment’s thought, however, I calculated that the chances of my sitting down on the infernal machine and thereby blowing Peter, the tonga wallah and myself to another sphere vastly outweighed the probability of my intimidating the Afridi with the unfamiliar weapon, so I decided that if I were to be translated from the independent tribal territory between Jamrud and Ali Masjid it should be by the flight of a Khyber bullet, not by the explosion of a Colt pistol. But still every man to his choice: personally I prefer murder to suttee. It was now high time to be off; so, laden with sandwiches, whisky, rugs, coats, pencils and hope, up I jumped beside the driver of my tonga. Now he was a ruffian if you like, and just for a moment I bethought me of the rejected firearm. A magnificent, handsome Pathan, he was swathed as to head, nose and mouth in the folds of a khaki pugaree; his shoulders were draped in a brown blanket; his legs were partially covered by a dirty white dhoty; while his unstockinged feet were encased in enormous half-laced boots. The tonga ran on rubber tyres; the mountain ponies cantered fully half the journey; and I can say, I think with truth, that I seldom enjoyed a drive more in my life.

STREET SCENE, PESHAWAR

Peshawar and Khyber Pass

57

We set off between broad avenues of trees, miles of them, passing houses and barracks in rapid succession, until about five miles from Peshawar we reached the first blockhouse of the Khyber Rifles, where two of their number presented arms as we drove along the dusty plain. Now these Khyber Rifles are deserving of a word, insomuch as it is entirely owing to them that anyone can today pass through the Khyber in safety. At the close of the second Afghan War, in 1882, the Khyber tribes passed under British rule in so far as a treaty drawn up stipulated that the Pass was to be protected by jezailchis recruited from the Afridis under payment of a subsidy by the British Government. For eighteen years onward Colonel R. Warburton — himself half Afghan, his father having taken a wife from beyond the Khyber — controlled the Pass, with, for the greater part of the time, success. Then, just as his term of office was ended, followed that wave of fanaticism that swept, like a raging fire, right along the North-West Frontier in 1897. The Afridis were persuaded to attack the Pass they themselves had guaranteed to defend; the British Government, although warned of the proposed movement, merely (and surely most unwisely) withdrew the British officers who commanded the Khyber Rifles (as the regiment of Afridi militia are called) and left the Pass to its fate. Then followed fierce fighting all along the Khyber; the Rifles, deserted by their officers, put up a spirited opposition to their fellow tribesmen; but ultimately the Pass fell into the hands of the Afridi, who held it for some months. This outbreak was the leading cause of the succeeding Tirah Expedition, after which the Khyber Rifles were strengthened, divided into two battalions and commanded by four British officers. And now having very lightly sketched the late history of this turbulent mountain range let us canter on with my Pathan towards the rugged barrenness ahead, ever growing larger, wilder and more stupendous as we approach nearer. Away on my right, far across an apparently limitless plain of arid desert, stones and isolated trees, I see the glitter of snow upon the topmost ridges of the farther heights; the lower summits stand out boldly against a sky of blue; the tonga wallah roars imprecations at donkey drivers and Mohmand pedestrians; the miles slip past; the desert narrows as the hills approach; and the fort of Jamrud, four miles away, is

58

A Winter in India

clearly visible — a yellow pile of mud, a collection of ascending towers, a flagstaff from which a flag is waving in the gentle breeze. Closer and closer we come to it; pause to allow a motor-carto flash past; stop to evade a long caravan of camels sedately moving along on their eight days’ journey to Kabul, laden with the produce of the fat, smiling plains of India; and the fort is reached. Fluttering above all is a strip of coloured cloth — the Union Jack. Lower down, the fort itself stands out clearly against the cloudless blue; tower upon tower is enclosed in an outer wall of mud; loophole and window alone break the unvaried brown-yellow colouring of Hari Singh’s stronghold; and at your feet sit, stand and lounge Zakka Khels, Kuki Khels, Malikdins, Kamrais, Kambar Khels, Sipahs, Khyber Rifles, brigands and other warrior merchants. For here the robbers of Afghanistan become, temporarily, peaceable traders; here their rifles, so required beyond the fluttering Union Jack, are laid aside — either by burial (the more popular method in case of death or accident) — or handed over to the guard till their business in India is completed, and they once more pass through the open gateway into their own, wild, independent state. Here I dismounted, walked into the guard-room on my left, produced my pass to Ali Masjid (easily obtained from the Political Agent of the Khyber), signed my name in the register, and once more climbed up into the tonga. And while I was awaiting the pleasure of the tonga wallah, at the moment in converse with some friend or foe — either appeared possible — I again looked across at the fort. So this mud-pie of towers and walls was once inhabited by the great and fearful Hari Singh, the terror of the Khyber for a generation; this mass of almost solid, sun-baked earth withstood the fierce onslaught of the wild Afghans till Sirdar Hari Singh himself was killed; here he fell; and here, outside the wall, stands his white monument today. Just as a century ago our great-grandfathers, as children, were cowed into obedience by the threatened approach of “Boney,” so was every Afridi child terrorized into subjection by the dreaded name of Hari Singh. Justice was summary then, as now, among the lawless mountaineers. Tongues cut out, noses and ears split, hands or feet lopped off were commonplace sentences of this stern Sikh ruler; and as I looked again at the fort which he rebuilt I half shuddered at the thought of the tortures endured by his subjugated enemies behind these walls of mud.

Peshawar and Khyber Pass

59

But it was now time, apparently, to move along, so we speedily made our way through hosts of struggling camels, oxen and asses, all heavily laden with wonderfully balanced loads of merchandise; past droves of goats, a few women and an army of unkempt, wild-looking men in costumes as variable as their faces were unlike. Once we had cleared the convoy, the first object to catch my eye was a Kuki Khel — he who fights his neighbour along the common highway — sitting on the roadside with a rifle slung across his knees. And a fine fellow he was in his Oriental clothes, reminding me of a Montenegrin in physique. Gradually we pushed, shouted and whipped our progress through long caravans of camels, donkeys and asses, all steadily marching into the grim teeth of the rugged Khyber, laden with goods for Ghazni, Jellalabad, Bokhara, and Central Asia, and driven by the identical types of men who have fought their way since, and long before, the year a.d. 1 through the far-famed Pass. The opening among the barren hills at last appears; some five hundred camels, proud, stately, silent and garbed in beautiful dark ruffles of luxuriant fur on neck and legs, are one by one swallowed by the narrow gullet ahead, disappearing behind a towering and abutting ledge of rock. Now we begin to climb. The mountains rise far above our heads, ridge upon ridge; while the road is strewn with the descendants of those who were crushed in turn beneath the heel of Alexander the Great, Mahmud of Ghazni, Babar, Nadir Shah and a hundred other warrior kings who in two thousand years have hewn their way through the blood of the Afridi and the desolation of his barren home into the rich, fat plains of the Mogul Emperors. For on the ill-paved ancestor of this smooth road upon which I was now being swiftly driven ever up and up Persian, Greek, Seljuk, Tartar, Mongol, and Durani conquerors have trod, drawn, all of them, through the grim ravines of the Khyber by tales of fabulous wealth beyond Jamrud. And now having paused for a moment to repeople this Afghan highway with the long-dead hosts of succeeding raiders; having stopped for an instant to listen to the echo of two thousand years ago borne across the lonely wastes of arid mountains far above; and having spanned a thousand generations with the triple bridges of fable, history and imagination, let us proceed with the moving army of today as it pushes its way up to Shadi Bagiar, the actual opening proper of the Khyber.

60

A Winter in India

Here you will find the Sahib Zada well, called, I understand, after the native Assistant Political Agent who presented it; and here this morning were congregated some fifty donkeys and hosts of traders, refreshing themselves prior to their next march to Ali Masjid. But they may not stay too long, for by dusk the summits of the overshadowing hills will no longer be tenanted by the protecting pickets of the Khyber Rifles. Just above us, looking to the right, my eye was caught by two figures in khaki — toy soldiers flashing microscopic bayonets in the sun — standing beside a child’s brick house perched upon a ledge some hundreds of feet above the well. By dusk the agreement entered into in 1878 (and again reaffirmed, with slight alterations, after the Tirah Expedition) between the heads of the Afridi tribes and Major Cavagnari, representing the British Government, becomes null and void till dawn on Tuesday. By dusk, if the long caravans have not reached the limit of the Pass — Landi Kotal, twenty miles away — the chances of their loads of cloth and gram arriving in Kabul are indeed slender. For a treaty was entered into at the commencement of the second Afghan War stipulating that on two days a week (now Tuesday and Friday) the Pass should be guarded and the road picketed by jezailchis drawn from the Afridi tribes, the British Government guaranteeing the following subsidies to each of the seven tribes who were parties to the agreement: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

Kuki Khel Malikdin Khel Zakka Khel Sipah Shinwaris Kambar Khel Kamarai

1,300 1,300 1,300 1,300 1,300 500 250 7,250 =87,000 per an. =£5,800

rupees per month. „ „ „ „ „ „ „ „ „ „ ,, ,, ,, ,, ,,

The Maliks — heads of the tribes — willingly accepted these terms and, except in 1897, when, as already stated, the Afridi, acting under

Peshawar and Khyber Pass

61

strong religious fervour, attacked the Pass they had guaranteed, the Khyber Rifles have honourably fulfilled their obligation. But that obligation ends at dusk today, and the caravans must need plod on. So leaving the well, and the adjoining shrine, at Shadi Bagiar, they followed us along the highway, which for a short distance ran through the bed of a ravine, till we lost sight of them on the road made by Colonel Mackeson in 1839. And here we passed into silence, desolation and extreme grandeur. The sky was a blaze of turquoise; the rugged summits of the enveloping mountains were sharply cut and outlined in all their fantastic wildness against a limitless background of blue; as we mounted higher, leaving behind us Mackeson’s Ridge, the wind whistled down the gorges, making one grateful for a heavy coat and necessitating the immediate use of one’s topee chin-strap. Not a sound broke the silence, save the fall of the ponies’ hoofs; not a living creature, man or beast, was visible except where, poised overhead, a large bird, black against the blue, glided with outstretched wings on to a distant summit. The grandeur of the heights of Tartara, towering above on the north side of the Pass in all the majesty of their 6800 feet, and thrusting their mighty shoulders over a mile and a quarter into the illimitable dome of heaven, drew from me an involuntary exclamation of mingled awe and admiration; while the desolation of the enveloping arid, barren limestone rocks was, for me, only comparable to that of “the roof of the world” in Montenegro. On and ever on; up and ever up. The Shagai Ridge next unfolded its rugged splendour; the wind whistled more shrilly as it raced past us from the overhanging gorges above to the mist-dressed plains behind, which were suddenly revealed as we double for a moment on our tracks on the zigzag road. Then silence again. A drove of mountain sheep clung to the almost shrubless hills beside us; then suddenly from hundreds of feet above I heard the echo — the strangest, most weird echo I ever recollect — of “Present arms!” I looked up, and there as a speck — too far off to distinguish more than a toy brick house and khaki dolls — I caught the flash of three bayonets, the symbol of our safe passage through — the lawless Pass.

62

A Winter in India

Would I were able to describe the extreme beauty and grandeur that were alternately unveiled before my eyes. One moment we were basking in the Indian sun, the next being braced by the Khyber winds. At one bend of the ever-twisting road we were entirely shut in by grim walls of shale and limestone: at another the distant ranges of the Kohat, Momand and Afridi hills showed up dimly through the far-off haze. As we mounted higher and higher the fort of Ali Masjid at last revealed itself, perched on a conical hill of over three thousand feet, rising up sheer from a succession of green patches far below, and dominated by the towering Rotas on the right, thrusting its rugged, sun-scorched crest over two thousand feet higher into the limitless blue above. Then down and down we dropped by easy, zigzag stages. Gradually the white dome of Ali’s tiny mosque, or shrine, revealed itself; then down again, till rows of Pathans were disclosed, basking themselves against the surrounding wall, each with his precious rifle across his knee; when finally I alighted at the bank of the almost dried-up Khyber River, the centre of an amphitheatre of mingled beauty and desolation. Looking up I saw the fort — a speck of khaki mud and bricks thousands of feet above; laying my head between my shoulder-blades I  picked out each rugged height of Rotas; and following the road towards Afghanistan I watched the gorge narrow and contract till the gullet was barely fifteen feet across. But into that gorge one may no longer penetrate, thanks, mainly, so rumour says, to the childish pranks of two young girls obsessed, apparently, with more misconception of their reflected importance than endowed with common sense; but on Monday, when the Pass is to be specially picketed for a high official, I hope to motor right through to Landi Kotal with the Political Agent, when I shall have an opportunity of seeing the borders of Afghanistan, and the Pass empty of caravans, tourists and donkeys, four-footed and two. But as I gazed around me I saw far more than a dried-up river, Pathans and Afridis at rest, green patches and barren mountains. I heard far more than the ripple of the running stream beneath my feet and the call of the Kalufa men above. I saw picture upon picture forming, focussing and then gradually fading into the realities around me. First, as I sat beside the stream, the parched river-bed was changed

Peshawar and Khyber Pass

63

into a full-fed flood; the two asses grazing on the green patches were swallowed up; beyond, the time-worn mosque remained unchanged, save that the tablet to General Hart upon the encircling wall was gone; seventy-one years were spanned; and on the farther bank of the Khyber River I saw two youths riding down the Pass. One was Ensign Dennys of the 38th Bengal Native Infantry, the other John Nicholson. I watched them trot easily along, heard young Nicholson describe his experiences in Afghanistan, saw Dennys, interrupting, point at something gleaming on his right, some distance from the road, and watched them both canter up to it, regardless alike of danger and their chief’s orders on no account to leave the line of march. And then I saw them bend over the mutilated body of a white boy, stripped of everything but the fragment of a shirt; I saw Nicholson suddenly reel slightly and turn a ghastly grey as he recognized in the mangled corpse the remains of his younger brother, Alexander, to whom he had been reunited but a short time before, and who had fallen in the fight round Ali Masjid the previous day. A dhoolie was called for, on which the body was reverently placed, and the picture faded as the cortège wound its way up the mountain road towards Peshawar and hid itself behind barren rocks and the mist of time. And then the Khyber river-bed was dry once more. It was the 23rd of November, 1878 where today were only peace and silence. I saw a white array of tents, batteries of dust-stained mountain guns, horses tethered in long irregular lines, native and British troops idle and busy, round a constellation of camp fires, and a few bearers tramping down the overshadowing hills, carrying their ghastly burden through the brilliant moon- and star-lit night. I heard the muffled talk of soldiers, sitting at my feet; listened to the exchange of rough banter round the fires, the freely expressed opinion of the speedy termination of the war, the tactics each would have employed the previous day for the capture of the frowning fort above. Suddenly a bugle rang out with startling clearness, a horse broke loose and cantered off towards the officers’ mess, followed by a couple of Bengal Lancers and shouts of laughter; and then a silence once more fell upon the valley, the long lines of white were gone, the rumble of receding guns died away across the distant, desolate valley of Lalabeg — and I awoke to see a host of Mahommedan traders from Kabul approaching round a bend of the caravan road

64

A Winter in India

through the narrow gorge ahead. One by one they shuffled up to the whitewashed shrine; bundle after bundle of board and lodging was laid upon the ground; shoe after shoe discarded, and outer garments shed. For it was Friday and the hour of prayer. Those carrying rifles placed them within snatch-reach, as though fearful lest in devotion they might lose their passport of earthly security; through the three open arches of the shrine I saw man after man bow himself, in picturesque reverence and sincerity, to the sunbaked earth; heard them assert in muttered tones:” “There is no God but Allah, and Mahommed is his prophet”; then watched them rise, eye with relief their unstolen rifles, and plod off in stoical silence (so unlike the East) on the remaining nineteen miles of their long journey to India. A few minutes later we set out on our return drive to Peshawar, reached, with only one interruption, in an hour and three-quarters. The stoppage was caused by a car whose American owner insisted on photographing a caravan of camels at the moment approaching. Although his permit was issued on the clear understanding that no “pictures” be taken in the Pass, the camels, apparently, proved too much temptation for his travel-hardened senses of decency and courtesy. I should not have been ill pleased had the evanescent fate which lately overtook the films of a Russian military visitor been also meted out to this unmannerly kodak-fiend. My Russian snapped forts, camels, rocks, and roads with a total disregard for regulations, finance and British security; but alas! on the homeward journey his camera disappeared. Nowhere could it be found. High authorities expressed sympathy and deep concern; repeated searches were instituted from Landi Kotal to Cape Comorin; and lo! it was found, but, strange yet true, as innocent of films as coincided with the instructions of the secret-service gharri wallah. And so, passing Jamrud once more, where in the pool adjoining the fort were huddled together hundreds of Mahommedans alternately at prayer and washing clothes; cantering across the arid plain; and swiftly trotting back through the long avenues of trees that stand sentinel around Peshawar, I at last returned to the bungalow after a most interesting and delightful day. If you can spare the time, go and see the Khyber for yourself. Then the attempted description of the Pass may become of real interest to

A CARAVAN IN THE KHYBER PASS

66

A Winter in India

you, instead of, as is so often the case when one neither contemplates nor recollects a visit to the described spot, a prolific source of yawning.

11th January.

E

arly this morning I started out to explore some corners of this wild border-town of Parashawara, as Peshawar was called long centuries ago. But before I lead you up its cut-throat alleyways, and through the fascinating hives of its main bazaars, let me just lightly sketch the past history of this cosmopolitan clearing-house of Northern India. I know that if I commence by saying that “the city is situated near the left bank of the River Bara, some ten miles from Jamrud, the entrance to the Khyber Pass,” you will become restive, fearing a battery of statistics is about to open fire upon you; and if I tell you that in early times Peshawar had an essentially Indian population, that it was not till the fifteenth century that its present Pathan inhabitants occupied it; that under the name of Gandhara it was a centre of Buddhism; that the last of the Indian Buddhist kings was conquered by Mahmud of Ghazni in 1009 — if I tell you all this you will probably flippantly opine that, were you so minded, you could exhume these dry facts for yourself from your dust-interred encyclopædia. True, but I in reply may incline to the belief that you would, if left to yourself, be as minded to consult your reference book as to purchase Buckingham Palace or a six-shilling novel. So I am going to finish the short sketch of the latter history of this troubled town. It was a favourite residence of the Afghan dynasty, and here Mountstuart Elphinstone came as ambassador to Shah Shuja in 1809. A few years later, in 1834, the great Punjab warrior king, Ranjit Singh, crossed the Indus and marched on the city, which, after severe fighting under his famous Italian soldier, administrator and martinet, General Avitabile, fell and passed under Sikh authority. In 1849, after the second revolt of the Sikhs had been finally crushed at the battle of Guzerat, the entire Punjab passed under British rule, thereby fulfilling, ten years after his death, Ranjit Singh’s prophecy that all India from Cape Comorin to Peshawar would “become red.” Then we come down

Peshawar and Khyber Pass

67

to the Mutiny and Cotton, Chamberlain, Edwardes, Nicholson, and a young lieutenant of Bengal Artillery. For in Peshawar, on the 13th of May, 1857, there sat round a table in council Sir Sydney Cotton, Sir Neville Chamberlain, Sir Herbert Edwardes, Colonel John Nicholson (as he was then), with the “young lieutenant of Bengal Artillery” (now Lord Roberts) in attendance, to record their decisions, which, amongst others, included a resolution to disarm the Sepoy regiments. And here in those scorching days of June it was decided that Delhi must be relieved. Here, in reply to a letter from Sir John Lawrence advising the surrender of the Peshawar valley to the Amir of Afghanistan, on condition that he would remain true to us during the crisis, came back the ringing command from Lord Canning: “Hold on to Peshawar to the last. Give up nothing.” And from here, on the 14th of June, John Nicholson — the arch-hero of ’57 — said his last good-bye to his dearest friend, Herbert Edwardes, and rode out into the night, followed by his escort of Pathan sowars, to the consummation of his immortal fame. And now let us set about this perhaps too-long-delayed exploration of Peshawar. But although you enter with me through the Edwardes Gate, pass within the twelve-mile girdle of mud and brick, and wander in this human sardine tin that represents permanent or temporary home to close upon a hundred thousand murderers, robbers, dacoits and more or less peaceable tradesmen, I should strongly recommend you (if following me in the flesh) to keep to the main bazaars unless escorted, as I was, by two native detectives and a herculean policeman. For such is the necessity for caution in the bye streets of this labyrinth of crime that the European Superintendent of Police — to whom I here render my warmest thanks for his extreme kindness, courtesy and assistance — walks abroad at night, if off the principal thoroughfares, disguised as a long-haired, fierce-moustached Pathan. His wig was produced for inspection — a sort of early Victorian assortment of corkscrew ringlets; and his two detectives who escorted me round the city calculated that my chances of becoming an octogenarian, were I to wander alone into some of the alleyways I visited today, were about on a par with those (to quote the famous case) of “a tallow cat chased through the Infernal Regions by an asbestos dog.” But in the main bazaars, or streets, you can perambulate at ease, and we shall at last set off. Passing under the Edwardes, or Kabul, Gate we

68

A Winter in India

walked straight into the Book of Deuteronomy. Every pre-Christian type was there; the Bible pictures rose before one’s eyes in kaleidoscopic variety; and one felt one was gazing into the kernel of the East. On my right sat the sherbet-sellers on their four-foot wooden booths; on my left a patriarch puffed his blow-pipe into the charcoal; fakirs, all but naked, intoned strange noises from the fetid gutter; three wild-eyed, hawk-nosed Pathans strode past in their picturesque lungis; while tailors, hens, Mahommedans, dogs, fruit-stalls, beggars, Hindoos, oxen, Afridis, buffaloes, Singer sewing machines, Kuki Khels, pickle-sellers, Mohmands, tent-makers, Utmans and crime jostled each other in this fascinating, cosmopolitan street known as Kissa Kahani, or the place where stories are read. For here the ancestors of this varied community were wont to sit and listen to strange tales of love and war brought from far Bokhara, the Samarkand, sun-parched Hyderabad and the snows of Russia. Drawing to one side, I watched the stream flow past in a neverceasing panorama of colour, gesticulation and independence. Gone was the lowly humility of Madras; gone the salaam of Southern India; men eyed you for a moment as though appraising the value of your clothes, not that of your goodwill. Once, I admit, a broad-shouldered Punjabi saluted me, but Baskeshar Nath, one of my detectives, robbed me of all sense of flattery at the unfamiliar attention by informing me that the mark of respect was not intended for myself at all, but for the incarnation of the Law which for long has been endeavouring to remove him to the fettered community of eight hundred, resident outside the city walls. And as I looked again at the local Raffles I agreed that it would be hard to hap upon a more unlikely individual than this lynx-eyed rascal to do obeisance to a humble tourist. So, somewhat crestfallen, I turned out of the Kissa Kahani bazaar into a quarter of the town only rivalled in disrepute by the immediate neighbourhood of the Lahore Gate. Here fanaticism, immorality, flies, boot-makers, unsavoury meat, a couple of fighting hens, life altogether unfit for pen portraiture, and a surging sea of turbans, lungis, donkeys, refuse, native music both “small” and “large,” rainbow colours and Eastern scents were mingled in unrehearsed confusion. A blind Pathan stood below a bridge beside me lecturing to hundreds of fanatical Mahommedans, whose attention and annas Jezebels from

Peshawar and Khyber Pass

69

overhanging windows endeavoured to divert to themselves; buffaloes were pushed, kicked and goaded down the narrow, foully scented alleyways into the Kissa Kahani; men eyed me strangely — as you eye your fellow-man who invades your railway carriage — then fell back before my escort of police, giving us way to squeeze ahead. And so from alleyway to narrow street, from tainted court to haunts of vice I wandered for a while, mixing in the life of Asiatic thought, depravity and industry around me, till we finally emerged into the farther end of the “story-telling” bazaar. Turning to our right, the rhythmic fall of hammers upon copperware reached my ears in ever-increasing volume. Row upon row of cupboards — for that is all they were — displayed the domestic requirements of Mahommedans: trays, dishes, ewers, basins and bowls, some of which were being hammered, while others were in process of being loaded with lac. Passing along on our way to the grain market, we met a band of Povindahs, or Afghan travelling merchants — descendants of those who for thousands of years have brought their long caravans of camels from Kabul, Bokhara and Samarkand — laden with wool, silks, dyes, gold thread, fruit, precious stones, carpets and those poshtins, or sheepskin coats, so common in Peshawar. But we had to push on, so entered a gaudily decorated street, leading to the market, which appeared to be the popular rendezvous of all the hens of the North-West Frontier Province. Large and small, skinny and fat, feathered and half clad, they chased each other from booth to filth, from refuse heap to doorstep; they fought with pigeons for grain, avoided traffic with loud protestation and flapping wings, and when bored with life paid frequent visits to the corpse of a black dog, lying in its grave of dirt in the centre of the road. Two women hurried past, each enveloped in a long, white, one-pieced duster (called a burka, I believe) somewhat similar in design to a titanic Veritas incandescent mantle ventilated at the mouth and nose. Beads and imitation jewellery hung in unenticing array before your eyes; buffaloes and donkeys justified their existence by plodding along under grain bags, blows and occasional lamentations; the grain merchants squatted in their booths smothered in little pyramids of flour; my escort prodded the ribs of all obstructionists, showing neither fear nor favour to man, woman, beast

70

A Winter in India

or child; and we finally passed on to the Kotwali — the oldest building in Peshawar, and the site of General Avitabile’s dreaded law court. For there, under the arch, he sat during his five years of iron administration, consolidating Sikh rule in his master’s conquered city. He it is who is credited with having asked the daily question, “Where is the man who committed that crime yesterday?” at which awkward enquiry, there invariably being twenty thousand candidates eligible and ripe for punishment, one was instantly produced and forthwith hanged from the great beam of the giant archway of the Gor Khatri — the police building at the summit of the town. And here, under the shadow of Avitabile’s old court, it might be of some little interest were I to relate one or two facts regarding the hobbies of certain of the latter-day inhabitants of this corner of India. Some four years ago, one dark night, in cantonments, a sentry hearing the approaching clank of spurs called out the customary “Who goes there?” to be answered by the conventional “Friend!” Saluting the officer — whom in the inky darkness he did not recognize — he was next instructed to turn out the guard, which was done. No sooner were the men drawn up, rifles in hand, than there sprang out of the night a dozen figures who promptly fell upon them from behind, murdered every man, snatched their rifles and were away over the border beyond Jamrud before the tragedy was fully known. The other night — opposite this bungalow — an officer discovered on waking that every boot he possessed, riding, shooting and walking alike, had been stolen from his very bedside; while a pony, farther down the road, was led from his stall last week and ridden off to the Khyber. The sentries have their rifles strapped nightly to their wrists, in case of assault and robbery, for a horse and gun to an Afridi are as a V.C. to a British soldier. Indeed they are as essential to the social status and self-respect of the border thief of the Peshawar valley as are clean collars and unfrayed cuffs to the “young blood” of Berkeley Square. But it would be grossly unfair and altogether preposterous were I to convey the impression that the North-West Frontier Province is one vast unpoliced warren of undetected crime, for from all I hear and from what I have personally seen I believe the contrary to be the fact. In the jail, for instance, which I visited this morning, there were eight hundred and thirty-seven clanking and silent witnesses to the vigilance of the

Peshawar and Khyber Pass

71

police. And here an indication of the difference in character of north and more southerly India may be adduced by the almost universal use of fetters in the Peshawar prison. For whereas in Umballa only about 6 per cent of the convicts wore rings and rods, here, I should estimate, only that percentage were unfettered. The system prevailing in this jail enforces fetters on every man with a sentence of over a year; after three months (subject, of course, to a humble neck and a low anatomy) they are removed and chains substituted; while at the end of six months all shackles are dispensed with. I have no reason whatever to doubt the word of the prison authorities, but mighty few of the eight hundred one score and seventeen murderers, dacoits and housebreakers appeared to be serving the latter periods of their sentences. But when you talk of murder, you speak geographically. Which applies to marriage, convention and ethics. Of the eight hundred convicts in Peshawar jail fully one-half were what we call murderers. But murder in North-West India is as necessary, in thousands of instances, as a “not at home” intimation in Highgate. Blood feuds must be carried on; mysterious deaths avenged; everyday social conventions observed. For in this border country insults, wife-snatching, killing, and theft are only punishable by the spit of a Lee Metford rifle, not by the decree of a bewigged, impartial and incorruptible judge. But we were standing at the Kotwali gateway. Let us pass through into the Chowk Bazaar and watch the surging life moving and sitting round the Hastings Memorial. On the right (in this the most lawless of Indian cities) you will see the money-changers squatting behind their glittering palisades of rupees, annas and pice; crossing over you will find the left side of the square swarming with lungis, pugarees, patolis or tassels, dyers, cleaners and sellers of every description of silk. Pushing our oft-interrupted way out of this maze of colour, we passed through a bewildering succession of streets and alleyways — streets surcharged with Eastern scents, cloth, iron, fruit, soda-water, flies, grain, dirt and buffaloes; and alleyways so narrow that the houses all but leaned their crazy roofs against each other overhead. Mile after mile we tramped through dens and temples, mosques and awful smells; and I estimated the profitable fire premium on this labyrinth of sunbaked tinder, dust and brick at slightly over 99 1/2 per cent.

72

A Winter in India

And then my legs protested against further perambulation, so I climbed up to the Gor Khatri, clambered upon the roof thereof, and took a long look at and far beyond the seething city below. Most of the housetops were occupied by women, pigeons, mats, jars, dust, and last week’s washing. Standing out prominently towered the minarets of Mohabbat Khan’s fine mosque — glittering in the evening light under its layers of whitewash. Far across the wilderness of sunscorched mud roofs lay the distant ranges of the Khyber hills; on my right stood out the Mohmand and on my left the Afridi mountains; behind me rose the far-off summits of Kohat; while beneath my feet in the Kalan Bazaar life flowed up and down, hating and fearing and striving and loving, as it has ever done these thousands and thousands of years.

12th January.

M

y host’s orderly — a native of this turbulent valley — has departed, presumably in quest of blood, with his master’s pistol. Doubtless when the little matter in hand is satisfactorily settled and the funeral arrangements made he will return to the prosaic routine of military punishment.

13th January.

M

y second visit to the Khyber is over. I have motored to the farthest limit of North-West India; I have passed from end to end through the famous Afridi highway; and I have looked across the border on to the rough-hewn barrier ranges of treacherous Afghanistan. Setting out shortly after ten, accompanied by the Political Agent to the Khyber and a friend, we covered the nine odd miles to Jamrud in less time than the tonga of Friday, fast though it was, took to do a quarter of the distance. The road was entirely altered in appearance, more so the farther we proceeded. The long strings of camels, Mohmands and

Peshawar and Khyber Pass

73

MY HOST’S ORDERLIES, PESHAWAR

asses were nowhere to be seen. The car raced along unhindered by caravans; the Khyber Rifle pickets had barely time to slope and present arms as we passed their forts; and instead of descending at Jamrud Fort to sign the register we whizzed through a lane of soldiers, standing stiffly at attention, and we were once more in independent territory.

74

A Winter in India

Today great bands of cloud-cast shadows lay heavily upon the mist-crowned hills; the glare of Friday was gone, and in its place the atmosphere of a lowering winter’s day far up a highland glen lent a unique grandeur to the scenery. Soon we climbed to Sahib Zada’s well, today so desolate; we passed its adjoining shrine, crowned by two little flags, one red, one blue; the enveloping mountains gathered us into their now gloomy, outstretched arms; till gradually, as we mounted higher and higher, the sun broke out again, bathing the towering limestone hills in sunshine and shadow alike. Here and there we passed droves of donkeys, laden with faggots; but the long caravans of Friday were now plodding through Afghanistan. Salute followed on salute; words of command echoed from blockhouse upon blockhouse; bayonets flashed to the “present” at every mile or less; and we ran down at last towards Ali Masjid, where on Friday I had to turn back. Passing the old fort, used as an officers’ mess in the second Afghan War and now inhabited by the Kuki Khels, we gently descended to the Khyber River, skirted the white shrine — so deserted and silent today — to be suddenly pulled up sharp by half a dozen bayonets stretched across our path. We had reached the fort that guards the road to Landi Kotal, and no farther were we to be allowed to go. A smile from P., and the bayonets flashed to the “present”; rows of seated riflemen sprang to attention; and the barrier of steel was gone. Turning the corner, I was instantly gazing, in imagination, down the magnificent valley of Gudvangen; I was once more back in Norway, walking along the Stalheim road; I again heard the music of falling water as it trickled from an abutting ledge into the crystal fjord below. The picture before my eyes, however, was all on a miniature scale. The stream in the Khyber gorge today was merely the ripple of a half-fed highland burn; the ravine itself — but fifteen feet across — only the tiniest replica of the pass eternally washed by the “Seven Sisters”; but just as the Ionian Isles are a dainty miniature compared to the vast canvas of the Bay of Naples, so the Khyber gorge is a microscopic view of Merok’s stupendous picture. But lifting one’s eyes from the half-dried river-bed, the enveloping hills — range upon range — compelled one’s awe and admiration. If the Afridi gorge beneath was but the tiny offspring of some Norwegian

Peshawar and Khyber Pass

75

ravine, its guardian mountains were brother Titans to Stalheim’s towering sentinels. For overhead mighty Rotas raised his rugged head in grandeur and majesty rivalling the proudest of Norway’s lesser heights; the true realization of one’s size and importance in the complex scheme of Nature — an estimate so absurdly over-appreciated in the dwarfed setting of the village green — once more came home to me, vividly recalling to my mind similar sensations among the mountains of Ceylon, Dalmatia and Sicily, and in the silence of the Egyptian desert; and had it not been for Lilliputian specks upon the surrounding summits and for the echo of sharp words of command that rang strangely through the stillness of the Pass, I had imagined myself back once again at school, wandering among the Highland grandeur of the Sma Glen. Splashing through a little ford across the road, we ran silently on for about three miles, the narrow ravines gradually giving place to an ever-widening valley, till some sixty towers of mud showed up on either side. We had reached the home of the Zakka Khels, whose cousins across the hills were punished, for undue familiarities, in the brilliant “week-end” expedition of 1908. Tower after tower were passed, each standing some thirty feet above the ground and perhaps fifteen above the surrounding wall. Made entirely of mud and brick, these wall enclosures neighboured each other at some fifty yards distance — or well within rifle range — but never a man outside one did we see. For the Zakka Khel had best be wary how he walks lest his hereditary enemy in the adjoining tower puts a stop to his daylight exercise. For curious as it may appear to us, these Afridi tribes live in families of four and five, protected by their wall and fighting from their loopholed tower. Only two weeks ago the following occurred in a village close at hand, and as it was told me by the Political Agent its authenticity is guaranteed. A widow whose husband had been shot years before by his next-door neighbour was left with one baby boy. She brought him up with all the loving care of a devoted mother till he was seventeen, when, taking him up the spiral staircase of her almost solid tower, she pointed out to him his father’s murderer, adding that the day had now come when the murder must be avenged, The boy, accordingly, sallied forth, found

76

A Winter in India

ZAKKA KHEL COMPOUND, KHYBER PASS

his man, fired, and missed, when, realizing his awkward predicament, he bolted back to the shelter of his tower and confessed his failure to his mother. By now the quondam murderer, having collected his fellow-lodgers from his own enclosure, was discussing plans for scaling the widow’s wall. She thought for a few moments, realized that for the present her son must seek safety with powerful relatives across the road (knowing full well that her enemies would hunt him out of her own compound) and then hit upon this plan. The one matter of importance was to avenge her husband’s death; only the boy could do it; therefore the boy must be saved. She accordingly made him change into her clothes, dressing herself in his; then sent him to the exit of the enclosure while she showed herself, in the boy’s clothes, upon the opposite wall. Instantly her enemies rushed round to where the supposed youth stood, and in a flash she threw herself down into their midst, to be cut to ribbons by a dozen knives. Only after the butchery was over — the boy in the confusion having meantime escaped to safety — did they realize how the widow’s courage and thirst for revenge had outwitted them. And that is an absolutely true story.

Peshawar and Khyber Pass

77

It would certainly add a piquancy to life in Grosvenor Square were it incumbent on one as an honourable gentleman to prowl through Mount Street, after dark, and thereafter hunt down the overfed rascal of Berkeley Square who swindled one’s father twenty years ago over some East Rand shares. Would Lady Skinflint, I wonder, seeing the belated avenger through the muslin curtains, despatch old Sir Miser up Hay Hill while she threw her portly frame from the window on to Gunter’s steps, there to be whacked to death by young Simpleton’s malacca cane? Truth is without doubt stranger than fiction; but such a scene outside Almack’s would indeed be stranger than both. In the village, however, through which we passed today, life is valued lightly; and the story of the widow’s death is far from what in England would amount to a de Rougement fairy tale. I could tell you yarn after yarn — naming the source of my authority — about the customs of the Afridi tribes, and while the car is passing through the valley I shall relate two. But before I leave the Khyber road and tell you about neighbouring tribes I may state that about a week ago in this very Pass four ladies belonging to the adjoining Shinwari village — perpetually, of course, at loggerheads with the Zakka Khels — were whisked off whither no Shinwari knoweth (though he hath a very shrewd guess) by some young Zakka bachelors from across “the way.” And here again is food for thought. You return home after a long day in, say, the Stock Exchange. You have sold Jones thirty thousand J. & P. Coats’s shares just before the dividend — sworn by you, on private information, to be bigger than ever — is announced. Instead of a million per cent being declared it worked out at a trumpery nine hundred thousand — which you well knew would be the figure; your fellow-broker is ruined and you afford a taxi home. You rub your hands, picturing a yet heavier string of pearls around your loved one’s neck; you shout aloud for joy and your wife — and Jane announces that a Mr Jones called for her in his car an hour ago; that her disinclination to accompany him was smothered in his fur-lined overcoat; and that the chauffeur was told to drive like — very fast — to Southampton. Most upsetting! Well, we have just time for the two border tales — both absolutely true. An irrigation official in the Peshawar valley was working one day near a native village, when he saw a woman rush from a mud enclosure and run for her life, followed a moment after by an Afridi brandishing

78

A Winter in India

an Afghan knife. The chase was short: he cut her in two. Stooping to wipe his weapon on her dress, he saw another Afridi aim at him with a rifle, at which he scampered like mad for cover. As he ran he heard a click — the rifle had missed fire — whereupon he instantly swung round and chased Afridi B for all he was fit. But matters became complicated by the arrival of Afridi C — a friend of B — who promptly levelled his gun at the wife-killer. Once more he dodged for cover, when yet another recruit appeared, throwing in his lot with the weaker side, until further forces arriving to balance affairs, a real good fight ensued, one being killed and two wounded. The second story is so ridiculous that I think it justifies recital. A hospital was opened not long ago in the Kohat valley by the DeputyCommissioner. Much speechifying followed, intermingled by many Mutual Admiration Society sentiments. The D.C. enlarged on the benefits the hospital would confer upon the neighbourhood; the maliks — the heads of the tribes — assented; and everything went very well. The durbar broke up towards sundown, when all the villagers started off together for their various homes, walking in groups at haphazard distances from one another. The hour for prayer arrived. The malik of group No. 1 moved that prayers be said, whereupon a truculent follower of another malik, far behind, moved as an amendment that nothing of the sort be done till his chief arrived. Ensued “much argument about it and about,” until the point of etiquette was settled in a pitched battle, in which three were killed and a number wounded. Prayers were now forgotten in the pressing needs of first aid and burial rites. What was to be done? Suddenly one bright individual bethought him of the beautiful hospital, and moved that the dead and dying be carted thither. Carried unanimously by all — now quite good friends again. So in less than two hours of the opening ceremony every bed in the hospital was put to its predetermined use. And this is, without exaggeration, the normal life on the Indian frontier. True, in the Khyber Pass the tribes may not fight across the road; but none of us in this world are wholly exempt from the inevitable pin-pricks of government. It is doubtless annoying to the Zakka Khel that he may not test his stolen rifle upon his foe across the street; but we have the Income Tax and Water Rate to illustrate to us our bondage under the law.

Peshawar and Khyber Pass

79

The car has now passed through the Zakka Khel territory; the sixtieth tower is level with the back wheels; and the lonely plateau of Lalabeg is reached. There is only one more blockhouse to pass; the car soon covers the neutral ground separating the Zakka Khels from the Shinwaris; the cold here is almost intense; the road bends to the right; the last salute is flashed from the final bayonets; and the fort of Landi Kotal — the farthest outpost of North-West India — is in sight. Fluttering in the biting wind flaps the well-known “coloured rag;” and it somehow makes one thrill to see the tiny Union Jack waving far overhead from the fort flagstaff, symbolizing, as it does, to us the emblem of loyalty and pride of race, and to Afghanistan “across the way” the southern limit of Kabul’s ambition, cruelty and power. Just prior to running under the lee of the tall fort walls one noticed on the right clusters of Shinwari towers and mud enclosures, huddled, so to speak, beneath the protection of Great Britain. Drawing up at the grim, spiked iron gate, our further progress was for a moment stoutly contested by a zealous Afridi, until one of some fifty sitting round sprang to attention, giving the cue to the other forty and nine, whereupon the sentry, following the action of his fellows, permitted us to pass through the great doorway, where we alighted. Looking round, one’s eyes first fell upon hosts of Khyberis, both khaki-clad and garbed in the hundred hues peculiar to civilian India. For an army of workmen are at present rebuilding and strengthening the outer walls of the fort. Next, the Union Jack — now grown many sizes larger — attracted my attention, flying briskly towards Afghanistan; countless boxes of cartridges, ready for a journey, were piled up high at the gateway; sentries paced to and fro; native officials, of degrees unintelligible to the mere layman, fell over one another in their zeal to escort P. to his summer quarters; and I followed them through a second strongly fortified gateway into the officers’ compound. And very attractive it was, considering you stood on the very rim of the Empire, with its garden, well, tennis-court and surrounding bungalows. The mess itself was a cosy room, decorated by many photographs: of the King — presented on his visit as Prince of Wales — the Queen, the German Crown Prince — also presented in person — the Viceroy, Sir James Willcocks and lesser fry, in addition to which were a gramophone, a small book-case, and a most comfortable suite of furniture.

80

A Winter in India

In a few moments lunch was announced, served in a dining-room whose pink walls were literally covered by heads of all manner of twohorned beasts. The menu stand was made out of the medal and clasp of the 1908 “campaign,” and very neat it looked; the only other host present besides P. was the officer in command of the fort — a most amusing, cheery and notoriously plucky fellow; and our excellent lunch in the wildest of the wilds was as appetizing as it was informal, entertaining and enjoyable. Climbing up, later, on to the mud roof-tops, I looked all round at the vast landscape. On my right lay the sombre plateau of Lalabeg, dotted here and there by the brown compounds of the Shinwaris; behind me  towered the wild mountains of the Khyber; on my left stretched the winding track taken lately by the wife-snatching Zakka Khels; while straight ahead stood out the boundary ridges — today so grim and forbidding — of Britain and Afghanistan. Heavy snowclouds lowered overhead, adding a yet sterner grandeur to the natural austerity of the scene; and as we made our way back to the gateway of the fort I dimly realized the loneliness of the British officer’s life on a frontier post. Nor is it only loneliness that confronts him: he carries his life in his hand. The commandant of the fort was seriously wounded by a fanatic not long ago when serving his country in a neighbouring station; while an extremely promising captain in one of the Punjabi regiments — a soldier whose proved courage in China, India and Afghanistan was again and again only exceeded by his great daring (I quote his Colonel who was unaware I had known him), was killed two years ago in one of the never-ending and unchronicled night raids upon another frontier post. From one end of the North-West Frontier to the other these attacks are ever being made upon our outposts; it is the British frontier officer who holds the Empire for us, living his daily life in ignorance of his heroism, and, when necessary, sacrificing that life ‘without a thought of self on the high altar of Duty. And he, and such as he, have made the British Empire what it is. And we who sit at home, are we not sometimes apt to lose sight of the builders of the Empire in the very vastness of the Empire that they built? As I stood at the gateway, waiting for the rest of the party, surrounded by a hundred sturdy Khyber Rifles and with the recollection of 1897 before my mind, I wondered what they really thought of us.

Peshawar and Khyber Pass

81

For sixteen years ago five hundred unofficered Rifles fought on this very spot an army of their fellow-tribesmen, while nine thousand five hundred British troops remained idle in the Peshawar valley, leaving this plucky handful of paid mercenaries to uphold the prestige of Great Britain. Many people hold the belief that the seeds of the Mutiny were sown in 1842 by the almost daily sight of starving, half-mutilated British soldiers crawling back, as beggars, through India after the close of the first Afghan War. Were those, I wonder, more pitiful and humiliating illustrations of the white man’s impotence than the withdrawal of our Khyber Rifle officers and the inaction of close upon ten thousand fellow-soldiers in the crisis of fifty-five years later? But now snow threatened, and we had to hurry home. Quickly racing along the deserted road, we soon found ourselves back in the lonely plateau of Lalabeg, where on our right I noticed one of the many Mahommedan shrines that are dotted about the Pass. The one at the moment under observation was decorated by some dozen coloured rags that fluttered from sticks planted at haphazard angles in the ground — blues, reds, oranges, and greens predominating. The custom is that these flags (or indeed any articles of local value) are hung up on the ends of snapped-off branches as thank-offerings for answered prayers. And all through the Khyber you come across rags, handkerchiefs, in one instance an Antipon bottle, and such high-class merchandise, fluttering or swaying, witnesses of the favourable responses to Afridi supplications. Racing past a conical hill of limestone and brick, we left behind a Buddhist stupa of great antiquity; as we reached Ali Masjid hail whacked down upon us from a sky of ink — and the Khyber looked its very best, wild, gloomy and forbidding, a wilderness of desolation. And so down and down we switchbacked through the Pass; the hail entirely ceased; the sun shone out again in Indian splendour; and we were at Jamrud. From this point until we were actually in Peshawar we passed caravan after caravan — seven thousand camels if two — majestically plodding along in proud and silent ranks on their way to the mouth of the Khyber. For tomorrow the Mohmands must start from the very door of the Pass, at dawn, to ensure the safe passage to Landi Kotal of their salt and sugar, cloth and grain before the pickets leave the Khyber (as we did in ’97) to its temporary fate.

82

A Winter in India

Just as we were approaching the outskirts of Peshawar we met tandem after tandem of elephants straining at their four-ton loads of electric-light machinery; and our hearts went out to the poor beasts as we thought of what they must, perforce, endure on the Khyber hills before the Amir of Afghanistan can utilize the plant in Kabul. A few more miles; some farther caravans of camels; and we were gliding back along the Mall after a most delightful day.

LAHORE

14th January.

I

am in the ancient capital of British India, the capital of the Punjab. It is inevitable in life that climax be succeeded by anti-climax. The barren desolation of the Khyber was the former: the somewhat prosaic streets of Lahore the latter.

A GATEWAY OF THE FORT, LAHORE

To those of you who know and love the old stronghold of the Sikhs; to those who have spent years wandering among the armoury and memories of the fort; to those who indignantly rebel against my lukewarm condemnation of Ranjit Singh’s resting-place, I offer apologies as ample as those which should have been extorted today from a wholesale chemist and Goth who enunciated at lunch, with a contemptuous snap of two iodized fingers, that “there is nothing to see at Delhi.”

84

A Winter in India

I had, perforce, to cut my stay in this city short, having only time to drive along the various streets and the Mall, spend about two hours in the fort and surrounding mosques, and return through the native quarter of the town. But such impressions as I obtained — light and extremely sketchy though they must of necessity be — I shall here record. Firstly, the roads were broad, shady and well paved; the dust so prevalent in Umballa was a thing of naught; and the European town gave me somehow the sensation that I was in Bournemouth — a Bournemouth minus bath-chairs, consumptives, pierrots, and gradients; a Bournemouth plus buffaloes, colour, Sikhs and history; a Bournemouth multiplied a million-fold by light and warmth. Passing down the crowded Mall, after a longish drive through the shady side streets, I reached the statue of Lord Lawrence, below which is inscribed the pertinent enquiry: “Will you be governed by pen or sword?”; then moving rapidly on I came across the Zamzamah cannon, used at the bloody battle of Panipat, between the Mahommedans and the Sikhs; employed in 1818 by Ranjit Singh at the siege of Mooltan; and now, probably, immortalized as “Kim’s” gun. Passing the sentries at the fort gates, I tramped up a steep incline, turned to my left, and finally found myself in the enclosure of the Shish Mahal, or Palace of Mirrors. This courtyard, today dazzling under the rays of the Indian sun, is surrounded on the west side by a white marble pavilion, called Nau Lakka owing to the assertion that it cost nine lacs of rupees to build; on the north wall stands the Shish Mahal itself, made historically famous, and so recorded by a tablet on the wall, as the “Scene of the transfer of the Sovereignty of the Punjab to the British Government, March, 1849.” So on the very spot where the great Sikh leader, Ranjit Singh, held his splendid durbars, his immediate descendants heard the fulfilment of his prophecy that all India from Cape Comorin to Peshawar would “become red.” Between the pillars on the south side of the quadrangle, walls have been erected, thus forming a large armoury, in which the most interesting exhibit is the round rhinoceros hide shield of the tenth and last Sikh Guru, the powerful Govind Singh, of whom, when we reach Amritsar, my next stopping-place, I shall have more to say. So remember his shield when you visit the Armoury in Lahore.

Lahore

85

The whole collection, indeed, is well worth seeing. Here are displayed bugles, matchlock guns, colours and uniforms of the old Sikh army, that strange evolution of Nanak’s insignificant religious sect; here are arrows; a khanjar, or dagger; an Abyssinian shotel, somewhat similar to a gardener’s pruning knife; baruhas, or spears; tabars, or battle-axes; gupti, or concealed sword-sticks; and the rather interesting gokru, three sharp spikes fixed to an iron ball which was thrown down in ancient European warfare to stop cavalry. I could fill page upon page with the list of antique appliances here on view for separating soul and body; but, well knowing the soporific properties of catalogues, recommend you to leave the Armoury before you commence openly to yawn, and accompany me into the bracing air that this evening fans the roof-top of the Shish Mahal. For from this height the view is really very fine. Looking to north, south, east, or west the eye is charmed by a distant belt of green — trees on every side. On the north you look out upon the Badami, or almond, Garden plain, where Maharaja. Ranjit Singh used to review his splendid Sikhs; on the south, at your feet, lies the Diwan-i-Am, in the centre of which is the old “throne place” where the Emperor sat; on the east stretches the city of Lahore in a seemingly never-ending vista of flat-roofed houses; while, gazing right into the blood-red sun, you face the cupolas and minarets of the Badshah Masjid, fronted by the square stucco Samadh, or tomb, in which lie the ashes of Ranjit Singh, along with those of his four wives and seven concubines who became satis (committed suicide) with his corpse. And now we shall clamber down, to drive through the old town. Here amid the eternal clash of corn-grinders, charcoal-burners, donkeys, buffaloes, pugarees, lungis, and dhotis of every hue and description one noticed an extra dash of colour, radiated from the red-caparisoned howdah of an enormous elephant plodding slowly along in ignorance of, or indifferent to, the congested traffic behind his tiny tail. Here and there one saw a succession of picturesque balconies and abutting oriel windows, reminding one of the quaint old houses of Chester; but Lahore city is so similar to any other Eastern town, excepting Peshawar, that I have visited, that it does not bear description. When I say that it is a small potpourri of Umballa, Brusa, Trichinopoly, Constantinople, Cairo, pungent chemical works and unsavoury dustbins I really think

86

A Winter in India

I have said all that is necessary to bring a sketch of this quarter before travelled eyes. As to those who have hitherto been unable to cross the seas in search of colour, scent and life, I should not recommend them to commence the quest in Lahore. There is nothing distinctive about it. The average tourist putting up at Faletti’s Hotel does so for two reasons: one, because he wishes to see the Golden Temple, distant from Lahore about an hour by train; and, two, because the accommodation at Amritsar is what Murray describes as “poor.”

AMRITSAR

15th January.

M

urray was perfectly correct: the accommodation is all he says of it, and a bit more. Take his advice: “Amritsar can be conveniently visited from Lahore.” And, moreover, be sure you make it convenient. When one has a lot to say, it is hard to know where first to begin. Before I show you a blaze of gold set in a sparkling lake; before I lead you round the marble terraces and balustrades that encircle the shrine of the Sikhs; before I stand with you under the golden roof of the temple itself, I must tell you, shortly, the story of the Gurus and their Granth. The first Guru — that is, great teacher or high priest — and founder of Sikhism was one Nanak, a Khatri, (or high-caste Hindu) by birth, born at Talwandi, near Lahore, in 1469. He, like Buddha, revolted against a religion overladen with vain ceremonial and social restrictions, rebelled against the tyranny of the priests, and the worship of Shiva and Kali. So he founded the new religion, a kind of Hindu Protestantism, which taught that there was one God, but that He was neither Allah nor Ram, but simply God — the especial God of neither Mahommedan nor Hindu, but the God of the universe. He died in 1539, and was succeeded by nine Gurus, each nominated by his predecessor, until the tenth dying without children to succeed him (they had been murdered), and seeing no one round him to whom he could conscientiously transmit the Guruship, he vested it in perpetuity in the Granth, or bible, compiled by Guru Arjan, the fifth in succession. So the Sikhs since 1708 have worshipped their bible, which now lies under a low ottoman, draped with crimson, green and yellow, beneath the dome of the Golden Temple. Of these ten Gurus those worthy of special mention are Nanak, the founder of the new sect; Ram Das, the fourth Guru, and founder of the Golden Temple in 1577; Guru Arjan, the fifth in succession and compiler of the Granth. He it was who saw that arms were necessary to preserve the Sikh religion, thus forming the turning-point in the history of the Sikhs. Hitherto they had been an insignificant religious sect: now, stimulated by persecution,

88

A Winter in India

they became a militant and political power to be reckoned with by the Mahommedan rulers of the country. Guru Har Govind, the sixth, commenced the great Sikh army by enrolling in his bodyguard fifty-two warriors and wrestlers who were eager for the fray. Then five hundred youths enlisted, stating they had no offering to bring but their lives, to each of whom the Guru supplied a horse and five weapons of war. He encouraged the eating of meat, as thereby promoting strength and daring; and to this practice the superiority of the Sikh’s physique over his Hindu brother is largely attributable. The ninth Guru, Teg Bahadur, is remembered for his prophecy of 1675, which in the Mutiny became the battle-cry of the Sikhs in the assault on Delhi. When imprisoned in that city by the Mahommedan Emperor Aurangzeb he was accused of looking towards the west in the direction of the imperial zenana; but when brought before his captor and charged with the offence, replied: “Emperor Aurangzeb, I was on the top story of my prison, but I was not looking at thy private apartments or at thy queen’s. I was looking in the direction of the Europeans who are coming from beyond the seas to tear down thy purdahs and destroy thine empire.” And lastly we come to the tenth, and last, Guru, Govind Singh (he whose shield hangs in the Armoury at Lahore), who made the Sikhs into a great military power, whose descendants supplied and still supply magnificent regiments to our army; who stood by us in the Mutiny, thereby saving India to Great Britain; and whose unswerving gallantry, whether as friend or foe, has been displayed on every field of honour in the Indian Empire. Such today are the disciples of Nanak of Talwandi, the Luther of the Punjab. And now just a word in reference to the holy temple, the Pool of Immortality, and the struggles of the Sikhs. We have heard how Ram Das, the fourth Guru, founded the Golden Temple in 1577 — upon a site granted by the Emperor Akbar. He it was who excavated the holy tank from which the town derives its name of Amrita Turas, or Pool of Immortality, in which pilgrims might (in accordance with Nanak’s teaching) cleanse themselves of their sins. About two centuries later, in 1761, during the great struggle between the Sikhs and the Mahommedans, Ahmad Shah Durani routed the Sikhs at the battle of Panipat, blew up the temple, filled in the sacred tank with mud, and defiled the shrine with the blood of cows. But after the Afghan raider

Amritsar

89

had returned to Kabul the Sikhs re-established their religion. Finally the city fell under the sway of Ranjit Singh at Lahore, and latterly passed, with the rest of the Punjab, into the possession of Great Britain at the close of the second Sikh War. And now that we have lifted the fringe and peeped for an instant beneath the faded curtain of history, let us follow the human stream of colour that pours its countless pilgrims through the narrow streets to the wide square in the centre of the town. Suddenly you catch a gleam of light; you blink your eyes, for the dazzle almost blinds you; you see a sparkling lake, from the centre of which rise glittering walls, roofs and cupolas of gold; and you have had your first glimpse of the beautiful Har Mandar of Amritsar. Accompanied by a guide who proceeded to remove my boots, I read explicit instructions as to how far my curiosity might be gratified, and under what conditions; I saw, not without misgivings, my cigarette-case disappear (for tobacco would defile the shrine); and I started out in silk slippers, and escorted a smart Sikh soldier, for my tour of inspection. If you have been to Venice you have seen the setting of the Golden Temple of Amritsar; if you have trod the Piazza of St Mark you have had a magnified view of the marble terraces and balustrades surrounding the holy tank; and if you have been to Margate on the sunniest Bank Holiday that Great Britain has ever dreamed of, you have perhaps some faint idea of the scene unfolded before your eyes on the banks of the Pool of Immortality. For here you have in Eastern confusion and paradox pilgrims disrobing; pilgrims immersed in the Pool; pilgrims, seated on the steps that lead from the white marble terrace above to the green surface of the tank beneath, vigorously capsizing petrol tins of holy water over their apologetically apparelled forms; vendors of flowers, squatting in the basking sunshine, hawking lotus, jasmine, marigold, and scabious as offerings before the Granth; sacred bulls sleepily blinking on the dazzling terraces, condescending to accept dainties from the pilgrim’s bounty. A barber in nothing but a yard a half of cloth is busy clipping the toe-nails of a devout Sikh — for, of course, the hair and beard are never cut; while an old man and a woman bow them-selves low before the weird, Egyptian-angled painting of Nanak, the founder of their faith.

90

A Winter in India

As I wandered along a priest approached me, to hang a garland of marigold about my neck and increase the balance of his bank account; a second cleric pursued his lucrative calling by chanting extracts from the Granth to a couple of earnest women; a Sikh beggar — garbed in raiment more gorgeous than that of all the priests and pilgrims combined — offered his magnificent features, proportions and costume for immortalization by Messrs Kodak’s art, at a price. I looked at him for a moment and then fell: he was worth the few coppers requested. His beard would have been a compelling advertisement to Harlene Ltd.; his features were bold and bronzed; his figure the type such as Thorwaldsen would have modelled into a perfectly proportioned wrestler; on his head towered a conical nahang, or witch’s hat, decorated with four steel quoits — the symbol of the Sikhs; his coat was long and brown; around his neck hung a khaki scarf, chains of silver and bluegreen beads; his feet were encased in pink stockings (the incongruity of it!) and he brandished a long black silver-headed walking-stick. And then I turned away from the devout and commercial sea of oranges and greens, lemons and ultramarines towards the stream converging on the more sacred causeway that leads out to the most holy island-temple in the centre of the Pool. For think! These pilgrims who passed me by, looking neither to left nor right, eagerly shuffling along towards the sacred Granth, have journeyed, as the Canterbury Pilgrims flocked in their day to Becket’s shrine, in devout impatience to wash away their sins in the all-cleansing waters of the Amrita Turas; they have denied themselves the luxuries of their starvation wage to bring to the holy shrine lotus, or cowries, or coppers; they have made their weary, footsore way from the farthest corners of the Punjab to kneel before the sacred Granth; and now they see the shrine itself through the open doorway of the Durshani Gate, the latter a mass of glittering silver, ivory and gold, all unnoticed in their eagerness to press on into the Holy of Holies beyond. And across this marble-terraced causeway I followed them, seeing what they did not; a tablet on the Durshani arch commemorating the visit and holy bathing of the 35th Sikhs on the 15th of November, 1909, on their return from Chitral; two long, low balustrades of carved marble, taken from Agra, flanking the causeway; ten gilded lampposts, on either side; crowned by cheap blue-and-green glass windows,

THE MARBLE CAUSEWAY, AMRITSAR

92

A Winter in India

suitable for a scullery in Upper Tooting; a pavement of dazzling marble, picketed by rows of incanting and distorted beggars; to right and left the sparkling waters of the holy Pool; and ahead of me the scintillating walls and cupolas of the heart of Sikhism. Looking up, the walls for about twenty feet were of white marble, painted with flowers, tigers and stags; above, all was gold, culminating in a copper dome covered with gold foil which shone brilliantly in the dazzling rays of the Indian sun and was reflected in the dancing waters of the lake. A Sikh advanced to one of four open doorways of chased silver, touched the lintel to right and left, repeating the actions on his forehead; then bowed himself to the marble floor in deepest reverence as, perhaps for the first time, he saw the low ottoman in the centre of the half-darkened temple. A blind pilgrim bumped into me, and was led round the tiny island to the open doorway on the left of the shrine. And then we entered. The interior was lofty; the walls were a blaze of blue, red and gold in a million frets and scrolls; higher, were arched galleries of yet more blues and reds, studded with mirrors; the incessant flutter of pigeons broke the silence as they noisily flapped in and out of the open doorways; by Lord Curzon’s modern and incongruous clock the time was 11.25; hanging from the roof depended a cut-glass lamp; while round the floor sat some twenty priests, dressed in white pugarees, coats of various colours and dhotis of varying cleanliness. In the centre was spread out a white cloth, at the moment covered with lotus, marigold, copper coins, rice, and pigeons. Two priests, holding long sticks, and for all the world the Indian counterpart of Monte Carlo croupiers, occasionally pushed strayed coppers whither they should go. Near the Granth stood three silver vases containing money, sugar and what sounded to me like “ghee” (a sort of butter) — contributions for clerics and poor alike. Beyond that lay the sacred Granth Sahib itself, covered by eight or nine silk handkerchiefs coloured red, green, orange, blue, and white, upon which were perpetually sprinkled the pilgrims’ offerings of lotus, jasmine and marigold; while above all was stretched a canopy of blue and scarlet. And as I looked towards the door opening on to the causeway a party of pilgrims, timid and reverent, entered, holding in their hands

Amritsar

93

donations of flowers, cowries and ghee. They passed behind me, trod, with downcast eyes, to the “altar;” handed their flowers to a priest, who sprinkled them mechanically upon the Granth, and laid their coppers on the carpet beside a little pyramid of other coins. Receiving in exchange a garland of marigold which a priest hung around each neck, the pilgrims again bowed themselves to the flower and cowrie covered earth and passed out of the shrine, to be led up eighteen steps into a chamber of glass, patterned in greens, reds, blues and gold, which afforded a bird’s-eye view of the scene below. As I softly walked round the balconied arcades I disturbed an army of somnolent and overfed pigeons; I saw the reverent stream of worshippers pour in with flowers and offerings and pass out bedecked with garlands of gold; I contrasted the unassumed reverence of the humble pilgrims with the casual indifference of the priests, and I wondered if, should Nanak again enter into earthly clay, he would once more rebel against a religion overladen with vain ceremonial and the tyranny of arrogant and wealthy priests. Up yet again a further twenty steps, and I was standing in a tiny room of gold upon whose floor were mingled three large and sacred brushes made of peacocks’ feathers, a small pewter bowl, four priests, and half a dozen pilgrims, each of whom bowed himself again and again to the earth, dropped more coppers into the money-box, and passed out, when the priests removed the jingling spoil with pleased or dissatisfied expressions. This is merely a little book of impressions… But — I think a second Nanak is now overdue.

SIMLA

25th January.

T

he mountain capital of the Indian Empire is, at the present moment, as chilly as it is fascinating. If you decide to pay a fleeting visit to Simla in the tourist, or cold, season you will be amply repaid. Mr Brook at the outset of his successful saponaceous career convinced himself of the advisability of openly acknowledging there were limitations to the capabilities of his soap. “It won’t wash clothes!” has been dinned into our ears with such persistency that we turn away from the reiteration of his talkative monkey with the firmest belief in the excellence of its other recommendations. And so it is with Simla. Its historic interest commences, for you and me, in 1819, when the Assistant Political Agent for the Hill States, Lieutenant Ross, erected a thatched cottage on the mountain side. In 1828 the first permanent residence was built by Lieutenant Kennedy, who succeeded Ross; the first Commander-in-Chief to visit Simla was General Stapleton, Viscount Combermere, who arrived in 1825; while the first GovernorGeneral to summer here was Lord Amherst. And when I have rattled off these few dates and facts you must then decide for yourself whether Simla’s recommendations outweigh her limitations, whether the scenery, the perpetual snows of the Himalayas and the serpentine toy railway journey of sixty miles compensate for a lack of historic interest. Having tested it, my personal conviction is that you will not be disappointed in the experience nor with the magnificent views of almost limitless ranges of Himalayan mountains, culminating on the border lands of Kashmer and Tibeting littering heights of never-melting snows. On the other hand, yours may be the temperament that dreads the sight of a mosque as I tremble at the hum of a mosquito. In which case you will doubly delight in Simla. Your energetic spouse or catechistical parent has no scope whatever up here for thrusting history down your throat; he may stamp up Jakko, as I did, by himself, but you can, with self-respect, stop at Faletti’s Hotel and just drink in this gorgeous scenery and sunshine.

Simla

95

The journey from Umballa took me slightly over eight and a half hours (which, for India, is equivalent to a bus ride from Bond Street to the Burlington Arcade); but it seemed no time at all as scene after scene of Himalayan grandeur was unfolded at every turn of the winding railway. At eight minutes past 6 a.m. I was seated in the train simultaneously speculating as to when I should thaw and whether the journey would fall short of, equal, or exceed expectation. By a quarterpast seven the faintest suspicion of crimson crept into the eastern horizon; solitary palm trees stood out in the moonlight as ghostly sentinels of the plains; the stars one by one gradually withdrew before the ever-deepening fore-glow of the dawn; until at last the crimson faded into blue, and the sun for the hundred millionth time looked over the summit of one of the lower ridges of the Himalayas. But in a few moments we had wound round a curve on the line, and the dawn was shrouded behind a higher ridge. And so sunrise after sunrise half came and wholly went until finally the pale remnant of the night was chased away by a fiery ball of flame which climbed up and topped the highest crest, claiming undisputed possession of the day. Instantly the plains around me and the Himalayan heights ahead were lit into a thousand schemes of colour; I was all alone with Nature in her most beautiful morning rite; and the unbroken silence spoke to one of possibilities of perfected humanity, and of all that was most lovely in an enchanted world of light. Before I had dimly grasped the full glory of this, my first, Himalayan sunrise we had arrived at Kalka, a village two thousand four hundred feet above sea-level which nestles at the knees of the giant hills above. Here you will have breakfast, and then step into a toy train for your sixty-mile journey through Wonderland. If you have ever travelled from Colombo to Kandy and recollect the fly-like sensations you experienced on the mountains of Ceylon; if you have driven from Cattaro up the zigzag Austrian road to the Montenegrin boundary and looked down the precipice after four hours’ vagrant perambulation; if you have stood on the summit of Acro-Corinth and gazed across the illimitable plains at Hymettus and Pentelicus you have a potpourri of the feast awaiting you when the miniature engine puffs out of Kalka station. And if your statistically inclined spouse, parent, guardian, or offspring has fulfilled his destiny

96

A Winter in India

of lecturer and bore he will long ago have told you that the number of tunnels is one hundred and three, that the total length of tunnels and viaducts is close on seven miles, and that this marvel of engineering cost nineteen million rupees (or considerably over a million and a quarter sterling) to build. Now we are off. And now, in imagination, throw up your windows, inhale the finest air and drink in the most gorgeous views you are ever in actuality likely to enjoy. Hardly have we started than we double on our tracks, when the Lilliputian engine exhibits on her broadside K.S.S.R. No. 33 as she swings herself and you round a curve that would do credit to Brooklands. Here, we are in a narrow cutting blasted out of the mountain side; there, overlooking the still hazy plain below. The blinding sunshine is suddenly turned to night as we bluster through a tunnel to emerge into a vista of deodar and fir clad hills stretching for countless miles up to the distant horizon of clear-cut, wooded mountains. At one moment I  am, in thought, dashing along the Riviera, turning, twisting, vibrating, and shrieking past sunlit limestone hills and sulphuric-scented tunnels; at another I am, literally, clinging to my seat — but familiarity soon breeds contempt — vaguely calculating the sheer drop to the white ribbon of dust and eternity beneath; and then I feel a jerk. “Gummum,” says a notice-board on my right; “Get off the earth!” to judge by the infuriated hoot, replies K. double S. R. double three, and on we pant. The hillsides here are thickly dressed in all manner of vegetation; here a Titan might stride up the mountain slopes on thickly padded stairs of velvet green — stepping from terrrace to terrace of cultivated land yielding French beans, green peas and every variety of English vegetable. Here the fertile soil is watered by the Himalayan snows, whereas the barren passes of the Khyber are but drenched in Afridi and Afghan blood. You feel the different atmosphere at once. The valleys here are homes of industry and peace; the husbandman reaps where he has sown; the roads and country-side abound in his cattle and his sheep. The contrast to the North-West border state is almost startling: peace in place of lawlessness; a hundred thousand deodars and pines opposed to isolated clumps of gorse; benevolent government replacing trigger rule.

Simla

97

Up and up we climb. The course of an eccentric hare is no more erratic than the track of the Kalka-Simla line. Looking down lie miles of oval-shaped toy rails, similar to those that delight juvenile London in Hamley’s and Morrell’s, sparkling upon the mountain sides and showing us the horseshoe routes already traversed. Above and far below hang thousands of feet of telegraph wires, festooned in threads of silver and gold from ridge to ridge; and as I look at their scintillating shafts of light I think for a moment of the countless messages of hope and fear and aspiration that have flashed to three hundred million souls from this Himalayan throne of government. And now we are at Jabli, 3,950 feet above sea-level. Isolated groups of flat-roofed, mud and brick built houses indicate a village beside a trickling stream. The toy train crawls along the cliff ledge as a fly upon a wall; a dazzling sun looks down upon the clear-cut boundary ranges of India; the sky is of deepest turquoise; the silence only broken by the puff! puff! puff! of the engine; the higher ridges throw down long shadows on to the lower slopes; the world is circumferenced by fir-clad hills; and I gaze up for my first close view of the eternal Himalayan snows. Doubling and twisting, Sonwara and Dharmpore are reached in turn, and we are up 4,500 feet. Then Kumarhatti is left behind, and Baroch appears as a speck of light at the end of a long tunnel. We are now 5,020 feet above sea-level, and the view is grand. You are enveloped here; you look down upon nothing; you are merely a pigmy gazing up at Norwegian grandeur. Belt upon belt of fir trees clothe the mountain sides; at your feet plays a little fountain, breaking the silence by the rhythmic splash of its water into a circular font, while on your right stands up a curious conical hill surmounted by an unpicturesque tank. Coming down to affairs mundane, here is where you will have lunch. To reach the European buffet you walk up a few steps, face a gruesome photograph of some of the inmates of the Sabathu Leper Asylum hung above an opportunity for assistance; while looking over your shoulder you will see the “Refreshment Room for Hindu Gentlemen” rubbing knuckles with the “Refreshment Room for Mahommedan Gentlemen.” But Gentlemen, Hindu, Mahommedan, and European alike, are summoned to rejoin the train, and on we go till you overlook a valley fronted by a second Ali Masjid, when for a moment you imagine you

98

A Winter in India

are back in the Khyber. Soon, however, the fleeting illusion is gone as you notice the surrounding and enveloping vegetation and catch a glimpse of K.S.S.R. 33 wriggling round another bend of the crazy line. Then Solon, 4,900 feet, and Kandaghat, 4,698, are passed, illustrating a slight drop instead of a gradual rise in altitude. Misbelieving my eyes, I jumped out on to the platform, verified the fact, and had just time to spring back into my carriage and sit down on my glasses — alas, no more! — before we joggled up again. Gradually rising, the view near Shoghi compels added admiration. For miles and miles your gaze falls across an apparently limitless expanse of brown ridges relieved perpetually by terraces of green; while on the edge of the horizon glisten the white summits of everlasting snow. Now we are at Taradevi, 6,050 feet above sea-level, where I am requested to sign a statement denying acquaintance during the past three months with enteric, which I thankfully comply with. While the plague inspector, farther up the platform, is fulfilling his mission in life by prodding all and sundry Hindu and Mahommedan esquires under the arms, I have time to look up the valley at a long stretch of houses clinging on to the mountain sides. Simla at last! On the right towers Jakko thrusting its densely wooded crest eight thousand and forty-eight feet (or over a mile and a quarter) above sea-level; while on the extreme right, or western, side of the crescent stands Prospect Hill. Between the two — a distance of six miles — are dotted a thousand chalets, each planted on the apparently perpendicular slant of the fir-clad hills. That is all the naked eye can clearly see of Simla when yet close on an hour’s journey from the town. Were I asked to liken it to another city I should instantly recall Cannes to my memory. Further questioned as to my reason I should instance the long, sloping hills, the dotted houses, the Riviera colouring and the superabundance of trees. No one, evidently, was suffering from suspicious lumps upon their anatomy, as we shortly panted on to Jutogh, past Summer Hill, and finally hooted our way into Simla itself, after a truly fascinating climb. Alighting at the little station, I was captured by four youths in the orthodox pugaree, coat of any colour and dhoti ill acquainted with the dhobi, to be placed in a rickshaw resembling to the life a Brighton bath-chair that has lost its two front wheels. And then commenced the

Simla

99

pull up to Faletti’s Hotel. A broken-winded horse is, after a dead-lame one, perhaps as unpleasant and painful to drive behind as anything on earth — until you have experienced a Simla rickshaw. I speak personally. Heavens! What a chorus of pants, wheezes and groans! I saw myself back again at school, plodding along the heavy roads on the first walk-and-run after the Christmas holidays. Not only was the air in front of me disturbed by these distressing noises: two coolies behind me puffed and coughed down my neck with a vigour betokening heart disease and consumption. Nevertheless we eventually arrived, the rickshaw weighed down by my camera and a rug while I tramped up the hill in comparative silence. After a hurried lunch I set out for Jakko, the lofty mountain from which one obtains an excellent view of Simla below and of the Himalayan snows above. Away we went, five coolies to push and pull a bath-chair and eight stone thirteen. Three hours is allowed for the double journey, but, being unaware of the fact, my quintette were home again in two. First impressions are as often wrong as right, but my present opinion of the rickshaw coolies that fell to my lot this afternoon is about on a par with that of a cross-Channel stewardess for touring womanhood. The route followed led us along the Mall, past innumerable groups of Tibetans, Kashmeris and the Ordnance Office of the Army Headquarters; through the native bazaar — a marvel of cleanliness, inactivity and fresh air — and up a long succession of shady, zigzag paths until the upper slopes of Jakko were reached. And from here I looked back and down upon Simla — a city of tin, an encampment of dhaji; a collection of heterogeneous kiosks and bungalows. On all sides tin roofs glistened in the sunshine, illustrating anew the excessive freights on the Kalka Simla Railway; the walls of dhaji (that is, wood frames filled in with small stones and mud) gleamed beneath their coats of whitewash; while above below hosts of deodars, fir and occasional oak trees clung to the mountain sides. Now we moved on, the rickshaw and five behind me making absurdly “heavy weather” of their easy climb, until the advance guard of Jakko’s immense army of monkeys chattered to us from overhanging branches. Here the coolies sank to the earth, denying all possibility

100

A Winter in India

of propelling the toy bath-chair a yard farther up the mountain. So, accompanied by their leader, a most unwilling companion, I scrambled up rough-cut paths, admittedly unsuited for rickshaw locomotion, until the famous temple on the summit was reached. The old fakir of the Hindu shrine affirmed that a thousand of our distant ancestors lived here. For all I know there may have been five times that number or only half, the average Indian having little grasp of affairs numerical (as last instanced by a young fellow announcing he was ninety and myself “perhaps forty-five I suppose”); but whether five hundred or five thousand, this army of monkeys afforded an imposing display of activity, greed and self-interest as the old man flung handfuls of maize and grain into their chattering ranks. They were an odd community, following the eternal law of might and right. In the centre sat the king — like Napoleon, self-crowned I should imagine, to judge from his herculean proportions — surrounded by his snarling satellites who, as opportunity occurred, snatched outlying portions of the royal banquet. Once or twice his majesty swung round with lightning and unlooked-for speed to cuff an over-venturesome peer across the ears; but otherwise the imperial gourmand munched on in undisturbed enjoyment — the observed of all observers, the eternal breaking-point of the socialist’s argument. Looking between gaps in the trees the view is grand in the extreme. On all sides rise a thousand ridges, some bare, some clothed, some bathed in sunshine and some darkened in shade; below nestles Simla overtopping a series of giant ravines that lead down into the deep-cut valleys which score the mountain sides. To the south lie the Umballa plains foregrounded by the Sabathu and Kasauli hills, while to the south-east the mighty Chor thrusts its rugged summit ten thousand feet into the inimitable blue above. Northwards you gaze across a boundless network of irregular and confused chains, rising range upon range, to be finally crowned by the sunlit glitter of the eternal Himalayan snows that guard the boundaries of Kashmer and Tibet. The return downhill journey was a joy to the coolies and a corresponding nightmare to coloured pedestrians who sprang for their life to right and left at the imperative ring of our bicycle bell, as we rattled back down the long slope of Chota Simla at a pace as eccentrically energetic as our outward perambulation had been funereally slow.

THE OLD FAKIR AND HIS MONKEYS, ON SUMMIT OF JAKKO, SIMLA

102

A Winter in India

Past Christ Church we swung and away along the Mall till the now welcome harbourage of Faletti’s warm hotel was reached. At present this building reminds me of a Norwegian chalet, picturesque and out of date; but the new hotel in process of building will be at once a marvel of mountain architecture and a palace of luxury. I wandered all over it with Mr. B., the clever architect, and the combination of comfort and indescribably beautiful scenery which it will afford induces me, without request or any “axe to grind,” to bring this dawning edifice of bricks and enterprise to your notice when visiting this corner of the vast Himalayas. In the morning I explored the western side of Simla, paying a fleeting visit to Viceregal Lodge, over which, with a card of introduction, I was courteously shown, and from the tower of which I took a succession of photographs of the town and surrounding hills. Then descending to Boileauganj I ended my exercise by a walk through the bazaar and the charming shady paths that intersect the endless forests of deodars, pines, firs, and rhododendrons. There is much more to do in and around Simla if you have time to spare. There are a hundred hills to climb, dozens of valleys to explore, waterfalls to be seen; and nothing would have pleased me more than to stop on for a week and ramble among the lower ridges and ravines of this mountain capital of India. But I had to pack up and go. We left Simla at one o’clock, reaching Kalka about a quarter to seven. For the greater portion of the time I sat on an improvised seat on the engine (my friend of the previous day, K. double S.R. double three, now running back to front), thus having an absolutely uninterrupted view of the gorgeous scenery, and enjoying all the manifold sensations of a motor run. And to those of you who know the delights of slipping clutches and of lying on your back alternately swallowing and pitching Fuller’s earth on to the oldfashioned leather belts I can speak more intimately of our experiences up the incline to Shoghi. All went famously at first. We glided down mile after mile, through tunnel after tunnel — from our advanced position as smokeless and eerie as the tube from Piccadilly Circus to Trafalgar Square; hooted advice to wandering sheep and over-curious cattle; till the descent was relieved from monotony by K. double S.R. double three refusing to drag us uphill to the station aforementioned.

Simla

103

She was coaxed, fed and cursed in turn, only to retaliate by vibrating your spine and puffing furiously. At last, acknowledging defeat, a coal-black gentleman descended from the tender, climbed down on to the cow-catcher, tied a bucket of sand to a coupling, wound one hand round a stanchion and with the other sprinkled the contents of the pail on to the slippery line. This merely appeared to over-infuriate the mechanical lady, who shook herself into a perfect spasm of rage, until another member of the railway community joined his colleague on the cow-catcher, when both, with fingers all but touching the rails, poured handful after handful of sand upon the wheels and metals. And this, mark you, when we were vibrating with the force of a printing press in Fleet Street. Grunting and ill-humoured, she at last condescended to proceed, while a stoker opened the furnace, heaved shovelfuls of coal into the roaring flames and slammed back the door by jerking a long steel chain connected at the upper end with a cooler portion of her anatomy. And so we started off again, covering mile after mile in giddy crescents and circles and shivering gyrations, till approaching dusk and lowered temperature advised me to return to my toy carriage, soon thereafter to arrive at Kalka, and, later, Umballa, after a perfectly charming trip into the very heart of the Himalayas.

PATIALA

3rd February.

I

have just returned from an interesting trip to Independent India. Patiala is the premier native state of the Punjab, founded about 1763 by the usual process of wholesale dacoity, and brought under British protection in 1809. The general procedure followed since the British occupation of India has been to honour loyalty and depose turbulence. In 1857 Narindar Singh, the ruler at that critical date, by remaining staunch to us set an example to the other states of immense value; Maharaja Rajendra Singh, who died in 1900, was a great sportsman and, more over, took part in the Tirah campaign of ’98 with a battalion of his own Imperial Service Infantry and a field troop of Imperial Service Lancers, for which services he received the G.C.S.I.; while his son, Bhupindar Singh, now aged twenty-two, has inherited his father’s love of sport and arms, being at once an excellent cricketer, not above playing “footer” with his scholastic subjects, and having taken part in the Imperial manoeuvres lately. One word more and my statistical introduction to Patiala is over. The area of this state is 5,412 square miles; its population in 1901 was 1,596,692; its estimated revenue £440,000; and its military force 3,429 men of all arms. In short, a little kingdom. And into this kingdom I first peeped yesterday from the seat of a high-backed tonga. If you wish to see something of the administration of a native state it can generally be arranged through an introduction from someone in authority at your station; and if it is your fortune to visit Patiala when the present Prime Minister and Home Minister are in office I feel sure you will echo my conviction that Indian hospitality leaves nothing to be desired. Both public-spirited men; both of independent means; one a member of the Imperial Council and the other an author of no mean order, they are working together, at the joint request of the Maharaja and the Government, for the betterment of this enlightened native state.

GATEWAY OF MAHARAJA OF PATIALA’S PALACE

106

A Winter in India

The tonga ambled along a straight, flat road, then suddenly turned at right angles into a compound at the moment tenanted by trees, from which what appeared to be unripe apples were descending through the agency of long bamboo sticks, and guarded by a khaki-clad sentry with fixed bayonet and expression. Close to the house lay a sleepy camel, dozing in the shade; while the verandah was populated by a host of servants dressed in blue and gold lungis and heavily gilded uniforms — the outward and visible signs of the Premier’s prestige. Shortly after my arrival he welcomed me, apologized for the absence of “His Highness,” away shooting with another native prince, and insisted on my taking lunch with him and his friends and colleagues. So down we sat in due time: three Mahommedans, the Prime Minister, dressed in European clothes, a young Bombay-side friend of his, and an officer of the Imperial Service troops, head-geared in a pale pink pugaree and khaki uniform; a short, square-set Sikh — the Home Minister — garbed in polo costume crowned by a long black beard — a most amusing, courteous and well-read fellow; an Irishman, the head of the Government dairy and as jolly a chap as any of his fellow-countrymen; an Austrian — position and raison d’être unknown; and a thin Scotsman. An odd mixture perhaps, but a cheerier meal I seldom recollect, Mahommedan, Sikh, Roman Catholic, and Protestant one and all endeavouring to contribute their quota of anecdote, humour and ignorance to the conversational repast. But this was the unvarnished article, one felt; it was as it were the faint echo of a resurrected “salon” of eighteenth-century France wafted to the heart of Independent India; and I am not exaggerating when I state that the range of subjects essayed and scaled by the Indians would put to shame, confusion and muffled in articulation the prandial oratory of your average dogmatic and insular Briton. It may be unpalatable, it may be controversial, but I think — and I most assuredly include myself in the mute battalions — that as a nation we are far behind our continental and, apparently, some Asiatic, neighbours in the neglected art of conversation. One, yesterday, spoke intimately of the Maharaja’s love of sport; another related, with mechanical details, his morning’s triumph over an obdurate petrol-driven plough; a third descanted with knowledge and terseness on the higher education system in practice in Patiala; while a fourth discussed the pros and cons of the

Patiala

107

prohibition question in New Zealand. Of course they were educated men, in responsible positions, but their views on matters local and imperial were at once novel and interesting. Descending or ascending, as you look at life, our drink was water, and our food commenced with pastry, sugar and cream, followed by chops and potatoes; our savoury (which I felt unable to tackle) was some crumpled plant leaf, and our liqueur cocoa. It has not been my lot as yet to meet any member of the National Congress, nor to listen to the private expression of his annual public shriek, but from what I have heard from authoritative sources — from men who know them personally — not one in five really believes in what he is paid to preach. But as I rose from this luncheon-table I felt that these Indians honestly and conscientiously were voicing what they thought to be best for the country. It was absolutely imperative that Great Britain should hold India; necessary to introduce British laws throughout every native state; most desirable to assess the individual at as low a rate as possible. In their own country they represent the men of independent position who in England enter public life not as a means of livelihood, but with a desire to work for their empire; and as such their aspirations — apparently reasonable, loyal and progressive — were of great interest to me. By this time, however, the verandah was full to overflowing with suitors of the ministers’ goodwill, and interviews had to be commenced. A two-horsed carriage with gorgeously apparelled coachman and groom stood at the door; I stepped in, followed by a deputed cicerone, and overshadowed by a gold-uniformed flunkey who leaped on to the footboard between the two back wheels. Away we went, the assembled company bowing themselves to the earth, while one cried aloud for some boon as he ran beside the carriage. The suppliant realizing, however, that, I had nothing more tangible or satisfying to bestow than the tripod of my camera, shortly retreated to resume his interrupted vigil (already of some days’ duration) in proximity to the powers that actually be. Our first stop was at the Patiala dairy, where eighty-five cows, eightyfour calves and forty-five employees live out their little day amid ideal and scrupulously clean surroundings. Then I was driven to the jail. I have already inspected two such houses of correction in the Punjab,

108

A Winter in India

but were I to be reincarnated into the clay of an Indian dacoit I would unhesitatingly practice my sleight of hand in Patiala. As I have already hinted, prison carries with it no more stigma in India than does the popular brand of divorce in America. And this was again illustrated yesterday, when happiness and laughter were quite as prevalent as sorrow and blank despair. When first I entered the gigantic compound I wondered for a moment if the 469 inhabitants were all recruited from the ranks of feminine iniquity, as on all sides of the centre well figures in varying stages of deshabille were washing, combing and drying masses of long, black hair. Recollecting, however, the geographical position of Patiala jail and the style of coiffure favoured by the East, I walked forward in unblushing serenity to witness the ablutions of the male convicts. Really Darwin is not far out. Here, truly, one saw the murderer scrubbing the back of the thief, the dacoit disentangling the matted tresses of the unsuccessful housebreaker. When I produced my camera to immortalize the scene there was quite a rush to get Keith Prowse positions, no instinctive inclination to hide their detected guilt behind their flowing screens of hair. They were perfectly happy, all of them, except perhaps three murder “undertrials,” who were seated in a mud enclosure in idleness and sunshine, shackled by long steel chains connecting their ankles to the bars of their respective cells. The compound could enclose both Umballa and Peshawar jails; in a few months’ time wheat will be reaped from the compound fields; fetters, so prevalent in the North-West Frontier, were (except in the three cases referred to) simply non-existent here; while on all sides the atmosphere was more akin to that of a boys’ school than in keeping with one’s idea of a convict prison. Yes, if you must pit your brains “agin the government” do it in Patiala: the work meted out to life’s failures is no harder than in other jails, there are no fetters, and the cubic space per convict must be enormous. Off again. Now we rattled through the lovely Baradari Gardens, first passing the Maharaja’s private roller skating rink, and then stopping for a few moments at the Baradari Kothi, or Palace, in the centre of the gardens, where His youthful Highness lives in spring and where viceroys and lesser fry are entertained. Then on to the city proper, which struck me as the home of more flies and less dirt than other native towns. We entered the great Diwan Khan, or Durbar Hall, a

Patiala

109

huge audience room hung with pictures of our Royal Family and of the Raja’s house, plastered over with old armoury, and lit, at night, by certainly no less than thirty immense, glittering chandeliers. Down some sun-baked steps, past two old-fashioned guns, and we were in the Museum, where were displayed dazzling gold and silver state carriages, gorgeous palanquins, priceless howdahs, trappings, swords, muskets, shields, and a thousand and one Eastern appurtenances to regal splendour. And then we wandered into another corner of the palace, first skirting the enormous, towering fort — the incomprehended prison of the Maharaja’s distaff relatives — whom none, of my sex, may see — to feast our eyes upon his miniatures and costly furniture. Then driving through a guard at the palace gates, and making our way across the crowded square beyond, we finally drew up at the Patiala hospital — a most up-to-date institution, with all the latest appliances for surgery, medicine and bacteriology. Having examined the wards and various X-ray photographs, and passed through the different operating-rooms, we drove off to the Mohindra College and back to the Premier’s house, after a most interesting and highly instructive afternoon. Of sights — spelt with a capital S — there are practically none in Patiala. When you enter this, or any other, independent territory you step into a System, unique, daring and successful. You witness the outward and visible signs of native power, instanced by Oriental splendour, guided, one imagines, in this case, by disinterested Indian gentlemen, and controlled by the unobtrusive and observant British Political Agent. You are, moreover, initiated into the boundless hospitality of India; you feel as though for a moment you were upon her stage and not seated in the European stalls; and you come away anxious to return.

AGRA, FATEHPUR SIKRI AND SIKANDRA

5th February.

A

t the present moment I am gliding down India, vaguely wondering when there is the remotest prospect of breakfast. It is a perfectly gorgeous day (when is it not?) and the early morning haze is being slowly chased away by the powerful Eastern sun. I reached Umballa station last night shortly before midnight, to witness at close range the Indian method of catching trains. Along the entire length and breadth of the platform were hundreds of bundles of humanity, some sleeping on strips of cloth or matting, others huddled round their portable charcoal fires. One group squatted beside a big crackling blaze beneath the shelter of the cross-platform steps; another whiled away the night by gossiping; all were totally and supremely indifferent to trains and hour alike, for time in the East is not. When eventually the engine did steam into the station the camp was gone in an instant; charcoal fires disappeared as though by magic — in reality to accompany their owners on the journey; the public rose from their haunches or slumbers, uttering strange cries, after the manner of their unintelligible kind, as they poured themselves by dozens into each carriage — a ghostly, unfathomable host; and one could only rub one’s head and reflect, with Kipling, that “East is East, and West is West and never the twain shall meet.” And now I am in Agra — the city of the seventeenth century, the city of immortality, the city of the Taj. For you and me its history commences in 1558, when Akbar, the third of the great Mogul emperors, founded the modern town on the west bank of the Jumna — a town now renowned the world throughout as the resting-place of Arjmand Banu, the “Pride of the Palace,” the dearly beloved wife of Shah Jahan. But so that you may enter (if only on paper) the fort gates with some knowledge of her home, her husband and her life I shall tell you, shortly, her story and her lord’s. In 1612, when but nineteen, she

Agra, Fatehpur Sikri and Sikandra

111

was married (as his second wife) to Shah Jahan, then Prince Khurram, the turbulent son of Jahangir, the drunken, cruel and yet able son of Akbar, the founder of Agra as it stands. Shortly after Shah Jahan’s accession she died, when so great and passionate was his grief that he vowed he would raise to her memory a tomb the like of which the world had never seen — and for seventeen years he built the Taj Mahal. For a further twelve he ruled, taking to wife, it is true, many fair ladies and ministering unsparingly to every luxury and sensuality; but through it all he really loved but one, Mumtaz-i-Mahal. In 1658 his son Aurangzeb, following frequent precedent, usurped the throne and kept his father a close prisoner in the fort, where, ministered to by his devoted daughter, Jehanara, he lived for seven years. And then in 1665, when he was dying, he prayed that he might be moved from his prison overlooking the courtyard of the Diwan-i-Am and gaze once more upon the tomb of the love of his youth. So from the Jasmine Tower his eyes once more rested upon the sparkling waters of the Jumna, and on the priceless glory of his immortal monument to Love. But let us first meet him in the fullness of youth and follow his career through manhood, sensuality, regret, and imprisonment until we finally lay him beside the crumbled dust of the mainspring of his life. On his father’s death he very quickly disposed of his brothers in the orthodox method of the Mogul Imperial Family, and was finally crowned at Agra in 1628. While on an expedition to enforce discipline in the Deccan, in 1631, his wife, Mumtaz Mahal, died. The years between this date and 1658, when his son usurped the throne, illustrate the full glory of the Mogul Dynasty. Peace fell upon the troubled land; art was encouraged; immortal buildings were erected; an epoch of architecture was inaugurated. Then, to complete our historical introduction, Aurangzeb ruled in his stead, removing the seat of government to Delhi. Coming down to latter history, in 1764 Suraj Mal of Bharatpur fell upon the city with his hosts of Jats and did irreparable damage to the town. Twenty years later it was captured and held by the Mahrattas till Lord Lake bombarded it in 1803; while in ’57 the fort was defended under Colonel Cotton until, on the arrival of Colonel Greathed’s force, the mutineers were finally routed on the 10th of October, and all danger to Agra was ended.

112

A Winter in India

And now let us become human and talk of Agra in unofficial tones. You last saw me speculating as to the hour of my breakfast. I satisfied my inner man at Tundla at ten minutes past eleven, which is of no interest whatever to you unless you contemplate the selfsame journey, in which case take some sandwiches with you overnight. An hour later I dropped the book I was reading and involuntarily exclaimed: “The Taj!” Across an arid plain of dust and brushwood I first set eyes upon it. There was no possibility of mistake. Familiar through the medium of a thousand photographs, I instantly recognized the central marble dome and offspring cupolas, the sentinel minarets and guardian redstone mosques. We were at Jumna bridge. Beneath my feet lay the river, crowded by a host of Indians busy thrashing Agra’s underwear upon the banks; while across the long stretch of dried-up river-bed stood the red-sandstone frowning walls of the fort. On and on we rumbled across the mighty bridge, gazing down upon a herd of buffaloes slowly plodding to the water’s edge, overtopping the dhobies of the world, and overshadowed by Akbar’s towering ramparts. At last the journey was over, and I alighted to drive to the Cecil Hotel to indulge in a light lunch and a refreshing bath; and that ended 1913. By two o’clock I was living in the distant past. The fort rose up before me, seventy feet in height, a mile and a half in circumference; and the Hathi Pol, or Elephant Gate, engulfed me. The sentry — a kilted Seaforth Highlander — was gone; the steady tramp of his feet was drowned in the rattle of the royal kettledrums announcing the arrival of Shah Jahan; and I followed in his train as he entered the Moti Masjid, the Pearl Mosque of his creation. Up the unpretentious steps I climbed, and half started as I gazed at the dazzling courtyard and fancied I caught a glimpse of the ladies of the zenana passing to their appointed and hidden places behind the hand-carved grille, on the right and left of the mullah’s pulpit, in the mosque itself. I looked again. The courtyard was ablaze with colour and jewels as each male worshipper and courtier slowly crossed the marble enclosure and took up his appointed position beneath the snowwhite arches of the colonnaded mosque. And then again the scene was changed. No longer did the courtyard reflect on its scintillating marble floor merely a playing fountain, an old-world sundial, three domes and seven arches, an exquisite House of God. It was strewn with sick and

Agra, Fatehpur Sikri and Sikandra

113

dying; it echoed the agony of wounded men; it harboured the maimed defenders of the fort, the heroes of the Mutiny. The echo of chanted prayer was drowned in the fitful volleys of sepoys, the music of the fountain was lost in the boom of British guns. And today? Peace eternal and silence unspeakable. The beauty of it all! A blaze of sunshine on a floor of startling white; an enclosure of domes and bells and pinnacles as light as air; a mosque of priceless cost and perfect symmetry. And now follow me up on to the roof-top and look across the plain at the view disclosed. On the bend of the Jumna floats the Taj in the midst of its cypress setting; on the right, beneath my feet, lie the green courtyard and white arcades of the Diwan-i-Am, or Public Hall of Audience; behind me, in the haze beyond the town, stand out the pearl minarets of Sikandra; while facing me, and right below, shines the cupola of the Samman Burj, the Jasmine Tower, the apartment of the beautiful Mumtaz Mahal, the Lady of the Taj. Now let your thoughts dream back. The great Audience Hall is full; the Emperor is seated on his throne, flanked by court officers of state; eunuchs mechanically wave the flies away from the royal presence with orange-coloured fans. Below are assembled rajas and ambassadors from far and near; while lower down, and nearer to the green courtyard, stand those of lesser degree and honour. Petitions are presented, boons granted or refused, the stream of fawning courtiers passes before the throne, to be followed by a strange procession of horses, elephants, buffaloes, panthers, and the Imperial Cavalry. But business is now over. Shah Jahan moves into seclusion, mounts a short flight of marble stairs and seats himself on the upper terrace of the Machchi Bhawan, or Fish Square, to watch the angling prowess of his zenana. Soon, however, this amusement palls; he crosses to his throne of black slate, calls for his jester, who seats himself on the white throne behind him, and views the tourneys of fighting elephants and tigers in the high-walled arena beneath his feet, while his purdah ladies applaud each bloody thrust or thunderous blow from behind their carved-screen seclusion on the Jasmine Tower. And many more scenes, historic, voluptuous and regal, have been witnessed in these palaces of marble. One day a lady ceases to hold

114

A Winter in India

her lord’s affection, and passes from the dazzling sunshine of the Khas Mahal to the mouldy labyrinth of the sunless dungeons. She is led, screaming, down the grim forbidding passages and stairs till in the blackness of Egyptian a night she dangles for a season from a great beam amid the cobwebs, is cut down and conveniently sluiced through a well beneath the scaffold into the flood of the silent Jumna. To realize it all, grope down these awful dungeon steps yourself; contrast the blinding sunshine of the marble terraces with the sepulchral gloom of the subterranean maze — and, fastidious womankind, thank Fate for a modern, mediocre husband. And then all is changed. Mumtaz Mahal has long been resting in the garden tomb on the river’s bank. Shah Jahan, the lover, potentate and artist, is a close prisoner in a small chamber off the Najina Masjid, overlooking the courtyard of the Diwan-i-Am. No longer does he pass the noonday hours in the lamplit glitter of the cool Shish Mahal, feasting his eyes on what the bathing palace of glass may reflect before his sensuous gaze; now his only view is through a trellis-work of red stone wall that affords the daily humiliating sight of his late courtiers fawning to his son. The sands of time run out; the appointed hour of death draws nigh. Ah! let him have one last look at the Taj’s marble domes; one final thought of her to whose memory the immortal monument was laboriously and lovingly erected. The request is granted. He is carried once more into the brilliant sunshine, past the scenes of his arrogance, cruelty and power, and set down in the alcove of the Jasmine Tower, to gaze across the plain upon his shrine of Love, to dream of hours of “pachisi,” or backgammon, once played with his beloved wife beside his very couch, to pass away into her Unknown Land from her favourite sunlit bower. But what have I told you? What have I made you feel? You must see the dazzling palaces; you must wander from court to throne, from throne to audience hall, to really grasp their beauty, their charm and their immensity. To adequately portray the wonders of Agra presupposes a genius commensurate with the art that raised them. And now let us leave the marble halls and palaces of Shah Jahan and reverently enter his immortal resting-place. Let us forget the laughter and the tears that once rang through the Khas Mahal; let us cease to recall the echoing cries of the crushed butterflies as they stumbled

Agra, Fatehpur Sikri and Sikandra

115

through the pitch-black maze that led to the scaffold and the Jumna; let the pictures of revelry in the Golden Pavilion fade away; let the scenes in the Grape Garden, the mock fairs in the Mina Bazaar, the seven cramped years in the corner of the Najina Masjid, the final act of all — the last flickering gaze from the rounded Samman Burj on to the lasting memorial of his life — let all these visions lose themselves in the distant haze across the plain, and let us follow this artist, lover, potentate, and sybarite from the Jasmine Tower through the passage that leads from it to the low gate beneath. Listen to the echo of the mullahs’ voices as they pray for the soul of their departed lord, and then look at his rich coffin of sandal-wood as it is borne through the Sher Haji gate and reverently carried across the elbow of the river to his priceless, world-famed tomb. His life is over; his fortunes and reverses balanced; his fleeting chapter closed; his cenotaph alone concerns us now. When you first gaze upon the Taj, let the evening light be gently falling across its bevelled marble domes; let the sun be slanting her cooler rays upon the mournful avenue of cypress trees; let the atmosphere of approaching dusk be resting upon the shady setting of this priceless jewel; let the hallowed peace of centuries lie upon your reverent and awestruck soul. Walk slowly. First look round from the centre of the shaded caravanserai, and dream of another day. Picture Shah Jahan on each anniversary distributing largess to the poor before he passes under the great gateway of red sandstone, ribbed with delicate marble and spun with silver threads, to gaze yet again on his marvel of the world. Then slowly follow him; peep through the vaulted arch between an avenue of cypress trees, centred by some two score playing fountains; and then let your eyes rest upon the Taj. As you look from the Giant Gateway your first impression is that it is high; but when seen from any of the garden seats it has become broad — so you know that its proportions are perfect. How can a man portray the Taj? My pen falters at the task. What does it convey to you if I speak of a long marble terrace, guarded on four corners by marble minarets and centred by a full, white dome, beneath which nestle lesser domes upheld upon eight arches? What

116

A Winter in India

picture forms before your eyes if I write of a screen of marble tracery — the work of ten long years — surrounding the cenotaphs themselves? Can you hear the echo of softly chanted notes as they return to you from the distant and mighty dome? Can you see the never-fading Persian flowers blossom eternally on the white marbles of their tombs? Let the immortal poet who sang of the Light of Asia now assist my stumbling pen: “Not Architecture! as all others are, But the proud passion of an Emperor’s love Wrought into living stone, which gleams and soars With body of beauty shrining soul and thought; As when some face Divinely fair unveils before our eyes — Some woman beautiful unspeakably — And the blood quickens, and the spirit leaps, And will to worship bends the half-yielded knees While breath forgets to breathe. So is the Taj.”

But although I may not, cannot, clothe this perfect shrine in language dignified and adequate; although I will not speak of height and breadth; although I dare not flounder amid a deep morass of adjectives; yet let us dream of the Taj. Let us wander round its bevelled domes of pearl and snow and white; let us softly tread along the garden paths, listen to the music of falling water, step from the scented flowers below to the jewel-creepers on the marble tracery above. Let us recall the first beginnings of the Taj; watch the arrival of master-builders from all India: the masons from Delhi, the draughtsmen from Samarkand, the inlayers from Lahore, the caligraphers from Multan, the dome experts from Turkey and the sculptors from Bokhara. Listen to Shah Jahan as he calls for more and ever more of precious stones wherewith to dress the tomb. Watch the long processions as they slowly pass into the garden on the river’s bank. Here is cornelian from Baghdad, turquoise from Tibet, coral from Ceylon, loadstone from Gwalior, onyx from the Deccan, alabaster from Makrana, garnet from the Ganges, pearls from the ocean, chrysolite from the Nile, jasper from the Punjab. And still the endless stream of precious stones pours in through the Giant Gateway: marble from Jeypur, diamonds from Panna, rubies from

Agra, Fatehpur Sikri and Sikandra

117

Badakhshan, until the eye is weary of the flashing stones. And the twenty thousand workers gape as this giant casket grows and sparkles before their bewildered eyes, some of which have grown dim during the raising of the shrine. Shah Jahan already dreams of a second Taj across the dazzling Jumna at his feet; he plans a further monument to honour his beloved; sees it, in imagination, mingling its reflections in the sparkling river with those of the monument upon the west bank — and, cruel Fate, all earthly visions fade save the peep of green trees in the courtyard of the Diwan-i-Am. Alas! that the blood of savage Jahangir coursed through the veins of peaceful Akbar’s great-grandson! What would the world not give today to gaze upon a second Taj poised on the eastern shore of the Jumna, to see another marvel of purity, chastity and beauty all unspeakable linked by a bridge of lightest, floating tracery to what one writer has aptly described as India’s noble attribute to the grace of womanhood — the Venus de Milo of the East. The shadows are falling fast; the blood-red sun is hidden behind a screen of trees; the cypresses stand out as sad and lonely sentinels of the immortal dead; and I turn my back on all the twilight awe-inspiring glory of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal’s enchanting resting-place. Would that my faltering, humble pen could write with justification those words of Sir Edwin Arnold, “So is the Taj.”

6th February.

W

hen you actually see the bellying sails of your elusive ship of fancy upon the near horizon, and know it has at last come home; when your wife and daughters have over-persuaded you to leave your familiar business setting (and afford your second in command an ample opportunity of sinking your lately harboured vessel in wild seas of speculation); when you have definitely refused a dozen times to entertain any suggestion of an Indian tour; and when Northumberland Avenue has inundated you with P. & O. labels and embarkation notices, make up your mind to visit Fatehpur Sikri. If you have two daughters and a wife — I had almost written it the other way round, the zenanas of Eastern potentates so accustoming one to think imperially in affairs

118

A Winter in India

matrimonial — then you must pay for the car yourself; but if you are unencumbered by spouse or twin offspring the hotel authorities will introduce you to another individual so situated in life, with a view to preventing your entire Agra budget from rioting itself to extinction in a petrol tank. So, after careful and surreptitious study of introducee, up you get into the seat of the car which is yours. As we drive along the twenty-two miles of Akbar’s road that separate Agra from the famous and fascinating deserted city I shall while away the hour and ten minutes by relating a few facts about Fatehpur Sikri and its royal creator. It was formerly merely a village called Sikri, and celebrated as the home of a Mahommedan saint, Sheikh Salim Chishti. In 1564 Akbar “the Great” and third of the Mogul emperors, on his return from a campaign stopped near the cave in which the old hermit lived. The two children of Miriam Zamani, his Rajput wife, having died, he was anxious for an heir. (And, such is life, when his wish was gratified, the babe turned out a passionate, drunken, able blackguard.) He consulted the saint, who advised him to reside at Sikri, which he did; and in due time Miriam, who was taken to Chishti’s cell, gave birth to a son. This so impressed Akbar that he made Sikri his capital, which, after the conquest of Guzerat, was named Fatehpur, or the town of victory. Taking over twenty years to build, it was inhabited but seventeen, being deserted, some assert, owing to inefficient supply of water and unhealthy surroundings, while others affirm (and recollect that you are speaking the superstitious Oriental) that Chishti, finding the bustle of a court distracting to worship, declared that either he or the Emperor must quit. Whichever was the true cause the city was forthwith given over to robbers and wild beasts, Akbar retiring in irritation or humility to commence a new building project at Agra. And now we are right away in the country. From the motorist’s point of view the road is delightful, the dust behind him, the peeps of village life quaint, entertaining and sleepy. But as eyed by a Juvenile Clothier the entire landscape would be but a blur of tears. The distressing and unequal contest of dressing one’s young on 2 1/2d. a year is here a profitable undertaking — by far the majority being garbed in their birthday costume. Herds of buffaloes, cows and goats invited

Agra, Fatehpur Sikri and Sikandra

119

immediate destruction by cannoning on to the bonnet of the car (one baby goat, I regret to say, having its leg broken); oxen mechanically ascended and descended the sloping “cuts” in the fields, alternately lowering empty skins and hoisting them filled with water from the wells; and at last the red sandstone walls appear. We are at Fatehpur Sikri. I could walk through its silent halls, its untenanted pavilions, pause in this mosque and linger in that temple — but I could not do it under a couple of hours. So let us just enter the Agra Gate and motor up the hill to the Naubat Khana, or Music House, where, as in Agra and in all Mogul fortresses, musicians announced by fanfares the arrival and departure of the Emperor. And now pass into the great enclosure of Akbar’s Diwan-i-Am, walled, as is the entire city, by red sandstone, and today peopled by two small donkeys — where once pulsating life flowed up and down and suppliants fawned and cringed for imperial smiles and favours. Throw your mind back to 1590. The same walls of Hindu workmanship and thought were there; the identical regal balcony that faces you was once filled by the great Mogul emperor and his suite; the unnatural silence of the untenanted square was daily drowned in the bustle and vibrating energy of an all-important present. For 1590 was then up to date. The olden days lay back in the mists of the twelfth century; Raja Birbal, the clever Hindu Poet Laureate and now the close intimate of the king, has just entered the enclosure. From each of its hundred arches is heard a hum of whispered conversation; one hopes for a post nearer the royal presence; another prays for command of the coming expedition against the Afghans; a third scowls his hatred of Abul Fazl, the Premier and the chosen friend of the Emperor. Suddenly Akbar himself appears, attended by eunuchs, shaded by gorgeous state umbrellas and surrounded by court officials. Speculation is temporarily superseded by mingled awe and obeisance; the Audience commences. And in this sunlit, desolate enclosure all this once actually happened. We are all so prone to rivet our eyes on one short link in the endless chain of Time, to concentrate all our attention upon the infinitesimal Present in total disregard of both the Future and the Past. It is as hard to realize that your great-grandson will one day look up at your portrait to marvel, frankly, impartially and, perchance, brutally on the apparent discrepancy between your irresolute expression and your

120

A Winter in India

reputed deeds, as it is to picture the host of sixteenth-century Indians who, resplendent in oranges and reds, in ultra marines and yellows, once passed before that sandstone balcony. It was their daily round, as yours is ploughing Canadian wheat-fields or writing peppery letters to bankrupt creditors, or mine scribbling impressions of past and passing events. It is all so important to us — this ploughing, those irascible notes, my quill-driving: these audiences were no less vital to those who, three hundred years ago, kneeled to crave position or promotion from the all-powerful Mogul emperor. And in a flash we who now stand at varying positions in the endless queue of Life will find ourselves the next in order to enter the Silent Gates through which Akbar and his cringing subjects passed but yesterday. And now the Audience is over. Akbar stifles a yawn and passes into the Mahal-i-Khas quadrangle. Here are no swarming hosts of suppliants, only the tender smiles of Miriam and less-favoured wives, one of whom is at the moment seated on the stone platform table of the “pachisi,” or backgammon, board. Will her lord not play? He will? The slave girls are summoned, sixteen of them — living pieces — four dressed in green, four in red, four in yellow and four in black. They take their stand upon the stonework board; Akbar seats himself upon the platform table opposite his fair opponent; others crowd round to watch the play; the first dice is thrown; the first human piece is moved. But Miriam soon tires of a spectator’s part and moves off by herself to sulk behind the lovely, pierced-stone screen in the Hawa Mahal — that most perfect room in all her Hindu palace. The Emperor follows soon, to find her staring moodily across the distant lake; and wins her smiles again by the promise of an elephant fight in the magnificent arena below. Footsteps shortly shuffle across the walled-in viaduct; the entire zenana hastens along it, then descends the countless stairs that lead to the screened-off enclosure above the stage. But soon the thunderous blows and tusk-gashed wounds commence to pall: Miriam, seeing her lord rise from his seat upon the ensculptured dais, follows in his wake as he passes under the great Hathi Pol, or Elephant Gate, and proceeds, by her secret viaduct, to the summit of the five-storied Panch Mahal. And here, hand in hand, they stand, stripped of royalty and unattended — merely two human beings beneath the Indian sun. Below their feet lies the dazzling courtyard of the Mahal-i-Khas, the

Agra, Fatehpur Sikri and Sikandra

121

pachisi board, no longer tenanted by moving slaves; the evening light falls upon the Hall of Private Audience, lights up the Yogi’s Seat and is reflected in the sparkling water of the four-square tank. More distant, towers the triumphal gateway, the Buland Darwaza, of the Jam’i Masjid; farther off stands out the encircling city wall; while away beyond, the limitless plain loses itself in haze. As the sun slowly sinks, bathing the Emperor’s Gate of the Cathedral mosque in a blaze of gold, they kneel down, Mahommedan and Hindu, bow themselves before the God of all the earth, and silently descend to Jodh Bai’s palace. But that, if ever was long ago. Let us return to the present day, to peep for a moment into the great mosque of Fatehpur; to see a new light shine on the Mogul emperor; to stand awestruck at Chishti’s tomb of mother-of-pearl and marble. If for no other reason you must come to Fatehpur Sikri. Here Akbar, laying aside his rôles of potentate and lover, frequently discussed religious questions with learned Islamic doctors. Here, under the central dome of the great mosque, the assembled mullahs signed the parchment which declared him — an Eastern Henry VIII — to be the head of the Church, when mounting the four steps of the pulpit he commenced, and failed to falter through, the Khutbah which, so Havell writes, Faizi, the brother of the Premier, had composed. An overwhelming sense of his responsibility overtook him at the second line, and he descended, unable to continue, to hear the words read by the mullah: “The Lord who gave to us dominion, Wisdom and heart and strength, Who guided us in truth and right, And cleansed our mind from all but right, None can describe His power or state, Allahu Akbar — God is great.” But perhaps most beautiful of all is the shrine of the Saint of Fatehpur, Sheikh Salim Chishti — he whose meditations were disturbed by the gaiety of court life. There it stands, a dazzling dome of snow-white marble against the background of the sandstone redhued mosque. But enter it. Look through the marble arches and the marble door; gaze on the canopy of mother-of-pearl and the flowers

122

A Winter in India

of reverent pilgrims — and marvel. Marvel that such beauty should have been evolved from the heart and brain of man; marvel that its priceless worth should have remained untouched when the city was deserted and robbers infested its palaces; and marvel at the power — the superstitious sway — that Chishti wielded and still wields. For look at the marble trellis-work. What are those countless strips of rag that hang upon it — those reds and blues, those yellows and dirty whites? When the mighty Akbar craved an heir, the all-powerful saint, Sheikh Salim Chishti, ordered him to dwell in holy Sikri; when a woman waiting for a son visited his cave she bore a future emperor. Without doubt then all women lacking sons must pilgrimage to the holy tomb and there pledge themselves in a strip of cotton that if blessed they will make an offering to the shrine. And as you look you see the coloured symbols of countless oaths sworn by those desiring sons or some especial boon — and you marvel anew at the inscrutability of Eastern superstition. The silence of the scorching courtyard of the lovely mosque is suddenly broken by a band of female pilgrims — reverent, old and young — who as they walk chant holy songs, with eyes cast in humility upon the blinding whiteness of the shrine; and I leave them to their earnest prayers, their unmusical chanting, and their all-important human aspirations.

7th February.

Y

esterday we pictured mighty Akbar playing backgammon with his wives on the marble enclosure of the Mahal-i-Khas at Fatehpur Sikri: today I stood beside his cenotaph in a dazzling courtyard paved with white, black and jasper marble, and surrounded by lattice-work cloisters of surpassing beauty. Adjectives piled high as the strange mausoleum itself will avail nothing; statistics might, possibly be interesting, though I doubt it; but the real charm of Sikandra lies perhaps in the perfect peace, the pearl-white colours of the cenotaph, and the exquisite cloister tracery of this elevated shrine. Your first impression of great Akbar’s tomb may, probably will, be of disappointment. The gigantic garden enclosure, entered through a

Agra, Fatehpur Sikri and Sikandra

123

vast red sandstone gate, is quite delightful; but somehow the contrast of the red and white — so pleasing in the Taj — here jars. You are back in Fatehpur Sikri; you are standing in the Mahal-i-Khas; and you see again the zigzag stories of the Panch Mahal; and then you throw back your head and find they are crowned by a four-square screen of white, pierced marble, which in turn is surmounted at each corner by a glittering minaret. But the ascent to this marble roof-top monument is approached by a succession of ascending red sandstone platforms, each, to my mind, less attractive than the last. But climb up: the cloisters and the stillness, the carved cenotaph and marble pedestal, the reflections and the view will repay the exercise. But before we climb, let us descend to the sarcophagus itself. You will imagine you are again entering the famous pyramid of Egypt. You will be escorted down a slight incline; you will shuffle behind two drainpipe legs and a lantern; you will be cautioned stoop at the doorway; and then you will be standing beside a plain white marble tomb. The echo here reminds you of the Taj, but otherwise your thoughts will never stray to the resting-place of Akbar’s grandson. You will probably nod your head; mutter something which may signify approval, indifference or condemnation; but persevere. Climb. It is all so different above. All apparent decay and confusion of ideas upon the lower stories of the time-battered roofs and domes entirely disappear as you emerge into the marble quadrangle above. A beautiful thought is supplied by another writer who says that the wind sighing through the pierced screens maintains a perpetual solemn requiem over the great emperor. It is so. As you stand gazing at the ensculptured cenotaph and adjacent pillar of marble, which tradition says once contained the worldfamous Koh-i-Noor diamond, you will hear the gentle sighing of the wind passing through the eastern screen to lose itself far away across the sunlit western plain. You will think of the end of Akbar, the termination of his short-lived sect; you will peep through the cobwebbed cloister and see, far off amid the trees, the turrets of Miriam’s tomb; you will hear with regret that it is no longer reverenced, now forming part of an orphanage; you will gaze with wonder and delight at the exquisite carving on cenotaph and pillar; and you will again look through the screen upon the distant Jumna, upon a limitless plain that only ends in haze, and upon a scene of peace, beauty and, somehow, sanctity.

124

A Winter in India

And then I descended, drove back to Agra and strolled about in the stone-paved, broad bazaar, eventually spending at least an hour in shopping. But what is an hour in a country where the work of a lifetime is devoted to the carving of a chair-leg? Hardly sufficient to allow of casual enquiry as to your residence (in lieu of a local Stubbs), to permit of a display of the alleged jewels and stuffs of Asia, and of the Oriental estimate of European credulity; scarce long enough for the crafty salesman to recite the impecuniousness of his palpably fabulously wealthy house or the especial and unique charm your personality has for the black-faced hypocrite. Finally, having partially convinced the Eastern vendor that “His Highness” had not yet qualified for Bedlam, and having reduced his imaginative prices to a figure still undreamed of by Cartier or Harrods, I purchased some odds and ends and made off to the Jam’i Masjid, or Cathedral mosque, where, being Friday, a countless host of prospective worshippers were carrying out obligatory, and desirable, ablutions in the central tank of the courtyard. My time here drawing to a close, I once again wandered to the Taj, passed through the sombre, thickly shaded gardens to halt for a few moments at a small roofless enclosure, overshadowed by an evergreen creeper, near the western wall, where rested for the second time the exhumed remains of the Lady of the Taj, already brought from Burhanpur, the city where she died, prior to final interment in the glittering tomb dose by. Then passing through a postern gate, I descended some steps and entered the “greenhouse” which supplies the gardens with palms and other plants. Making my way beneath the shadow of the towering sandstone walls, I found myself on the bank of the Jumna, stepped into a quaint old ferry-boat and crossed to the opposite shore. From this point the view of the Taj is exquisite. At your feet sparkles the slowly drifting river; above float those pearl-white minarets and domes, delicate as woven threads, and cobwebbed in marble tracery like silk; while around you echo the whispers of centuries ago as you gaze and gaze on this scintillating shrine which, so fancy dreams, a puff of air might tumble to the ground. But now I had reluctantly to tear myself away to look at another mausoleum upon the eastern bank of the Jumna. Without doubt it was  beautiful; it was another monument raised to love, in marble

Agra, Fatehpur Sikri and Sikandra

125

tracery and inlay work — but I had come direct from the Taj. Go to Itmad-ud-Daulah’s tomb — don’t fail to do so — but let there be, so to speak, an interval between your wanderings in the Luxembourg and your race through the galleries of Bergen. For everything is by comparison. Let your penultimate remembrance of Agra be the courtyard of the Pearl Mosque; let it be the Jasmine Tower, the marble balcony of the Mina Bazaar or the delicate, pierced screen of the Hawa Mahal, near by; let it be a bird’s-eye view of the fort or a microscopic study of the Khas Mahal — but let your final recollection of Shah Jahan’s immortal city be of “Tears such as angels weep, with fragrance filled, Around her grave in pearly drops distilled. There fixed for ever firm, congealed they stand, A fairy fabric, pride of India’s land.”

One knows only too well, that to adequately portray the Taj as seen by day is a literary task only to be accomplished by a pen as inspired as was the immortal brain that conceived it; but what shall be said of this monument when lit by the silvered ray of an Indian moon? I can only reiterate my unalterable conviction that however lovely, however ennobling by day, the Taj by moonlight is the most beautiful, pure, soul-elevating poem in marble that imagination can conceive — the most perfect materialized dream of humanity. In the warm, soft air of a gorgeous Indian evening, lanterned by an almost full-waxed moon, I drove along in silence to the deserted caravanserai and once again peered through the high-roofed arch of the Giant Gateway. Gone was the dazzling whiteness of the marble tracery; gone the multi-coloured floral designs on walls, spires and lintels; gone the glitter of sunshine on billowy dome and rounded cupolas; gone the sparkling reflections from the fountain canal; and gone the gentle music of softly falling water. And in their place — beauty unspeakable. The green, sad cypress trees were now pure black, reflecting their shadows in the dark mirror of the fountain pools; the concerto of night replaced the symphony of day; the muted notes of a million tree-beetles succeeded the noonday song of a hundred playing fountains; while the scintillating shafts of

126

A Winter in India

sunlight upon water gave place to the lightning darts of a myriad fireflies and glow-worms. In the shadowy distance there rose up a pale white cloud from the depths of forest gloom; a bevelled dome of snow lay glistening above two cupolas of pearl; while four mysterious sentinels of marble kept silent watch around some unreal, fantastic shrine of fanciful imagining and exquisite imagery. Nothing was formed: nothing definite. All was but half portrayed — wholly unportrayable. The music of the tree-beetles fell upon the ear as the distant chorused chanting of ten thousand crickets, and the moonbeams chased each other from spire to dome, from dome to cupola. Here shadows fell upon the everlasting jasmine blossoms crowning the central arch; there they came and went, lightly kissing the four dimly focussed bays on either hand. The garden blooms lay shrouded in darkest night beneath the spreading trees; the occasional cries of night-birds broke in with their deeper notes upon the lighter trill of the “crickets;” and the cloud of snow took bolder form, became less chimerical, to gradually develop into the unspeakably chaste, Godinspired and awe-inspiring beauty of the immortal Taj.

CAWNPORE

8th February.

Y

et another monument. Yesterday one of love, exquisite beauty and incalculable price: today one of heroism passing understanding, of treachery beyond belief, of immortality coequal with the Taj. But whereas the universal glory of the mausoleum on the Jumna rests in the creation of a master-brain, in the perishable labour of a magician’s hand, in the visible expression of an artistic soul, the deathless fame of the strip of sun-racked plain hard by the Ganges lies deep in the heart of every man, graven in colours of scarlet and white overlaid with crape, and dependent alone for eternal remembrance on the existence of mankind. In the cold grey hour of dawn a name rang out that brought to mind dim faded pictures of a well guarded by an angel, vague recollections of stories of the Mutiny, a realization that I had reached Cawnpore. Still in the coming dawn I drove to the hotel, passing hosts of natives who somehow no longer appeared as the peaceful inhabitants of the United Provinces, but as the direct descendants of those who but a short mile or two away once fouled the name of Indian for all time, and thereby impelled our fellow-countrymen, as Trevelyan says, to enact scenes “into the details of which an Englishman at least will not care to enquire.” Perhaps, but now writing at a distance and without conscious heat — for standing by the vanished House of Massacre Neill’s fearful hangings appear but scant retribution for the inhuman enormities committed by Nana Sahib and his partners in butchery — I still fear my charity is of a less forgiving nature than that of Macaulay’s brilliant nephew. And yet he is doubtless right. The dreadful pools of blood that to eternity have dyed the name of Cawnpore in letters of crimson have been outpoured; India has been drenched in avenging floods of scarlet — let the dead past bury its dead. And perchance when the scenes now blazing before my eyes in colours of vermilion have somewhat toned in vividness I too may be able to echo his earnest, genuine and Christian sentiments; but at the moment I feel unable to

128

A Winter in India

harshly condemn those responsible for the sanguinary excesses of our blood-mad troops that grim July. And now let us go out to the enclosure, reman the paltry walls with 455 men, and repeople the blazing compound with 175 women and 320 little children. Before I had myself wandered for hours across its sacred ground; before I had examined its immortal wells and its demolished foundations, I had as hazy a picture of this historic spot as perchance will focus itself before your eyes. But let me try. Let me lead you out across what in ’57 was a plain; let me take you to the walls of dust in the early morning haze of a cool mid-winter’s day. And remember that the heat I experienced today was from the sunshine of a February morning, while that endured by those thousand souls — the majority hatless — was from the pitiless blast of an Indian summer. At the time of the Mutiny the Commandant of the station was General Sir Hugh Wheeler, then aged seventy-five, the husband of a Hindu wife, and fatuously credulous as regards the loyalty of his sepoys. Rumours of mutiny spread but were unheeded; facts trickled through, and reassuring telegrams as to Cawnpore were despatched; till finally a pitiably weak move was made to simultaneously ensure the security of the cantonment and avoid giving offence to the sepoys. Although a vast magazine suitable in every detail for sustaining a long siege was resting on the banks of the Ganges, close at hand, its occupation might add too great a weight to the tottering dust-built structure of native loyalty, so it remained in the hands of the “loyal” sepoys, who shortly poured its deadly contents into the grotesque intrenchment on the arid plain. By June, matters looked very grave; on the night of the 2nd came the shadow of the outbreak; loot was seized from the Treasury; a gun accidentally went off from Wheeler’s camp; and on the morning of Sunday the 7th the overture of a twenty-four days’ continuous Dead March commenced. And now we are actually in the centre of the hard-baked plain, as flat as a billiard-table, as hot as a kitchen range, as suitable for defence against British guns and rifles, worked by British-trained soldiers, as is a fox-terrier competent to repel the advances of a leopard. But, given a flying start, the fox-terrier could have all but cleared the surrounding wall, the hedge marking its height reaching only to my waist. And the actual intrenchment! Think of it! Three hundred yards long, two

Cawnpore

129

hundred broad; to all intents and purposes square; open to attack from every side; defended by 63 artillerymen, 15 Madras Fusiliers, 84 of the invalid 32nd Regiment, 48 of the 84th Regiment, 100 officers from the native regiments in revolt, 100 civilians and 45 bandsmen, in all 455 men.

SKETCH MAP OF WHEELER’S INTRENCHMENT, CAWNPORE

The picture so far is a square enclosed by a wall of crumbling dust (little better was it) about three feet high. Now paint in a few trees, a well on the west side (the left as you are now looking at the enclosure); add in the centre two rambling barracks, low, with thatched roofs, sloping verandahs, and capable of accommodating a hundred men. One was turned into the married quarters, the other became the hospital. At the foot, or south, side was an outhouse; at the north-east corner was another; on the left was a storehouse, a field magazine and

130

A Winter in India

a guard-room; dotted at corners were Eckford’s, Ashe’s, and Demster’s batteries (compared with those in the hands of the sepoys as dangerous as pea-shooters), while all round, and within, this arid, torrid space were hearts of lions. Now at the foot, or south, side, outside the mud wall, was a row of eight unfinished barracks, the nearer of which (about two hundred yards from the enclosure) were occupied by the British; while the outer ones, on the left and not yet built so high, were held by the rebels, though, owing to their stunted growth, dominated by our troops in the higher barracks. A very few more details and we shall see the dreadful siege commence. Counting from the right, barrack No. 3 stood beside a well, commanded by the tiny garrison of the outpost, into which no less than two hundred and fifty British bodies were cast by British hands under cover of night; while all around on bungalows, on the church, the racket court, on every available building were posted guns and thousands upon thousands of sepoys armed with the most modern cannons and rifles of the day. By the third day every window, every door, every scrap of shelter was gone; the shells screamed over the terrier’s jump, tore through the flimsy walls of hospital and nursery alike; while our answering fire was returned from the barracks, the enclosed outhouses and the lilliputian ramparts with all the pluck and grim rage of helpless man shielding all he loves or facing the murderers of his wife and little children. The heat poured down upon the plain; the children cried for a drop of water to quench their awful thirst; and Mackillop, although, as he explained, “no fighting man,” raced out across the very ground I trod today, in the face of a hail of lead, to fetch the precious fluid for a dying child. You can’t, I fear, picture it. Today only the sun remained; only the well, battered in two places by cannon-balls and a million times riddled by shot; only the stump foundations of the married quarters. It was indeed an inferno in June those long years past. Listen! On the eighth night of the siege the hospital, on whose ruins one may stand today, took fire. “The roar of the flames,” says Trevelyan, “lost every ten seconds in the peal of the rebel artillery; the whistle of the great shot; the shrieks of the sufferers, who forgot their pain in the helpless anticipation of a sudden and agonizing death; the group of crying women and children huddled together in the ditch; the stream of men

Cawnpore

131

running to and fro between the houses, laden with sacks of provisions, and kegs of ammunition, and living burdens more precious still; the guards crouching silent and watchful, finger on trigger, each at his station along the external wall; the forms of countless foes, revealed now and again by the fitful glare, prowling around through the outer gloom” — could pen paint earthly Hell more vividly?

“MACKILLOP’S” WELL, CAWNPORE

This is merely a little book of impressions. To go through from heroism to heroism, from sun-parched day to dreadful night; to follow the eternal burial cortège — ever growing less and less — as it crept, under cover of the darkness and lit by the flash of guns, to its strange and now immortal resting-place two hundred yards outside the enclosure wall; to listen to the committal sentence, drowned time and again in the awful “requiem” of the guns, whispered by parched and pain-drawn lips; to watch the poor women huddled under the daily decreasing shadow of the battered walls; to see them willingly give up their stockings for the manufacture of amateur shells; . . . it is not my province to enlarge on all the agony and bravery of the siege;

132

A Winter in India

but should it interest you to hear all that once happened on that plain read Trevelyan on Cawnpore: it is a classic now. All this eternal roar and death and burial went on for close on fourand-twenty days. But — and the thought is awful — you may not know that within ten feet of the south angle of the hospital lay safety, shade, and (God alone knows) perhaps escape. Lately a resident of Cawnpore was, like many another proud descendant of these heroes and heroines, wandering, as I did this morning, across the intrenchment when he noticed that some earth had fallen in under his feet. Here, in the very centre of the sepoys’ bull’s-eye; here, perhaps fifteen or twenty paces from the enclosure well, have been discovered two subterranean passages leading, some assert (but up to now this is mere conjecture, as I personally ascertained from those who made the discovery) to Savada Kothi, the mansion actually inhabited in the summer of ’57 by Nana Sahib, the black-hearted fiend, Seereek Dhoondoo Punth, Raja of Bithoor, and an archtraitor (I speak in all reverence) almost rivalling Judas. I myself walked some little distance down the passages. Think of it! Two “tubes,” one on the right (as viewed from the enclosure when looking south) leading, perchance, to the heart of Nana Sahib’s court; the other connecting under your very feet with a second passage which, rumour alleges, opens on to the Ganges, distant a mile away. I have purposely reserved this fearful thought till now. Can you see what it might have meant to a thousand souls? The passages do exist: I have walked down them; and recollect that so firm were they, so well bricked in, that the storm of cannon-balls that rained upon them failed to make the slightest impression on the arches. Assume for a moment that the passages do lead where rumour states. What if Moore, the acknowledged leader of the British heroes, had ventured this journey of exploration through the earth? What if he had placed great mines beneath Nana Sahib’s very palace? What if he and his dauntless engineers had laid the fuse and fired it? What if Nana Sahib and his inhuman lieutenant, Tantia Topee, had been blown to atoms by an unknown source? Perhaps, very likely, the mutineers would have streamed off again to Delhi. For who kept the rebels there? Who bribed them to remain in Cawnpore? Who but that embittered traitor, Nana Sahib, for very hatred of the British.

Cawnpore

133

Or again, suppose Mackillop or Mowbray Thomson had entered the other “tube” and made his way to the opening on the Ganges. Could he have somehow — and despair aids wits — escorted the women and children down the river to safety under cover of the night? Who can tell! The thought is too sad for contemplation. At the moment the intrenchment is opened up and the passages are free of access. When were they made? Why? By whom? What irony that shade and shelter lay at the very feet of the thousand battered and tormented Christian people! It is at the moment imagined that the “tubes” were made some hundreds of years ago for the secret passage of purdah ladies from Savada to the Ganges, for bathing purposes. The whole matter, however, ought to be investigated and cleared up by the Archaeological Society. But whether they lead a dozen yards or ten thousand, the fact remains that there was shelter and cover in ’57 in the very centre of this sun-blistered and bullet-swept enclosure, three hundred feet by two hundred, and the accidentally chosen spot for that historic and appalling test of honour, courage and faith. What will history say? Will it add a thousandfold to the bitter tragedy of it all? Will its final verdict prove that the whole garrison might have been saved? Will it marvel that Nana Sahib himself never knew of such passages? Personally speaking, the sight of those sloping inclines and the coolness of the brick-arched vaults made my sorrow in that intrenchment this morning a million times more poignant. Poor souls! What shelter and shade for three hundred and twenty children, for distracted mothers and dying men! But let us discount the remaining sixteen days of butchery, agony and heroism on this unprotected patch of blood-soaked plain. Nana fears to continue the siege; the Sahibs are as fierce as tigers; the mud walls no nearer capture than on the 7th of June; the troops are tired of British lead and invincibility. If he cannot approach them, perchance they might come to him. Below, in one of the rooms of Savada House there lives an elderly woman, a Mrs Jacobi, captured whilst endeavouring to escape to Lucknow in Oriental costume. She shall take the bait. At nine o’clock the following morning, a palanquin, accordingly, was carried to the intrenchments, and Mrs Jacobi, having stated the nature of her mission, was admitted to deliver her captor’s proposal.

134

A Winter in India

“All those,” it ran, “who are in no way connected with the acts of Lord Dalhousie, and are willing to lay down their arms, shall receive a safe passage to Allahabad.” This impudent note was discussed and, after great hesitation on General Wheeler’s part, was finally approved, on account of the army of women and children in the enclosure, owing to the lack of food and the approaching rains, and looking to the fact that of every two remaining combatants one was ill or wounded. So at last we see the remnant of the heroic band, 450 — the absent 500 now sleeping sound in shallow grave or deep-sunk well — start out on that tragic march towards the bloody ghaut. Here, presumably, would be no sign of an immortal band of heroes, but only that of a defeated and broken rabble of suppliants for mercy. Never! They would only vacate the uncrossed barriers of dust on condition that “our force should march out under arms, with sixty rounds of ammunition to each man; that carriages should be provided for the conveyance of the wounded, the women and the children.... So see them start.” Leading, comes the fragment of the 32nd Regiment — Moore, as ever, at their head; then sandwiched in between those who were still able to walk a mile follows a host of carrying chairs, each filled by some pale-faced wife or mother, by a half-crazed child, or shattered travesty of manhood. And so they marched from death to death along the road you too may walk. You may follow them after these six-and-fifty years; you may pass between the dusty hedges, the shady trees, the officers’ bungalows. You may also see a little child playing with his toy engine in a sunlit compound, while his father (as his grandfather before him did in May of ’57) sits with outstretched legs on an easy-chair reading the “Times.” You may, in fact, see all that I saw; but I think you will also see a great company of heroes tottering ahead; you will hear an involuntary groan as that poor, ragged, foot-sore woman drags her weary limbs down the sandy incline to the fatal ravine below; and you will catch the echo of a muttered prayer for strength to live alone, to struggle on for liberty and the sake of a little child, leaving a broken heart in the unfathomable deep of a stagnant well behind. You may also see the flash of a rifle half hidden by that mound upon your right; you may hear a rippling whisper carried from tuft to tuft; you may

Cawnpore

135

intercept the signal of the arch-murderer to close the mouth of the ravine, to shut the door of the trap of death. Ah! what may you not see on that immortal road? You may see, as I hope I saw, that though we laugh and try to make of life a sunnier theme and strike the happier chords, yet in the faltering footsteps of such human clay lies hope that we one day, if ever called upon, may recollect our breed and faith, and endeavour to follow where they led. And so I watched them stumble on, weary and faint and sad; I heard Moore’s Irish accent, however, ring out a note of hope. I saw him gently assist a worn-out woman to the great slanting tree that overshadows the Temple of Siva, the goddess of cruelty; I caught an anxious look flit across his face as he eyed the broad and dry expanse of the river-bed. And then they one and all slowly and painfully crept down eleven steps to right and left; some went down six more and yet another seven; until, when the ladies were finally sitting and lying in the boats I heard a startling bugle-call — and saw red treachery, murder and massacre let loose anew. Bullets from the shelter of the wood poured upon the unprotected band; red-hot charcoal was flung upon the roofs of straw; the wounded were suffocated; Moore and Ashe and Delafosse managed to push off in one of the boats with one hundred fugitives packed within its riddled sides; from the vantage-ground of a little Hindu temple on the bank Tantia Topee, the Nana’s general, sat surrounded by a staff of sepoys, directing the fiendish operations. Some leaped into the river to dye it redder with their pouring wounds; some swam with the stream, a target for rebel bullets from both shores; while some, of the sternest breed, stood up waist deep in the Ganges and fell as they fired back at the inhuman cowards swarming on the banks. But what matters it how they died in that awful hour. The tale were better quickly told. Of four hundred and fifty souls, three hundred and twenty-five were massacred that morning at the Murder Ghaut. And who in this grim tragedy are left? Only a hundred and twentyfive. The Ganges has closed its sacred waters over some; others have died from fire and suffocation; some have escaped, to meet death yet once again farther down the glittering river. The rest, women and little children, are hauled on shore again and brigaded for their final march to martyrdom.

136

A Winter in India

MASSACRE GHAUT, CAWNPORE

But today! The Ganges once more is low. Its two miles of river-bed is, in the main, a sandy shore. Close to the steps of the Suttee Chowra Ghaut, or landing-place — for ever hereafter known as Massacre Ghaut — flows dreamily the sacred stream of the Hindus. Upon the banks three dhobies are chanting as they lash their clothes upon large stones and wring them dry; three donkeys sleep under the shadow of the tall pear trees that fringe the river’s bank. Two boats — they make that awful day in July live again — lie half beached beneath the ghaut; some children’s voices ring out from the adjoining village; the birds twitter in the overhanging branches, and a cicala croaks and croaks. But this is a river of peace, of holiness, the sacred Ganges. It has never borne upon its gentle breast the bodies of martyred Christians. So still, reflecting the very colours of the sky! Not a ripple; hardly, at this moment, a ray of sun. It is far too peaceful to be cruel. It is — but look! The sun bursts forth, and the whole vast land and “seascape” is lit into a thousand colours. The chanting of the washermen again floats to my ears. Now the noises are confused, wailing is mingled with the hum of an angry

Cawnpore

137

mob. I must be gone. The women and children have disappeared; the hooting of a rabble grates on the silent air; the last sad march through a Gethsemane has recommenced. Let it be short. Rings are gone from fingers, ear-rings torn from ears; children are stumbling along, dazed, naked and dumb; women are gazing past the howling sea of chocolate and brown; their end is at last at hand. Soon — only another eighteen days — and your rest will be sweet in the sister well of that which holds your heart, your husband or your child. And so it was. As Havelock drew near; as Neill approached; as Nana Sahib’s troops were scattered as the chaff before the wind, he set the final crown upon a life of treachery, brutality and unimagined cruelty by massacring every Christian woman, boy and girl in that slaughterhouse, the Bibi-garh, and thereafter flinging the dead and dying into an adjacent well, which today stands up in the centre of a lovely park, shaded by the branches of the tree on which Neill, later, hanged the mutineers in countless ranks. But can one wonder! The slaughter-house hacked in every corner — near the floor, where the women crouched — blood two inches deep on his arrival, just too late to save them all. But if one day you can manage it, wander alone among the shady trees of the intrenchment; visit the burial well and dream of the midnight cortège creeping beyond the walls with their liberated companions in suffering. Enter the Memorial church and, if a woman, try to restrain your tears as you read the endless lists of those who passed through much tribulation in this world; pause for a moment at the hallowed spot where Vibart and “about seventy officers and soldiers” are sleeping; stand beside the water-well, and answer which of the three is greatest, the one you are at present looking at, battered and bullet-scarred; the one that lies beyond the intrenchment, in which “under this cross, were laid, by ye hands of their fellows in suffering, the bodies of men, women and children who died hard by during ye heroic defence of Wheeler’s Intrenchment when beleaguered by the  rebel Nana — June 6 to 27”; or the well upon the green slope in the Memorial gardens beside the white cross that marks the site of  the slaughter-house. To me this last, for here the rebels chased innocent little children round and round — children so small that in the shambles they lay unnoticed beneath the butchered bodies of their

TREE ON WHICH GENERAL NEILL HANGED THE REBELS AT CAWNPORE

Cawnpore

139

dead and dying mothers — chased them, till, wearying of the sport, they tossed them, some still alive, down the grim opening at their feet to add their little stream to the flood of crimson ever deepening the bottom of the well. But if it may not be; if there is no prospect of your treading in person the blood-stained Valley of the Shadow of Death and the peaceful graves of the great departed, take up the story of Cawnpore, and when you have read it (and once commenced it will enthrall you to the end) enshrine in your heart each one and all of the noble band who fought, suffered, died, and were buried in and around this tragic, melancholy spot.

LUCKNOW

9th February.

J

ust as Cawnpore has three distinct phases in its tragedy: the Intrenchment, the Ghaut, and Massacre House, so the siege of Lucknow is divided into a corresponding number of separate sections: the siege, the reinforcement by Sir Henry Havelock, and the relief by Sir Cofin Campbell. So, first, let us enter the Residency as it stands and totters today — as it stood and tottered at its relief. Leaving the Royal Hotel shortly before nine, I drove along broad and airy streets till a tall and battered gateway loomed ahead. We had reached the Baillie Guard. But what was left? Shelled for eighty-seven days by four 64-lb. guns and rifles incalculable, at a range of one hundred and fifty yards, what would you expect? What I saw: a skeleton, but one that made the blood pulse quicker through one’s veins. Literally whipped with shot and grape, the arch showed daylight through a hundred gaps; on the right grins Aitken’s battery wall, now the height of a man’s waist and the spot through which (a gun being first pulled back) Sir Henry Havelock and Sir James Outram entered on the 25th of September, 1857. The fortifications are all gone; the labyrinth of houses which in those days breathed upon the faces of our outposts are cleared away; the men who at a thousand points faced death for eight-six long days and nights before assistance came, sleep, many of them, in a sacred acre in the centre of the grounds; the sunshine falls upon gaping walls; birds twitter in trees that once heard the whistle of the rebel guns; lawns, once green are they were blackened by the fire and shell of fifty thousand sepoys, again grow green; houses that one day stood peacefully upon the Gumti’s shore are now replaced by pillars graven with immortal names; and you pass through the Baillie Guard gateway into the sacred grounds within. And now follow me — or the little plan attached — as we walk right round the line of “posts” that girded the Residency during the siege. You are at the moment standing inside the grounds with your back to the Baillie Guard. Ahead of you runs a sloping road leading up to the

Lucknow

141

THE RESIDENCY, LUCKNOW “And ever upon the topmost roof the Banner of England blew.”

main building — the actual Residency itself, the house occupied by Sir Henry Lawrence; on your right stands a monument (where do they not stand in this hallowed spot?) to Aitken, then a young lieutenant, who pitted his pluck and his battery of 18-lb. guns against the four 64-pounders placed opposite, and at pistol range, on the Clock Tower and the Mosque. Next comes the Treasury, another gaping travesty of masonry, pillars standing, plaster gone, and, inlet, a memorial to about fifty of Aitken’s men. Behind, but always moving to your right, stand the walls of the hospital, once the banqueting-hall; and although six hundred yards away from “Bob the Nailer’s” rifle, so accurate was his aim, so excellent his coign of vantage commanding a long “street” which terminated in the sick wards, that the very patients were not beyond the range of his incessant and deadly fire. Now we are passing the Water Gate, facing the Gumti River, and have reached the projection famous as the site of the Redan battery, commanded by that cheeriest and most courageous of mortals, Lieutenant Sam Lawrence, who, so related Lady Inglis, opined to his chief, her husband, that he and his men expected very shortly to be “up amongst the little birds,” owing to the frequent suspicious indications of mines beneath their

142

A Winter in India

feet. But follow on to the northern extremity of the Residency. Here the fiercest attacks of the enemy were launched — here, nearest the little church, nearest the final resting-place of its defenders. A survivor of the siege so describes this outpost: “As far as the eye could see, masses of the enemy extended.” Now we swing round to the left, or south; pass the sheep-house, the slaughter-house, Ommaney’s House, for some time the head-quarters of Brigadier Inglis; Gubbins’ battery; the Brigade Mess, almost facing “Bob the Nailer’s” house; the Martinière Post — a boy’s school; the awful Cawnpore battery; Anderson’s house; Sago’s house; and so round to Dr Fayrer’s house, immortalized as the spot where Sir Henry Lawrence passed away on the 4th of July, whispering his simple epitaph: “Here lies Henry Lawrence who tried to do his duty.” And now we have, very roughly, as you can see from the plan, circled the whole intrenchment, one mile three furlongs and four hundred and thirty-three feet in circumference, fronted by the enemy at no point farther off than eighty yards and at some as close as ten feet; defended by twenty-five guns, eleven mortars and under 1,800 men, British and native; and encircled by a host of fully armed and sheltered sepoys numbering 15,000 at the commencement of the siege and increased to over 50,000 before its conclusion. Now before we proceed let me impress on you that the hostile girdle of this enclosure was a veritable labyrinth of houses, affording excellent cover, splendid opportunities for mining, and, literally, at pistol-shot range of the outposts. The defenders of the Martinière College could easily have carried on conversation with “Bob the Nailer;” Innis in his northern “post” could have broken his enemies’ windows (had they any) with a powerful pop-gun; while Sam Lawrence could have pitched a mashie shot into the centre of the Captan Bazaar. So we have 1,800 men, daily decreasing, opposed to 15,000, swelled shortly to double and then nearly quadruple that number. Pretty odds, even for British troops! And what of the kernel? The shell is vaguely sketched, imperfectly portrayed. An intimate description of the defences alone, far less the details of the siege, would entail the writing of a miniature volume, so let us assume the firing has begun. It is the first of July. The hail of lead whips down upon the Residency itself — at present the head-quarters

Lucknow

143

of Sir Henry Lawrence; it pours its volume of shot and grape upon the little church; it screams through Dr Fayrer’s roof; it tears, mows up, the lawn. The siege has commenced indeed. “Fayrer, the Residency surgeon, combined with equal energy the somewhat contradictory duties of inflicting wounds and of healing them. He worked with tireless energy, attending to the sick and wounded in the Residency itself.” He himself records: “I have constant opportunity of using my guns and rifles from the roof of my house or from the platform in front of it.” And today! Where is the roof? Where the platform? I photographed a grinning shell and read on a tablet on one of the battered walls: “Here Sir Henry Lawrence died, 4th July, 1857” — two days after his fatal wound, received in the Residency itself, and four from the commencement of the siege. But what of the women in this carnage? What part did they play in the long months’ drama? Listen to the doctor once again. A shell has just fallen in the bedroom — today a skeleton of brick and dust — in which his wife was lying. “My wife,” he says, “immediately spoke to me out of the smoke, and said she was not hurt. She was perfectly composed and tranquil, though a 9-lb. bombshell had just burst by the side of her bed.” And she was one of two hundred and thirty-seven. The days wear on, burning, appalling, deathly, immortal. July has gone and August passed away; the garrison gradually passing too into the cool shelter of the cemetery. The church has fallen, is now a ruined mass; the walls of every house gape vacantly; the shrapnel whistles into space, masonry and British flesh and blood. September dawns. Inglis is seated in his riddled den writing to Havelock: ‘‘I regret your inability to advance at present to our relief; but in consequence of this communication I have reduced the rations.... I must be frank, and tell you that my force is daily diminishing from the enemy’s musketry fire, and our defences are daily weaker.” Again: “I went to see Mrs Cowper this morning, and heard from her that five babies were buried last night.” So writes Lady Inglis from the room in which I stood this morning, so peaceful and silent, and echoing only to the music of twittering birds. On the 16th we hear: “If you have not relieved us by that time (the 1st of October) we shall have no meat left, as I must keep some few bullocks to move my guns about the position.” And lastly, listen to bow Captain Birch described

144

A Winter in India

the latter days of the great siege: “The Residency house was a wreck. Captain Anderson’s post had long ago been knocked, down, and Innis’ post also fell in.... As many as two hundred shots were picked up and collected by Colonel Masters.” But today. Oh! the extreme beauty of it all! The guns are silent, sleeping above the graves of those who manned or captured them; the lawn again is green and soft; the roses bloom and fade, and scent the Indian air. The Residency looks like some battered castle of the long ago, as the breeze sighs through a hundred fissures in the storm-racked tower; a pigeon sits, softly cooing, on a broken turret; and where “ever upon the topmost roof the Banner of England blew” the Union Jack still proudly flutters over the immortal dead. How can I portray to you the infinite beauty of this sacred spot! Guns, monuments, flowers and memories; imperishable fame; undying dust; God’s acre of inexpressible beatitude. Ah! go to this hallowed plot; wander beneath its shady trees; gaze on its priceless jewels of immortality; step softly round the sleeping host of heroes who dared and died for Honour, who bled for their far-off land, who live for evermore. The church alone breathes death. The walls are overturned in unrehearsed confusion; the battered aisles exhale the spirit of a story that is told. But look round. Hark to the muffled voices of the dead from out their tended graves. Lawrence, sleeping, at his request, between two soldiers from the ranks, whispers of duty attempted; Neill, stern in battle — resting two feet away — speaks of a soldier’s unconcern for hail of lead; Fulton, immortal engineer, scoffs at life’s impossibilities; and the York and Lancasters — a colonel, two captains, seven lieutenants and three hundred and sixty non-commissioned officers and men — seem to echo the requiem of a regiment bivouacking after war’s parade. But wander on; pass beneath that fluttering flag that flies alike beneath the sunlight and the moon, that Union Jack that knows no twilight rest, nor will know till the hour Great Britain ceases to be great. Throughout the hail of shot, the shriek of shell, the weary, torturous days and nights the “Banner of England” proudly waved defiance to the crouching hosts around; and still it blew, waving a last farewell, as the remnant of the little garrison marched out, unconquered and invincible, in the dead of a November night, to liberty and imperishable

GENERAL NEILL’S GRAVE, LUCKNOW

Sir Henry Lawrence Lies on the Right Behind the Railing.

146

A Winter in India

fame. And so today it flutters in the breeze, the only flag of Empire that keeps eternal vigil o’er her sleeping sons and daughters. Pass into the Residency itself. Step under the battered pillars now ablaze with honeysuckle; feast your eyes upon the gorgeous yellow; gaze upon the roses’ reds and whites; and look over your shoulder at the glorious mauve against the green, the bougainvillaea weeping by Lawrence’s and Inglis’ monuments. Pass in and see where Lawrence sat in his upper room as a shell burst, in a sheet of flame, scattering dust, debris and death. Listen to the enquiry from the enveloping darkness: “Sir Henry, are you hurt?” and the whispered answer, “I am killed.” But now climb the battered tower; look far across the Indian plain, right over the labyrinth of the city. What is that fluttering rag upon the housetop of the distant Alumbagh? Help at last! Havelock is but five miles off. And it is time. The garrison is weak with fighting, disease, mining, and counter mining. True, “Bob the Nailer” has passed away in a blast of gunpowder and glory, but his place has been filled by one of fifty thousand more. The beleaguered soldiers make yet braver efforts to repel attack, cheered by the gradually increasing roar of guns. The relief has at last begun. Women rush up from their underground chamber in the Tykhana, regardless of danger; an atmosphere of hope pervades all ranks; the flag still proudly flies over the living, and two thousand fifteen dead. And now the scene is shifted. We are standing in the Alumbagh, immortalized today as the resting-place of Havelock, and by the rout of two thousand rebels, in ten minutes, before the glittering and avenging bayonets of the Highlanders who reached Cawnpore too late. But their revenge for that massacre was coming soon, and woe was it to the sepoys on that awful day of blood. Passing through a gateway, you face a tall stone monument and read on it an inscription as long as it is surely both unnecessary and undesirable. Who does not know the name of Havelock? Rather would I have seen upon his tomb, “Here lies Henry Havelock” and nothing more. But as it stands, you will take two minutes to read all that is written on that stone. And here the weary warrior lies, a victim to disease, resting in the sun and surrounded by flowers and shady trees;

Lucknow

147

“after life’s fitful fever he sleeps well;” and here let us leave him to the silence of his lonely grave. But as the names of Alumbagh and Kavanagh must ever be bracketed together, let me, standing with you in the centre of the high-walled garden, tell you how he won his Iron Cross. It was in mid November of ’57; a guide was badly wanted to lead Sir Colin Campbell through the maze of lanes and streets that encircled the Residency, added to which Outram, now in command, was anxious to discover what route Campbell purposed taking, so that he himself might simultaneously break out and join him on either the Baillie Guard or Water Bastion road. A civilian named Kavanagh volunteered for this desperate mission, so, accompanied by another hero — a native guide — and disguised to perfection, he crept across the Gumti River and after incredible escapes made his way through hundreds of thousands of rebels to Sir Colin Campbell, five miles off, and to the actual spot where you are now standing with me under the broiling sun. If ever a man deserved the Victoria Cross it was this civilian, “Lucknow” Kavanagh. But now it is late July, not mid November. Sir Henry Havelock is leading his scanty troops into the packed bazaars that in those days extended for miles towards Alumbagh. To even dimly understand the story of Lucknow, it is imperative that you commence it from this garden five miles away. The rush from Alumbagh to the Residency in July was through miles of tortuous bazaars, through a labyrinth of huddled houses, through a hailstorm of lead. It was, so to speak, the string, stretched tight, of an imaginary bow; whereas the route favoured in November by Sir Colin Campbell was the bow itself. The former leading straight and direct to the Baillie Guard; the latter the enflanking movement to the right that avoided the bazaars, risked the advance, from a strong, central and fortified position, of a force twenty times in number, and led to the beleaguered garrison through the Water Bastion on the river-bank. The journey to Alumbagh is easily made, being not farther than three and a half miles from the hotels. Drive out by the “string” route followed by Havelock and return by the “bow” road of Sir Colin Campbell. And then, and then alone, will you realize the superhuman efforts necessitated by besieged and relieving troops alike to keep that “coloured rag” floating from the Residency tower.

148

A Winter in India

The blazing July days echo to the ever approaching roar of guns, musketry and Highland cries; the Charbagh bridge has been carried by a mighty bayonet charge of the Madras Fusiliers; the sepoy guns have been scorned, captured and overturned into the canal by the brawny 78th; and now, panting, enraged, and within a stone’s throw of the Baillie Guard itself the little force takes breath at the Chutter Munzil palace. Outram favours a halt here for the night, but Havelock, fiery and eagerly impatient, cries: “There is the street; we see the worst. We shall be slated, but we can push through, and get it over.” So Outram yields and the brave band races on once more into the further maze of an Eastern bazaar, into the gaping jaws of insatiable Death. Down the long, narrow, twisting lane they ran; trod the very ground I stood upon today; fell beneath the hail of lead that poured from roof-top and loophole, cross-road and hidden arch. The Highlanders in front, Havelock and Outram riding beside their leading files. Then followed the Sikhs — descendants of holy and peaceful Nanak, the first Guru and founder of their original religious sect — now freely spilling their blood for the Empire which but yesterday had been their bitter enemy. “In this street of death McDonough’s leg was shattered by a bullet. He fell, but was not left to die. His stalwart chum raised the wounded man, took him on his back, and trudged on with his heavy burden. Nor did the hale man, thus encumbered, permit himself to be a non-combatant. When a chance offered him to fire a shot, Glandell propped his wounded comrade up against some wall, and would betake himself to his rifle, while it could be of service. Then he would pick McDonough up again, and stagger cheerily onward, till the welldeserved goal of safety was reached.” Surely Forbes’ living description of the Highlanders makes us see that street again. Can we not repicture the scene? One can hear the rattle of the rifles, the hoarse shouts of the men; see the riddled platform booths shiver beneath the rain of lead. There is Neill, as grim, as cool, as calm as when hanging rebels at Cawnpore or leading his beloved “blue-caps” on parade. Speaking a word here to check the too fiercely flowing stream of crimsoned bayonets, watching the passage of a gun through an archway, he sits his charger in perfect unconcern until suddenly a sepoy leans down from a window overhead, points a rifle behind his ear, pulls the trigger, and General Neill has ended his earthly, war-stained, honourable course.

Lucknow

149

At last. A roar, a final rush and the Baillie Guard is won. Hands stretch out through yawning gaps in the tottering walls and drag their comrades in; cheer upon cheer rings out from battered post to post; the powder-stained and blood-soaked Highlanders throw down their scarlet bayonets and lift little children in their arms, kissing them again and yet again, for this time they have not come just too late. Brigadier Inglis brings up to his wife “a short, quiet-looking, grey-haired man” whom she at once guesses to be Havelock. The Residency has been relieved; the long black siege is over; soon the scent of Surrey lanes will replace the stench of battle, death and wholesale carnage. But suddenly, amid the rejoicings, someone breathed the rumour that Lucknow had not yet been relieved; slowly it dawned on the surviving nine hundred that these tartan, war-stained kilts swinging to their newly appointed stations represented only reinforcement, not relief. And so it was. Havelock had just managed, after gigantic risks and bloodshed, to cut his way through this city of fanaticism, shells and death; how could he lead back into it close on a thousand souls, of whom a great proportion were women and children? The idea was absurd. He must take up his quarters in Fayrer’s house, must sleep where Lawrence died, must wait and fight a further three-and-fifty days till Sir Colin Campbell should march up in overwhelming strength to the Water Gate. And now it is cooler November. The Alumbagh is almost green after the welcome rains. Sir Colin Campbell has just dismissed Kavanagh, and a flag hoisted on the turret of the garden tower announces to the Residency that Lucknow’s gallant messenger has won through to the relieving force. Sir Colin, feigning a great attack on the left, marched off, nimble and swift, with his 3,000 bayonets, 39 guns, 6 mortars, and 2 rocket tubes in the opposite direction, intending to outflank the positions of enormous strength raised since July upon the route followed by Havelock. Dilkusha Palace — today a ruin grilling in a scorching park — was first attacked and, after tough fighting, captured. Following the bend of the bow, the Martinière College next comes into view; and it was from the quaint tower of this building that Sir Colin Campbell conversed by semaphore with Sir Henry Havelock. And here, about a hundred yards from the College, lies “all that could die of William Stephen Raikes Hodson, Captain and Brevet-Major 1st E. B. Fusiliers

150

A Winter in India

and Commandant of Hodson’s Horse.” So here in the perfect silence of the sunlit park I found him, sleeping beneath a simple, slanting tombstone, his turbulent, courageous heart at last at rest. When he was buried (he was killed in the third attack on Lucknow in 1858, when it was finally subdued) Colin Campbell stood at his open grave, and as the coffin passed out of sight he was not ashamed of, nor was he able to restrain, his tears. How peaceful these Mutiny graves of India are! Bathed in perpetual sunshine, they seem somehow to whisper of hope, of light eternal, of well-earned, calm repose. And so, after standing awhile in reverence beside the sleeping dead, I left him to the moving silence and solitude of his now unbroken rest. But let us rejoin the relieving force: they have grim work ahead. Looming up before them stands a tall, four-square, twenty-foot wall. It has an enormous gate fronting the road; the walls are pierced by a thousand loopholes; further progress to Lucknow is barred by two thousand rebels who hold this garden rampart. It is the Secundrabagh — the complement of Cawnpore, the point of vengeance for Nana Sahib’s massacres. Today the Faizabad road runs bang through the garden, skirting on the right a summer-house that once saw scenes scarce human in their awful, scarlet-painted tints. The walls today show few bullet marks, tell little (as the hole has been, alas! blocked up by modern masonry) of the “talking” of Peel’s naval guns; but here on the south-east, rounded angle you will notice a couple of tablets, one stating that it “marks the spot where the walls of the Secundrabagh were breached on November 16th, 1857,” while the other is a memorial to those of the 93rd Highlanders who fell in the attack. Peel pounded at the walls — with those very guns that now sleep on the green lawn of the Residency grounds — and pounded yet again, until at last a small opening was breached, through which first scrambled a Highlander, a Sikh, an Irishman (who can tell which where all writers disagree?), to be instantly shot. But what has been called “this jet of furious valour” was not to be stopped by any plug of lead. One after another poured into the garden cage; the door was opened from inside, by our troops; in flowed a perfect stream of sparkling

Lucknow

151

THE SECUNDRABAGH, LUCKNOW

bayonets — and the sepoys, two thousand of them, were caught in a prison of brick were about to be embraced by a girdle of steel. What followed can best be imagined. But as I walked about the sun-baked trap today I saw the rebels bolt from the summit of the walls and race for the great gate. Too late, the 53rd and others were already there, pouring in to cut off all retreat. The sepoys doubled, tore to the summer-house, zigzaging like hares and falling like wounded rabbits before the hail of encircling shot and steel. I saw the “Quaker,” a man of the 93rd, so called owing to his quietness, charge across the garden, drunk with blood and the memories of Cawnpore; I heard him chant his Scottish hymn, punctuating each line by a death thrust of his dripping bayonet: “I’ll of salvation take the cup, On God’s name will I call; I’ll pay my vows now to the Lord Before his people all.”

152

A Winter in India

And this, according to Forbes-Mitchell — to whom I owe the narrative and quotation — was a sober, quiet Highlander. There was no escape. Red Death danced round and round those towering walls; kilts fluttered in the breeze; sepoys crouched low in corners (as women and children did before them at Cawnpore) of the scarlet slaughter-house; the groans died down; the last shriek for mercy had been stifled by a yard of steel; the blood-drunk British paused; the volleys and the bayonets had done their predetermined work — “nothing was left but a moving mass, like mites in a cheese”; Cawnpore was avenged. I shuddered as I looked around. A cart drove over the desecrated graves of ten score of rebels; a few children played in the death-pit of Revolt; and I turned away to follow the tramp, tramp, tramp of Campbell’s invincible troops. Another post to take — a mosque this time, called Shah Nujeef — which shortly fell; then on again, ever closing in upon the left towards the Residency, until at last Havelock and Outram stepped through a hole in the wall of the Pearl Palace enclosure to shake hands with Sir Colin Campbell on the sloping ground forefronting the Mess House, a stone’s throw from the Water Gate — and the siege of Lucknow passes into history.

BENARES

10th February.

I

am now in the Holy City of Benares. I have rubbed my head all day and am no for’arder. I am beaten. I don’t know what to say, what to write. What is it all about, this worship of filthy cows, this sprinkling of lotus and marigold upon doubly unclean floors, this mixture of religion and commerce, this mingling of apparent godliness and immorality? I feel like a second Lord Rossmore: there is so much I may not tell. But following in his footsteps, I shall try to describe the “things I can tell.” Starting from the station with a guide whose English was only less execrable than his henna-coloured teeth, I drove for miles to the Durga Temple, better known as the Monkey Temple. I am now convinced that at that period of day I was unreasonably irritable. The long drive annoyed me — I came to Benares to see the river and the ghauts — the fatuous outpourings from a discoloured mouth which, perforce, I had to watch to understand a word that poured from it, almost drove me to frenzy. The truth is I was seized with illogical aversion to my redfanged vis-à-vis. At last we stopped. Murray has lots to say about the Temple. He descants on its “stained red with ochre,” its quadrangle surrounded by high walls. He speaks of a band-room where the priests beat a large drum three times a day. He tells me the central portion is supported by twelve curiously carved pillars (in calmer mood I recollect that now); he informs me that through the door plated with brass the image of the goddess may be seen — and lots more besides of an equally engrossing nature. But he omits to state that the place smells like nothing on earth; that a corps of money-grubbing priests follows you from filth to slaughter-house (they kill goats weekly outside the temple door) pestering you, as at Amritsar, to garland your neck with idiotic chains of marigold in exchange for backsheesh; that the whole atmosphere is false, commercial and unreal. A fawning creature bore a tray-load of some white concoction towards me, bowing himself to earth; but before I could wave him off, before he could stand up again in the likeness of a man, a monkey leaped upon his proffered feast,

154

A Winter in India

rattling the tray and edibles upon the ground — and the sun broke out upon an irascible tourist’s face. How I laughed! It was too funny to watch the altered expression of the lately grinning vendor. His face was now a copy of what mine had been — and I laughed anew. Honestly, I think the Monkey Temple is a fraud and a total delusion. There is little to see. You can take a taxi to the Zoo any day but Sunday — and on the Sabbath also if you know a Fellow — and feast your eyes and nose on double a hundred monkeys. The smell of the Temple is abominable, the whole place repulsive. At any rate it appeared so to me today. You refer me to a date prior to the descent of the priestly tray: you are incorrect in your insinuation. Had I come from convincing Fleet Street that motor-cars, pearls and a country seat were hidden beneath my latest manuscript I should still have recorded in identical terms my impression of the Monkey Temple. But go to the holy Ganges. There all is altered. Personally, I think the scenes upon the river’s bank far surpass in colour, fascination and incongruity any I have yet seen in India. To follow it all, the purpose of the Hindu rites, the apparently necessitous insanitary condition of river, ghaut and temple, is beyond the European mind; but for a short visit the Rome of India is emphatically worth the longest crosscountry journey. So let us branch off from the main road and drive through the Mahommedan quarter to the sacred stream. Arrived at the Dasaswamedh Ghaut, one of the five celebrated places for pilgrimage in Benares, I looked down upon a long, broad flight of steps, hundreds of Hindus, battalions of gigantic sun umbrellas and, beyond, the glittering waters of the Ganges. In a few moments we made our way down the steps, passing incalculable hosts of pilgrims and commercially inclined individuals, each of the latter obsessed with the outstanding superiority of his especial craft. Chosing one, we stepped on board a squat, juvenile edition of a “river” house-boat, manned by two oarsmen who dreamily row beneath you, and then climbed up a short wooden ladder on to the roof, throned by two wicker-work easy-chairs. And then you can gaze round at the unique panorama before you. Taking the banks first, you look up at an endless sweep of towering temples, mosques, sand-wastes, ghauts and palaces, the Raja

Benares

155

Jai Singh Observatory and, outstanding, the two sentinel minarets of Aurangzeb’s mosque — a reminder of the predominance in years gone by of the Mahommedan religion. But look closer. Watch the fakirs, smothered in white dust, like any unkempt harlequin, sitting at prayer by the river-side; see the wood merchants carrying logs from far above to finally pitch them down upon great piled-up stacks below. You wonder for an instant as to the purpose of this exercise, then recollect you are passing the Jal Sain, or Burning, Ghaut. But what is that bundle lying half submerged in the holy river? It looks strangely like a human form wrapped in white. The outline of a pair of feet stand out above the stream; some coolies are arranging wood close by; three dogs are greedily eating round a smoking fire. The explanation lies in the fact that the Burning Ghaut is busy this afternoon. The days of those who have for the past few years dwelt by the Ganges have been accomplished. They have died beside the holy river, therefore their rest in paradise is now assured. Drifting closer, you see there are five distinct groups. On the left the dogs, assisted by a dozen crows, are enacting the final scene of a late cremation. Next to them a fire is burning low; a tall man clothed all in white stands near, poking the embers with a long steel-pointed bamboo pole. The dogs shift their position, hungrily padding round the dying flames. A couple of men, knee deep in the Ganges, are busy sifting charcoal — for gold ear-rings and silver bangles many a time and oft escape the fury of the fire as they fall from the ears and ankles of the dead — but after careful and unproductive inspection they pass the baskets up to a group of women, seated on the old suttee stones above, who march off to market with the primal elements of some Hindu. Meantime the fire is nearly out; the dogs consider that their part of the ceremony ought forthwith to commence, but are prodded back into further temporary obscurity. Nothing visible now remains but the skull and bones, lying amid the blackened pyre; the chief mourner — he who was lately prodding the fire and the dogs — approaches nearer for his gruesome contribution to the funereal rites; he lifts his bamboo stick and drives the steel point through the skull (so that it, later, may not float on the surface of the river), pounding it to pieces. And then lifting a brown pitcher he throws it over his shoulder, smashing it into

156

A Winter in India

a thousand fragments. One could not watch this latter rite entirely unmoved. There was something extremely sad in the young man’s face, and in the action — so symbolic of earthly existence — of casting the pitcher upon the dead. It seemed so vividly to illustrate the end of our transitory aspirations, to exemplify the ultimate shivering to atoms of our house of clay. The sun was slowly sinking, bathing the Ganges in a flood of colour, turning almost gold; the river was flowing past in calm and stately majesty; a stillness had fallen upon ghaut and Ganges alike when the sudden crash of the potter’s bowl so strangely broke the silence. Then the debris was pushed into the stream and disappeared, to join those trillion skulls and bones that are ever silting through the pyre-fed strata of the sacred river’s bed. The dogs consumed all that the fire had spared; the charcoal was collected, sifted and passed up to the women above; the mourners slowly turned away; and the Hindu funeral was over. By now but two pyres remained. The one was blazing: the other as yet a four-square, two-foot scaffolding, the lower part of which supported while the upper portion covered the body of the next candidate for cremation. Round the blazing pyre an old man with a grey beard — also robed, as every chief mourner is, in white — incanted strange sounds as he watched, perhaps, his all being licked up by the greedy flames; and I left him to his dead, in company with dogs and crows, relatives and jewel-searchers. Here and there I saw pilgrims dipping themselves in the river; hard by the Burning Ghaut one drank of the waters — and did not instantaneously die; widows, in white garments and closely shaven head, sat on little platforms, resembling miniature piers, that jutted out over the stream, alternately praying and pouring holy water over hands and feet; the farther bank, distant at this dry season about three-quarters of a mile away, showed up here green, here khaki brown; pilgrims passed along under the shadow of the towering walls above, on their way to or from some temple upon the banks; and I decided to land and inspect one or two for myself. If you purpose visiting Benares — and you would be very foolish not to do so — first pay a call on Messrs Burroughs and Welcome. Buy up all the formamint of Mayfair; purchase a barrelful of Condy’s

Benares

157

Fluid, and at least a guinea bottle of Monsieur Houbigant’s scent. Then you may land with comparative safety. Hire two coolies to spray the Condy before your slippery feet; instruct them on no account to train their cleansing jets upon the most deserving objects — the sacred bulls — (for you are about to perambulate a maze of fanaticism as well as a labyrinth of slime and filth); suck and crunch your formamint tablets as though you were competing in a “bun” race; and plentifully annoint your person with scent. You are now bobbing about off the Mir Ghaut, so follow me. I have already said that there are numberless things in this holy city that one may not discuss. I should be sorry to cast aspersions on the religion of any nation, class or caste; but the fundamentals of some branches of Hinduism — culled from apparently credible sources and corroborated by one’s own two eyes — fill a Western mind with mingled amazement and disgust. One temple close at hand is famous merely for its indelicate carving; at almost every turn religion, to our ideas, appears to be submerged in gross materialism; and you can only repeat over and over again that you are of the West and Benares of the East. On the other hand, as they say out here, one has five fingers, but they are not all equal. There must be hundreds of thousands of Hindus who consider their rites devout, moral and deeply religious; and when writing impressions one should insist — as I do — that they pretend to nothing deeper. I have seen Hindus in many parts of India, so I have camels; but I profess no knowledge of the internal brain-cells of either. But let us push on; the smell here is awful. The alleyway is packed with pilgrims, goats, refuse, and booths; shouts for passage for a sahib fall upon incredulous ears, calling up pandemonium and gesticulating hands. “How can we hurry?” they enquire in chorus, as they point ahead. And you apologize. A great and indescribably filthy bull is slowly enjoying his afternoon’s walk. On no account must he be hurried; the sahib can clearly understand the predicament. So behind this hulking beast, fit only for his own company and your Condy’s Fluid, I had perforce to crawl till the Golden Temple was reached, when he ambled off down a side alleyway. Now come to the door of the temple and look inside. No, it is not a byre: this is the Golden Temple. A cow is standing in the “aisle,” being

158

A Winter in India

patted on the back by each perambulating pilgrim. Above is a roofed quadrangle, and, higher up, domes, the gift (as at Amritsar) of the mighty, one-eyed Ranjit Singh. The doorway is packed; behind you is a flower shop, at the moment a blaze of marigold and lotus — and you are truly grateful for their pleasant scent. Under the canopy in the temple sits some god before which the pilgrims bow and sprinkle marigold. The combination of the smell of cows and humanity, unequally combated by the scent of flowers, drove me on through the alleyway upon the right. At last we stopped, turned sharp to the left, to find ourselves on the steps of the temple of Annapurna. Truly, I think it must rank as the most filthy place of worship in the world. Two bulls lounged in a “cloister” on the left; in front, behind and around them the pilgrims swarmed; ahead stood a canopied enclosure into which more worshippers desired to enter, but at the moment the attendant “clergyman” was standing out for a bigger price of admission. Marigold again was being thrown into obscure and foul corners; while the floor would have discredited any self-respecting slaughter-house. The atmosphere was calculated to make you literally sick. The idea of entertaining thoughts of anything higher, holier or less practical than instant flight appeared to me preposterous; yet here they were encircling that enclosure in a sort of shuffle-and-slip through filth mated to marigold, as though (which is probably the truth) the atmospheric conditions entirely harmonized with their conception of true and pure religion. You can only shrug your shoulders, and — unless you want to catch typhoid fever — follow me to the welcome cleanliness of Clarke’s spotless and most comfortable hotel. But you have not yet seen the “sight” of Benares. That is worth a journey of hundreds of miles. You have not yet watched the Hindu at his ablutions. You have seen Clacton-on-Sea on Bank Holiday? You have spent a morning at Margate? You have dawdled through a week at Ostend? What about it? You don’t know what bathing means: you don’t understand the very rudiments of a proper morning’s dip. If you wish to see ten thousand human beings bathing along a river front of possibly a mile, go to Benares. If it would interest you to float upon the sparkling Ganges and watch India at morning prayer, go to Benares. If you disapprove of mixed bathing, keep away — it is no

Benares

159

place for you. And now I shall try to describe, fairly, honestly and without exaggeration what I saw on the Ganges this morning — a sight that should I  live to be an intolerable nuisance to my great-grandchildren will surely never be completely eradicated from my mind. Jumping out of bed shortly before six, I started off for the bathing ghauts. Arrived at the city about seven o’clock, the roads were literally mobbed by men, women and children all plodding along to the Mani-karnika Ghaut. The sun was well above the farther bank of the river when we drew up at the ghaut steps and boarded the waiting house-boat. Never, absolutely never, have I seen such colour. The eye was entranced by it; it was simply intoxicating. Green jostled yellow, black strode along with blue. Brilliant red “killed” magenta; chocolate and brown cried quits. Scarlet was there with poppy; aquamarine with grey; orange vied with marigold; the crowd with the rainbow itself. Slowly mounted the sun; in an endless stream descended the Hindu. First look up. You see the clouds riding away above the temple domes; you hear the birds but faintly amid the hum on the river-bank; windows glisten in the sunlight; Benares is at prayer. Now watch the bank itself. You are sitting on a house-boat, roughly fifteen yards from shore and perhaps three from the jutting pier that faces you. The bank itself is a succession of steps, platforms, temples and more temples, crowned by imposing palaces, most of which are now rest-houses for far-travelled and weary pilgrims. The boat persists to drift down stream, so it is moored to the end of the pier. Of steps and platforms you scarcely see a trace; only moving colour and a forest of mushroom-shaped umbrellas, beneath each of which now sits one of five thousand priests, receiving coppers and obeisance, and dispensing caste marks on the pilgrims’ foreheads. So thus far the scene is fronted by water and backgrounded by gradually ascending steps, platforms and temples right up to the horizon — the roof-tops of the palaces. And now the stage is peopled. On the platform of the red stone, conical temple of Vishnu, perched high up above the river, stands the Benares orchestra, blaring forth an imitation of European music, and all but drowning the nearer efforts of bagpipes and a penny whistle. Down and down pours the stream of colour. Fix your eye on that

THE BATHING GHAUT, BENARES

Benares

161

fellow in green. Apparently he is about to bathe. He pushes his way past another co-religionist in a piece of string and a quarter of a yard of cloth; stands aside to allow a lady in a couple of pink, transparent and bedraggled scarfs to pass up to her bathing-box — one step higher and level with a priest. He throws down his aquamarine costume and is ready for his bath, being now garbed in the orthodox girdle of tape and little else. He steps into the water, rubs his arms, wades in (a few feet from where the skulls and bones of yesterday and a million yesterdays were flung) up to his waist; and stands in prayer, tickling the Ganges with his finger-tips. To his right another Hindu dips beneath the surface, following this exercise by rinsing his mouth and returning the borrowed water to the Ganges. The bathing is taking place in a four-square enclosure about six yards long and four or five broad, of which there are a number all along the river. Behind is the bank, crowded at present by prospective and late bathers of both sexes; in front is an almost untenanted platform; but on either side sit high-caste Hindus, deep in prayer and meditation, indifferent alike to passers-by, the orchestra, and occational spray from energetic bathers. There they sit — sailor fashion — garbed in greens and reds, oranges and pinks, alternately pouring holy water from little brass and copper bowls over their hands and ankles, and then reverting to animate statues. Now my friend proceeded to brush his teeth; while a lady gowned from the waist in a yard of chiffon bobbed up and down beside him in childlike indifference to lookers on and the unpicturesque toilet practices on her left. And they were only two among ten thousand. It is all so inexplicable! So grotesque! So unintelligible! One prays, waist deep; another wrestles with a long white cord, working his hands up and down it with ceaseless energy; a burning ghaut supplies further bones to the Ganges; a dozen bathers drink from the very pool. Interminable lines of copper face you, splashing, washing, praying, spitting, dressing, or financing the priests. Of privacy there is none. The men dry themselves in the sun, fling on a yard or two of variously coloured cloth, and disappear; the women — those who are particular as regards appearances — bathe in two gauze or cotton scarfs, one covering the head and body to the waist, the other acting as a skirt. They

162

A Winter in India

dress amid ten thousand Hindus on the open steps, flinging a dry pair of shawls over their dripping bathing-gowns. They wash their children, chatter with their friends, appease the gods, and flirt with the clerical potentates under their mushroom canopies. The moving panorama never stops. Where last was a patch of blue, a red now shows; where a praying man lately stood in the holy stream a roguish maiden bobs about with some stray seaside acquaintance. Religious ceremonial is replaced by joyous informality; Rome becomes Blackpool; Benares … Benares remains its unfathomable, fascinating, inexplicable self — Holy Benares. Go and see it for yourself.

DELHI

11th February.

I

quite forgot to mention one further necessary protection against the inhabitants of Benares — ammonia. My left eye is closed, my hand aches, and my temper is sorely tried by a late visitation of mosquitoes. Whether they were the proprietors of the Golden Temple or merely travellers by the Punjab express I cannot definitely say — nor is it material — but they are very irritating satellites of the British tourist, so you will be well advised to carry a bottle of ammonia with your other impedimenta. The long journey from the Holy City of India to its capital passed quickly and pleasantly; and when at six o’clock this morning I stepped out into the night, I could hardly realize I was actually in Delhi. By half-past nine I was on my way to the famous Kutab Minar, or Tower of Victory, that commands the vast plains of the “seven cities” of Delhi. The road is bad; there is little — in truth none — of tangible history connected with this accordion-pleated telescope that towers no less than two hundred and thirty-eight feet above your boots; but as you gaze upwards and reflect that it has overshadowed one Delhi, patrolled a second, and from a distance sentinelled a further five, you begin to wonder what manner of workman was this who fashioned such a marvellous monument. At the moment two books of reference and instruction lie beneath my eye. “It has been a question whether it was not originally Hindu, altered and completed by the Mahommedan conquerors, but the conclusion of General Cunningham that it is a purely Mahommedan structure, seems to be the right one.” And again: “The architecture is admittedly Hindu, overlaid with verses of the Koran.” So as to its origin, like the average sausage, there would appear to be ground for speculation. Without doubt you must journey out and see this fallen city and upstanding tower. You must examine the Iron Pillar — not that you will thereafter be one whit the wiser — and before you leave you will

164

A Winter in India

also without doubt thank Fate that yours is not the financial necessity to plunge eight feet down an eerie well into abysmal water beneath. You must certainly climb the three hundred and seventy-nine steps of the monument itself, unless, like me, you “save your face,” and breath, on the lowest balcony by reading that the view “from the first gallery, ninety-five feet above the ground, is nearly as fine as from the top.” I was slightly disappointed with the Kutab Minar — I think owing to its lack of definite historical association — but that is merely personal. The Kutab is really wonderful. You stand beneath it and gaze up at the honeycomb carving above you; you run your eye yet higher and find a second balcony; up yet again, and still your eye has another flight of steps to scale. Below cluster the Court of Altamsh, the beautiful remains of the Screen of Kutab-ud-din, the old mosque, and the Iron Pillar inscribed with ancient hieroglyphics. Close by stands the unfinished Alai Minar, stunted, fat and roofed with turf and grass. All around are ruins and whispering echoes of — what? No one really seems to know. The mosque was apparently commenced by one Kutab-ud-din Aibak, when viceroy of Shahab-ud-din after the capture of Delhi in 1193. It is now in ruins. Then the much-talked-of Iron Pillar stands facing what was the main opening of the mosque. A perfectly solid pillar of wrought-iron, plentifully inscribed with Sanskrit characters (and, alas! by the pencilled signatures of touring vandals), it is called “the arm of Fame of Raja Dhava,” is over twenty-three feet high and sixteen in diameter. There are various legends and origins ascribed to the Pillar, Mr Prinsep being of opinion that the date of the inscriptions is between the third and fourth centuries after Christ; but whatever the true facts may be, you are without doubt looking at one of the most curious antiquities of all India when you stand beside this smooth and un-rusted pillar of iron. Wandering among the ruins, you will be enticed to follow a scoundrel who lures you on yard by yard, for at least half a mile, with the gestured information that the Jumping Well is only another foot away. At last you will arrive, to sit on the giddy perch of the well-head and watch brown figures drop, one by one, from a ledge eighty feet high, down and down and down to the pitch-black water far below, when the well echoes eerily with the splash of the diver.

Delhi

165

There is nothing much more to see, so we had better be getting back to Delhi. The entire route from the seventh to the first city is literally strewn with tombs. They lie on this side and on that; they stand; they nod; they totter; they sleep; but if you wish to inspect one and all look up an official guide-book. On the whole I was disappointed with those I visited: I had come from the Taj. But there is one tomb which you should on no account race past. I refer to the mausoleum of Humayun, the son of Babar, the first great Mogul emperor. For two reasons it is intensely interesting: one, because it suggested the architecture of the Taj; and, secondly, because of its grim association with the Mutiny. Taking the former first, you enter a miniature Giant Gateway; before you lies a dry canal flanked by trees; ahead stand a dome and cupolas inferior but emphatically akin to those upon the Jumna’s bank. True, the sentinel minarets are absent, but on either distant flank we find the mosque, as at Agra. If one had not seen the Taj, the mausoleum of Humayun would have appeared almost beautiful. And then again this tomb was once a hiding-place. Here the old, and last King of Delhi, Shah Bahadoor Shah, lay in terror of his life; here his inhuman sons and grandson huddled close to him — drawn together by a common fear — in the autumn of ’57; and here, of all undesired people, iron-hearted Hodson rode up one day in late September to snatch the Emperor from his predecessor’s tomb and carry him off through hostile territory to his late capital. And to this spot Hodson once more returned, to drag the two sons and grandson of the old man from their lair — discovered since his former visit — and to escort them along the road on which I motored today. The late General Sir Hugh Gough states that although he personally was not present, he heard the whole story (already related in my description of the Emperor’s Day Parade) from Hodson’s second in command; and that his and the other eye-witnesses’ testimony was that “as Hodson with his small escort of only a hundred sabres was approaching Delhi, the natives crowded round in such numbers, and made such unmistakable signs of attempting a rescue, that the only step left was their death.” Right or wrong — and the controversy will never end — Hodson shot them as they sat in their carriage, and the whole affair started from Humayun’s tomb.

166

A Winter in India

The other mausoleums, frankly, failed to attract me to any great extent. Amid the lot the only one that raised in me any distinct feelings of interest was the grave of Jahanara Begam, the devoted daughter of Shah Jahan — she who ministered to him during the entire seven years of his captivity. Taken, however, as a whole, the journey and the Kutab Minar itself are certainly well worth a trial. To dimly understand Delhi — and for me at least Delhi begins and ends, historically, from May to September, 1857 — it must slowly sink into the mind. Wait a moment! You gasp: “Have you seen, or forgotten, the Diwan-i-Khas? the Jama Masjid? the Naubat Khana? Not at all. But compared to the Ridge, the Kashmir Gate, the grave of John Nicholson, the masonry of Shah Jahan falls into the shaded background. Walk about Delhi. Stroll down the Chandni Chauk: what does it breathe? Commerce, tramcars, jewellery, and incongruity, you reply. Perhaps to some extent, but the Mutiny is there. Journey to the tomb of the second Mogul emperor; the Mutiny o’er shadows it. Wander through the wonderful and beautiful fort; it was taken in ’57. The whole city whispers Mutiny. Its walls exhale it; its atmosphere encircles you. So I slowly drove out to the Ridge this afternoon. I just passed across the rugged back of this immortal ground. I looked over a forest of spreading trees and saw the infrequent outline of a city wall, the minarets and cupolas of the Jama Masjid, the course of the Jumna. I passed Hindu Rao’s historic house; I looked at the Observatory; I skirted Flagstaff Tower; and I stopped nowhere. I could not yet focus the enormous distances (in comparison with the pistol-shot range of Lucknow) of the siege of Delhi. I knew it would all come, but I had to wait. So I drove past Circuit House; I saw it again peopled by the King and Queen; I pictured the long, flat-plain behind the Ridge glowing with Indian colours, sparkling with British tents. I drove on through the very centre of them all, past sturdy Gurkhas in mufti, past little Gurkhas in green; past, in fact, one of the finest fighting regiments that British India boasts; past the tents of those whose fathers helped to hold the Ridge for us in ’57. Fine fellows all! We have much cause to be proud of the Gurkhas. Then on past a cloud of dust upon my right, from which emerged a couple of polo teams galloping across the plain. On a little farther along

Delhi

167

the road that ends in the Durbar Shimiana, then driving from point to point I gradually inhaled the spirit of Delhi and learned a little of its complicated geography. Then back to the Hotel Cecil — most comfortable, and the manager extremely obliging and helpful in every way.

12th February.

T

his morning I still held back. My view was clearer, the focus better adjusted; but I decided to keep the Mutiny to the end. And glad I am I did so. I saw the Taj too early in my Agra visit. So I set out shortly after nine to see the fort, which absolutely delighted me. It is not too large; you can, figuratively speaking, compass the entire mile and a quarter with a glance; and I think the Diwani-Khas can hold its own against all rivals. Let us enter by the Lahore Gate. Here, as at the Delhi Gate, a sentry — a Royal Fusilier — paces to and fro, with goose-step tramp and scarlet coat; you pass on into the vaulted Entrance Arcade, associated in our minds as a scene of murder. For here, on the 11th of May, 1857, the first trickle of Delhi’s succeeding stream of blood was spilled in the massacre of its commissioner, collector, commandant, and chaplain. But forget the Mutiny, pass through to the wonders of Shah Jahan’s exquisite palace; pass under the red sandstone gate of the Naubat Khana, where, once, only royalty might ride; and see — barracks. The shock offends every instinct of art within you. Necessary perhaps they are; but the anticipated sublime has indeed become the ridiculous. Never mind! Close your eyes, pay four annas, and pass on, pass back, into the seventeenth century. Ahead of you stands the red sandstone Diwan-i-Am, with its beautiful arches and canopied recess; on both sides lie the enclosures, now charming green lawns, where once Shah Jahan and his court passed away many sunny hours, and where, but an hour ago, in the reckoning of history, our King and Queen — the Emperor and Empress of India — walked in procession to that wonder in marble, the Diwan-i-Khas. But the march of Time goes forward. History may be fascinating, instructive and romantic, but modern inventions are Life. On one side Shah Jahan: on the other Marconi.

168

A Winter in India

Look slightly to your right, and towering above the almost mediaeval fort stand the installation poles of modern science. If it offends your sense of fitness, pass into the museum. The word foreshadows musty raiment and uninteresting coins; but here, if you associate Delhi with ’57, you will be charmed. Here are extracts from the “Delhi Gazette,” the “Lahore Chronicle” and the “Roorkee Gazette” that tell of sudden and strange interruption of telegraphic communication, of later definite news of mutiny, of the fall of Delhi, of progress — alas! untrue — towards recovery of the great leader of the assault. Here a coloured picture speaks of the Kabul Gate and Nicholson’s fall beneath a rebel bullet; there a photograph shows us the King of Delhi in captivity; while beside it, and framed in identical style, you see the portrait of the British mutineer, Sergeant-Major Gordon. Wander on. Look at that quaint drawing of the Kutab Minar as it stood before the earthquake; see the tattered chair of the last of the Mogul emperors. On all sides coins, miniatures, old books, seals, jewellery, gods, guns, chain armour, spears and a hundred other impersonal relics of the past. But look through that glass case in the centre of the room. There you will read, in his own handwriting, a letter from General Nicholson to General Wilson; and, the gem of the whole collection, you will see a dirty, stained, torn pea-jacket — the one in which John Nicholson fell, in the very hour of victory, at the Kabul Gate. The sun is grilling, but pass on through the Rang Mahal, the Painted Palace of the Chief Saltana, and stand on the jutting balcony where the King and Queen sat, a year ago, and watched the sports below. On yet a few steps farther and you are in the Mussamman Burj itself, where they showed themselves to their Indian peoples, close packed in countless thousands beneath the marble balustrade. You are now in the Diwan-i-Khas, the centre of latter Indian history. White marble, inlaid with precious stones and supported by innumerable pillars, the building compels reverent admiration. Spoiled by the marauding Jats, who removed the ceiling of silver; robbed of its priceless peacock throne, which now rests in Teheran; looted by the British soldier in ’57, the Diwan-i-Khas still remains a feast of beauty. And not only does exquisite artistic taste entrance the eye, its historical associations add a thousandfold to its fascination. Here Shah Jahan looked out across the Jumna from that wonderful peacock

Delhi

169

throne, while the canals rippled cool music through his palace; here he dreamed of the dawning marvel of all monuments, the Taj. Here, centuries later, the last King of Delhi sat, soaked in opium, ease and contentment till driven on to mutiny; and here, a miserable captive, he was tried and condemned to exile. Here Nadir Shah, the Persian, coveted the peacock throne; here Lord Lake held a reception in 1803, after the capture of Delhi; here took place the Thanksgiving Service of the Delhi Field Force in 1857; here the Indian Army gave a splendid ball to King Edward VII (when Prince of Wales) in 1876; here, just below, the mutinous troops from Meerut burst into the Zer-Jharokha to inform the distressed King of Delhi that the Mutiny had begun; and here King George but lately walked, holding high court amid the Oriental splendour of Eastern potentates. Ah! one could spend many hours in this sunlit fort, wandering from dazzling mosque to glittering pavilion, treading upon the soft green lawns of the lovely gardens, and repeopling the historic Diwan-i-Khas with the endless stream of jewelled Indians who have in a hundred generations passed before their successive emperors. But now follow me to the city. Pass with me through the famous Delhi Gate, guarded by those black elephants so familiar to us all in the Durbar pictures of last year. Look ahead at the largest mosque in all broad India. There stands the Jama Masjid glittering beneath a brilliant sun. Two minarets of red sandstone, three domes of sparkling white, crowned by pinnacles of gold that scintillate under an Indian noon, and cobwebbed in tracery of black — such is your first view of this famous mosque. Picture Shah Jahan and his successors on any Friday these centuries ago making their regal entry through the now closed central gates. Gorgeous umbrellas of orange, yellow and gold are held high above their jewelled heads; liveries of red and gilded blue surround them on every side; the people abase themselves to earth in unreasoning, instinctive humility; and the great gates close upon the resplendent pageantry of the Mogul emperors. It is hard to repicture those distant days, hard to repaint in sombre colours the brilliant ceremonial of the long ago, difficult to repeople those selfsame roads with the crumbled dust of another age — an age of ostentation, an age of mediaeval pomp and magnificence, an age prior to enforced commercialism.

170

A Winter in India

But here is the Chandni Chauk, the Bond Street of London, the Rue de la Paix of Paris, the Esplanade Road of Bombay. You may laugh later, but it is true. Let us enter from the fort end. What is that set-back, white building on the right? The Delhi and London Bank, the house where Mr Beresford, his wife and family were murdered on the 11th of May, 1857. Ah! Mutiny again! Yes, it is written in crimson letters across the capital of India — across all Northern India itself. Next to the bank is a Baptist church, facing a Bengali sweetmeat shop. An electric tramcar clangs past. You look around. The street is bisected by a raised pavement, now covering, I understand, what was once an old canal. Spreading trees throw their welcome shade from the Delhi Bank to the Clock Tower. You stand under one and watch the traffic pass to right and left. Here and there a house, but, in the main, two and three storied booths clinging to each other, as though for support, in crazy incongruity. The tramcar loudly execrates a wandering goat at the moment, munching some stolen cauliflower in calm content upon the rails; a bullock cart creaking beyond the zone of its discordant progress contrasts the ancient with the modern form of locomotion; a dealer in precious stones, whose personal outfit might fetch a couple of rupees in the General Store just opposite, approaches from behind a dirty yellow chick that screens from the vulgar gaze probably three lacs’ worth of dazzling capital. His shop is famed the world throughout, he cries; to pass it unnoticed would be to miss the one real sight of Delhi, would be equivalent to spending a week in Agra and not visiting the Taj. To thank him for his disinterested concern in the thoroughness of your sightseeing, simultaneously denying any intention of purchasing his priceless jewellery, merely calls forth the reassuring rejoinder that such a preposterous idea had never entered his head. No one expected you to buy: merely to look. And so, interrupted by corps of voluble and clever touts, you pass china gods nestling among brass trays, tiaras hobnobbing with cricket bats, fishing-tackle neighbouring cashmere shawls, the East fraternizing with the West. You wander on, and your eye falls on a well-known poster. George Robey in his battered old silk hat leers across the street at you, grins at the Kotwali, smirks on the very spot where Hodson one late September day flung down upon the pavement the all but naked bodies of the King of Delhi’s sons and grandson.

Delhi

171

Here also Metcalfe hanged the rebels when the days of reckoning came. That was six-and-fifty years ago. But prior to that Delhi had been sacked and looted again and again. The Chandni Chauk has run with rivers of blood times beyond count. Look up at that golden dome beside you — next door to the Kotwali. Picture the last massacre that soaked the Silver Street in streams of scarlet. Here Nadir Shah, the King of Persia, unsheathed his jewelled sword in 1747. Symbolic act: the leaping steel from the scabbard of pearl flashed the death warrant of one hundred thousand souls. And today! What echo of clash of sword and rattle of musketry? Only the clang of unpicturesque tramcars and the bleating of a baby goat. What picture of this historic spot hangs today before one’s eyes? A stone fountain; a statuesque native policeman; a stray cow ambling towards the glittering cupola of the temple; a bullock cart squeaking along at tortoise speed; natives and Europeans jostling one another on the pavements; a chemist’s shop flanked by a gaudy Indian theatre; spreading trees as far as the eye can see; a double row of ramshackle bungalows huddled together in haphazard schemes of colour and heterogeneous styles of architecture — you are standing in what is reputed to be the street in the world. Fate is too strong for frail humanity: you must just peep inside a tottering booth. Climb those three half-rotted planks, called steps. Beyond is the business house of Messrs Hurjimull and Company, jewellers and vendors of stuffs, ivory and sandalwood. By outward appearances their stock might range in value from £500 to £1000. In point of fact crammed into this antiquated shawl-draped booth lies the equivalent of five lacs of rupees, or more than £83,000. So don’t judge by the faded photograph inside the doorway or by the battered tin lamp that overshadows you. Look round and see what a Delhi shop can show you. Three arches, draped by Furrahabad curtains, and backgrounded by cashmere rugs, first attract your attention. A notice “Fixed Price” is prominently displayed, to discourage discussion on finance — but, like most rules, it exists merely to be broken. On all sides stand or squat glass-windowed cabinets and tables. Take that one facing you. There are loose jade stones piled high beside some old silver boxes; Ceteram pendants in blues and greens; enamel necklaces of Delhi workmanship;

172

A Winter in India

opal tie-pins; hakeek and silver rings; sandalwood and ivory boxes. Here are silver bowls from Burma, brass work from Mooradabad, an amethyst necklace and a topaz from Jaipur, turquoises from Persia, and rubies from Ceylon. Then turn round and examine these table-covers in white, picked out with gold and silver flowers; here one in red and blue, trimmed with gold; there a dozen cashmere shawls jewelled with enamel embroidery. Rugs, table-centres, the stuffs of a dozen countries lie in confusion before you. And now before we go just look for a moment or two at this tin box upon the floor. Battered, yellow-brown, and own sister to your scullery-maid’s travelling trunk, it contains goodness only knows what wealth. Here, for instance, is a double-row necklace of gorgeous pearls — 25,000 rupees; next sparkles a raja’s head-ornament, its centre a brilliant sapphire, set with diamonds and pearls, and twinkling with emeralds and more diamonds that flash from nine shivering bands of eighteen-carat gold — for which £3,000. And again, to take a typically Indian style of jewellery, look at this quaint flower necklace of seedpearls and green enamelled beads, bunched together in two ropes of six long strings, joined top and bottom by clusters of pearls, while hanging from them dangles a red and green enamel pendant set with rubies and diamonds. And price only a 1,000 rupees. But the interest in this necklace lies in its use. Both bride and bridegroom at Hindu weddings bedeck themselves with necklaces, the poor with garlands of real roses and marigold, the rich with thousand-rupee jewelled ones. And now, lastly, just glance at this nine-stone lucky necklace. At top and bottom clusters of pearls are joined to a gold and silver rope and an enormous nine-stone pendant, respectively. The “rungs” of this ladder of beauty are nine squares of different stone: diamond, cowmedse (golden colour), pearl, emerald, ruby, sapphire, turquoise, moonstone, and coral, all connected by five tiny strings of pearls. In all 1,500 rupees. And so on till your eyes become accustomed to the flash of purest emeralds and sapphires, and unconsciously ignore the jewels of less expensive price. Here is an emerald (produced from a common little cardboard box) worth £1,500; there a ruby worth 10,000 rupees; here a sapphire valued at 5,000; and there a pocketful of pearls representing

Delhi

173

a decent income. And all in an apology for a shop — whose rent is £200 a year. But pass out again into the Chauk, and look up at the East India Railway Joint Booking-Office, just opposite “Haji Alijan, Merchant.” You may be looking at History; and, again, you may only be cricking your neck in the study of a disused and suddenly evacuated bank. In case it be the former, follow me past a small group of police sentries, and enter a squalid courtyard, roofless and bazaar-scented. Round it, upon the ground floor, lounge sundry somnolent and commercial gentlemen lying or squatting on the Eastern “table-couches” that serve alike for the purposes of sleep and the display of merchandise. Climb up, accompanied now by a native detective, a pitch-black, short staircase and squeeze along a narrow wooden passage overlooking the lazy and the diligent below. Scramble through a warren of little rooms, only tenanted by dust; pass a courteous European police official; climb up again upon a rooftop, and you may be standing on the spot from where the bomb was lately thrown at the Viceroy. But “throw” is surely an exaggeration: I could have tipped it over upon the elephant with my toe. Overhanging the pavement the balcony affords a perfect and uninterrupted view of the Chandni Chauk, as you may notice from the photograph which I took from this very spot. The elephant passed directly below; and when one reflects on the speed of this cumbersome animal the marvel is how the fellow failed to hit his mark with more appalling results. A veritable labyrinth of roofs, from any one to another of which an active man could easily jump, flight, amongst sympathizers, were surely a matter of no difficulty; below, on the second floor, half a hundred doors opening on to the narrow four-square court ensured perfect seclusion; and to surround the house appeared to me an impossibility for the good reason that you would have, simultaneously, to encircle the entire right side of the Chauk. Once seen from the actual spot, the all-wise, omnipotent arm-chair critic would agree with me that investment of the individual building was no less a forlorn task for the Delhi police than would have been the circling of the seven-mile city wall by the British troops in ’57. But avoiding the controversy as to where the bomb was actually tossed from, look round at the view. At one o’clock you will gaze right into the face of the sun; away across a rugged waste of roof-tops tower

HOUSE FROM WHICH BOMB IS BELIEVED TO HAVE BEEN THROWN AT THE VICEROY, CHANDNI CHAUK, DELHI

THE POWDER MAGAZINE, DELHI

Delhi

175

the marble cupolas and minarets of the Jama Masjid; below whistles the wheel of the electric tram; trees partially obstruct your view of the far side of the street, but on your right, on the near side, you see straight down the Chauk to the Clock Tower, and to your left away towards the Kotwali. Behind you lies the open courtyard, be furnished with broken chairs, police, debris and squalor, and partially protected from the Indian glare by torn and filthy sun-blinds. The life upon the street flows this way and that; the bullocks plod along; the tramcars rush; Europeans of all nationalities hurry past or crane their necks, betokening the nature of their occupation; gharri wallahs discourse harshly with obstructing pedestrians; hookahs slowly and sleepily bubble on the open doorsteps; a representative of Gerrard (sent out from home) hunts for a priceless pearl to complete a necklace for “the States” — the East and the West live out their little day in the fascinating, incongruous Chandni Chauk. And now let us drop close on six-and-fifty years. Let us for a moment walk in the city of the Moguls — the city of Shah Bahadoor Shah, the city of seething mutiny. It is the 11th of May, 1857. The 3rd Cavalry, the heralds of the succeeding swarm of mutineers, have arrived, panting, at the palace gates, to announce the massacre of the “English at Meerut” and their determination to “fight for the faith.” The Delhi Bank has now been surrounded and attacked; the manager and his family are lying, slain, in the Chandni Chauk. The main-guard, the miniature fortified enclosure just inside the Kashmir Gate, runs red with the blood of British officers; and Major Abbot of the 74th N.I. piles the dead bodies on a bullock cart and despatches it to the Ridge. This is happening on the very ground to be immortalized on the 14th of September by Nicholson and his irresistible European and native troops. But wander on into the city through what was then a network of houses for about six hundred yards, and look through the near archway of the magazine. Within, the building is packed with guns, rifles and ammunition sufficient for a small army — and it is guarded by the Immortal Nine. Look up today as you stand outside the gate, and read the story of their undying fame. Lieutenant George Willoughby is in command of the magazine, two officers and six men. The gates are closed; guns, doubly charged with grape, yawn at them, facing the street; a howitzer commands the enclosure — in all ten guns, and nine men to fire them.

176

A Winter in India

The mob is raging without; the rebel troops are tramping through the narrow, tortuous streets; Willoughby runs a fuse from the centre of the enclosure to the heart of the magazine; Scully, one of the Nine, stands at the commencement of the trail, ready with lighted portfire in his hand. On and on the sepoys come, shouting, undisciplined and arrogant; a summons to surrender is impudently made in the name of the King of Delhi; a point-blank refusal is returned; volleys of lead pour into the enclosure; the Nine prepare for death; scaling-ladders are run up against the walls; the sepoys in hundreds swarm down upon Nine; Willoughby’s guns belch forth their swan song of thunder and grape, but what can Nine do against a thousand? Bayonets flash in the sunlight; Willoughby raises his hand, and in an instant a blast of deafening volume rends the air; the walls of the magazine are flung to the four winds of Delhi; sepoys and British alike are hurled in a cloud of smoke into space and death — and the magazine is, in the main, a worthless mass of twisted iron and steel. Valour indeed! And of the Nine, incredible to relate, Willoughby, his two officers and one man escaped annihilation. And now wander on to the Lahore Gateway of the fort. Mutiny is rampant here. See the swarm of rebels fall upon and murder chaplain, collector, commissioner, and commandant. Look round from east to west, from north to south, Delhi is drunk with arrogance and blood, with anticipated freedom and present massacre. Now it is the 7th of June. Sir Henry Barnard has won the Ridge. He has marched down from Kurnal with 2,400 infantry, 600 cavalry and 22 guns. The one hundred and four days’ siege of Delhi has commenced. My purpose is not to quote copious extracts from Fitchett’s fascinating “Tale of the Great Mutiny”; not to copy pages from Griffith’s delightful “Narrative of the Siege of Delhi”; nor yet to encroach upon the literary preserves of Murray. I should just like, in the simplest language, to try to portray to you the main incidents in the great historic siege, and I ask you to bear with me while I point out to you, from the top of the Mutiny Memorial on the Ridge, the various points of interest and positions of importance. The mutiny is now raging. Barnard has reached the Ridge. If you are thus far interested, open the attached plan of the operations: it will assist you enormously to follow future events.

Delhi

177

You must first of all understand what, actually, the Ridge is. It is a rough and very rugged mound, close on sixty feet high, stretching for about two miles from right to left across the plain forefronting Delhi. From its nearest point, where now the memorial stands, the city walls are only about 1200 yards away — say three-quarters of a mile; while from its extreme left, which rests on the Jumna River, the distance is increased to over two miles. And now drive with me towards this Ridge. Setting out from the Cecil Hotel, I left my tonga when about half-way up to the memorial, and struck out to the right, from the spot where No. 1 Battery, 4th Column (right) was latterly stationed, to pound the Moree Gate and Bastion (of which we shall hear more soon), distant only some five hundred yards away. If you wander along the rough ground for some little distance, turns lightly to your left and head for the red sandstone memorial above you, you will shortly come to the famous Samee House Battery, commanded, as you will read for yourself on a square pillar denoting the spot, by “Captain Remington, R.A. Armament eight 9 pounders. To command ground near Moree Bastion.” And when you have reached here sit down, try to imagine you are back in ’57, and then contrast the situation with today’s. Above you towers the memorial. At your feet lie boulders in haphazard attitudes of confusion, as though some Gulliver had thrown them down from the summit of the Ridge in aimless disregard for their ultimate destination. Between you and the Ridge-top are continually ascending levels of rock, some whole, some pounded by shells, some ground to powder, interspersed by a million boulders of every shape and size, some part of the hillside, some blasted free, and some merely portable mementoes of ’57. The heat is grilling — in February. Imagine that of burning July; picture the rains of August and September! On all sides trees, some that have seen the flight of countless shells; some that have heard the never-ceasing boom of monster guns; some that have since grown up on the immortal slope. Brushwood and arid patch, alternating from here to the hidden Flagstaff Tower — and peace eternal. The roar of cannon is replaced by the hum of drowsy flies; the scene of hourly death and everlasting din is reset in a landscape of sunshine, silence

THE KASHMIR BREACH, DELHI

THE RIDGE, DELHI, SHOWING HINDU RAO’S HOUSE, WHERE NICHOLSON DIED

Delhi

179

and beauty; an immortal spot once peopled by the undying dead is now tenanted by a flock of goats. Spend a few moments here before you climb up to Hindu Rao’s house; gaze across the screen of trees that today almost hides the city from your view; look round at the reincarnated hosts of British and Indian heroes who battled and died to uphold the great Dependency. For whereas at Cawnpore and Lucknow the awful stakes men played for were wife and child and very life itself, here, on the sun-racked Ridge, they fought for Empire. So look across at that scene once daily familiar to those living and dying at the advanced Samee House Battery. Above all, tower the glittering minarets and cupolas (far out of cannon range) of the Jama Masjid, sparkling today, as then, under the dazzling rays of the Indian sun. On the left stands out the untouched fort — a mass of red, walls, turrets and palaces; still farther towards the Jumna (but not there in ’57) soar six slender posts — Marconi installations. But where once the city walls were as visible to Captain Remington and his cruelly pounded battery as the fingers on your hand, now they are practically hidden by intervening trees aged anything under fiveand-fifty years. And to my mind this seems a pity. Thousands upon thousands of tourists annually climb the Ridge; thousands gaze across a forest of trees and intervening bungalows, vaguely endeavouring to repicture the final assault from the 7th to the 14th of September. But how many really understand it all? One’s conception of it is somehow marred by the probably unavoidable march of Time; and one is inclined to pray that some Titan host might clear away the interloping trees and bungalows alike. And then one would more nearly comprehend what our splendid British and Indian troops accomplished during those scorching months so long ago. For on the spots where batteries were advanced, for the final silencing of the bastions (that is, sort of martello towers built at intervals along the ramparts, on which the rebel guns were mounted), and for the breaching of the city walls, now the sites lie amid police barracks and in the compounds of private bungalows. I suppose it is unavoidable, but it is not helpful to a clear understanding of the September operations before Delhi. Now let us wander on and up the Ridge. Here is a mighty boulder, hard to climb; there a small ravine, blasted out of the hillside, perchance, by the rain of shells that screamed over the Samee Battery, to

180

A Winter in India

burst farther up the Ridge. Now the peace is indescribable. No raging warfare ever broke the silence of this rugged hill; no deafening cannonade ever hurled its endless store of grape and lead upon its sunlit, tree and brushwood covered slopes; no thundering requiem of death roared in the dying ears of sturdy Gurkhas, full-bearded Sikhs and pale-faced British officers and men. It is all a dream. And yet nearer and nearer, taller and taller, appears the sandstone monument erected to those who in very fact did die on and around this Ridge. Read what the panels say, for now we are actually standing beside the memorial. Our loss during the siege amounted to 2168; that of the native troops to 1686. Do we sometimes forget the latter fact? Do we often enough remember that if the 60th Rifles lost 389 men out of a total of 890, the Gurkhas and the Sikhs also fell in hundreds side by side with the British? Do we forget? And now climb up the narrow staircase of the tower and look around. To fully understand the field of Waterloo — I speak as a layman — one needs, I think, to mount the Lion’s Mound and from that eminence to look down upon the farm of Hougoumont, the distant La Belle Alliance, the nearer La Haye Sainte and the overshadowed Sunken Road. The valley may be filled and the field become a plain; but you know that it is merely a delusion which can be rectified by walking across the immortal ground, down the valley and up the farther slope. And so with the Ridge. To get a mental grip of the actual positions occupied by the opposing forces you should stand above them all — sweeping at a glance the entire country-side to north and south, to east and west. Now that we have ascended to the summit of the memorial, and if you are still interested, look at the plan. You are perched up on the extreme right of the Ridge (of course not marked) some hundred yards above Samee House Battery. The great upstanding boulders are lying flat; the sixty-foot rise from the city walls is levelled smooth; but having slowly, and tediously perhaps, climbed the boulders and tramped up the steep ascent you know it is merely the invariable delusion of sight from any height. Now look through the “porthole” of the tower that faces Delhi. Away on the right lies the Lahore Gate, beyond the Burn Bastion and outflanking the village of Kishenganj. Through this gate, just beside

Delhi

181

that tall chimney-stack, Major Reed, the officer in command at Hindu Rao’s House, entered the city on the 20th of September, six days after the actual assault. Then to the left you see the Kabul Gate, roughly half-way between the chimney and the Jama Masjid, where Nicholson fell, mortally wounded, in the very hour of his triumphant success. Next we come to the Moree Gate and Bastion, on which the fire of the Samee Battery was for so long concentrated, lying just to the left of the Diamond Jubilee Flower Mill chimney; the Kashmir Gate and Bastion — for ever immortalized by Home and Nicholson — are near the white cupola of St. James’ Church, farther to your left; while to the extreme left, on the bank of the Jumna, is the Water Bastion. And that finishes all we need know about the city. Now turn to your left. There is the Ridge: you are looking right along it. And here, which I am not saying in any spirit of facetiousness whatever, avoid doing what I uncommonly nearly did — fall down the unguarded stair. The pillar directly facing you is the Lat of Asoka, of great antiquity but of no present interest, having been placed here after the Mutiny. On the left of that stands the famous Hindu Rao’s House, the key of the British position. Here Hindu Rao, a Mahratta of Gwalior, was once imprisoned by the East India Company; here the shells fell fast and fierce during the entire siege; and here, on the 23rd of September, 1857, John Nicholson breathed his last. Today it is a hospital, and clean and cool it looks in its coat of white, overtopping the city on one side and on the other overlooking the distant plains that lead up to the Punjab. Then you will next see a red house, a little farther on and to the right of the white, switchback road; but pass on, it is of modern construction. Now we come to a building somewhat similar (from where we stand) to a racket court. This is the Observatory, often called the Mosque, near which the earthworks of a battery are visible to this day. Farther on lies the Chauburji Mosque, which formed the left of the British position and was utilized as a hospital for our native troops. And, lastly, that red, round, turreted building, is Flagstaff Tower, where on the 11th of May were huddled together a company of women and children, refugees from the blood-mad city, prior to their retreat to Umballa, Kurnal and other places of comparative safety in the north. And now I have nearly finished. So far you have looked across the plain at those city gates which concern the siege — those gates which

THE KASHMIR GATE, DELHI

KASHMIR BASTION, DELHI

Delhi

183

face the Ridge, those gates which, later, must be forced; you have seen the various points of vantage from which our batteries returned the murderous fire from the heavy rebel guns; but now, remembering that the Ridge possesses a slope towards the Punjab, that is towards the left, no less than one in front of Delhi, look slightly to your left, behind Flagstaff Tower, and picture the British camp between the foot of the slope and the belt of trees that now hides a canal from view. Here the troops were safe from the shells of the largest rebel cannons, being covered and sheltered by the great boulders on the summit of the sixty foot high Ridge; and here, when off duty, our officers and men used to fish for wagers in the canal, as though no raging cannonade close by was thundering out the future destiny of an empire. Lastly, turn right round and look at those garden walls and houses on the left flank behind the Ridge. This is Sabsi Mandi, where some fierce fighting took place in the earlier stages of the siege, when the rebels endeavoured, but without success, to turn our flank and so imperil our position on the Ridge. And now I have really finished. To the best of my power I have tried to draw a light sketch of the positions of both armies, and if you have followed my description of batteries and camps you may now be able to understand the latter stages of this immortal fight. And now listen to the eternal roar of guns, watch the everlasting pressing forward and spreading out of pickets, picture the daily life of the besiegers of Delhi. For month after month, all through the too appalling heat of an Indian summer, the battles raged, until at last the day of final retribution gradually drew near. Brigadier-General Nicholson, having completed his wonderful disarming campaign in the Punjab, had now arrived, filling the entire camp with hope and confidence to brave and overcome the enormous dangers and difficulties besetting their way to the Chandni Chauk — dangers in advancing nearer to the eternal inferno of shot and shell pouring from bastion and wall, dangers and difficulties in descending a ditch twenty feet deep and twenty-five feet broad, of scaling the farther side, of racing through hells of lead and grape up to and over the as yet unmade breaches in the towering city walls. Let us be brief. There were five storming columns drawn up on the slope of the Ridge on the morning of the 14th of September. Below, at

184

A Winter in India

various points — at Ludlow Castle on the left, at the Custom House, almost upon the bank of the Jumna, at the new police barrack on the right — shell upon shell in unceasing, deafening roar had rained and pounded on bastion and wall alike, silencing to some considerable degree the former and battering breaches through the latter. Indifferent to death, our gunners had stood at point-blank range serving these guns day after day; engineers, to the extreme peril of their lives, had crept, after dark, down and along to the city walls, returning to report that the breaches near the Kashmir and Water Bastions were now large enough to admit the passage of the troops. So now see them standing, panting to be off, in the dawn of this autumn morning — in the sunset of many a young and noble life. The great Nicholson — only thirty-four years of age — was there, dressed, as to coat, in that tattered, khaki jacket now resting in the fort museum, busy making his final plans, exhorting his troops to keep together, to use discretion, to spare all women and children. He, with a thousand men, is to storm the breach on the left of the Kashmir Bastion; Brigadier Jones to pour his eight hundred and fifty men through the breach near the Water Bastion; Colonel Campbell with his Gurkhas, Punjabis and the 52nd Regiment — nine hundred and fifty strong — to race through the Kashmir Gate, after the sappers had scoffed at death by blowing it and themselves to atoms. Two more columns there were, one — the 4th — to attack the suburb of Kishenganj, and so work round to the extreme right, entering the city by the Lahore Gate, to be opened by Nicholson’s troops when they should have cleared Delhi to that point; and the 5th column to cover Nicholson’s advance, acting as a reserve; while the cavalry, meantime, British and native, were to sit, silent and steady under a withering fire, to prevent any attempt to outflank the storming columns and to protect the evacuated camp. The batteries now raged and roared their coming destruction and retribution; fifty guns had for close upon three days poured their irresistible avalanche of shot and shell upon the doomed city; from the Ridge the troops (when not assisting: for all in turn helped the gunners in the final assault) watched the deadly duel of cannons and mortars, heard the eternal roar of the shrieking shells as they hurled themselves upon walls, bastions and sepoys alike. And now the men were to march

Delhi

185

down to Ludlow Castle, relieve the artillery, and finally to race through a hailstorm of bullets and death to the breaches in the walls. Silently they marched down the slope that morning; silently and unnoticed in the darkness of the dawn they took up their final positions for the great assault. Nicholson stood apart from his troops, alone and pensive; stood where you too may stand; stood where today a number of native boys were playing football — in the Kudsia Garden. Jones was on the left, Campbell on the right, Nicholson in the centre. Let us first follow him. Suddenly the fifty guns cease firing as though spiked by magic; Nicholson at last raises his sword; the 60th Rifles break into a hoarse cheer and skirmishing order; the other columns commence their race with death; while a hundred guns and ten thousand rifles roar and spit from bastion and wall. The deep ditch has now been reached, down into it leaps mighty Nicholson followed by his thousand, less those whose race is run; the scaling-ladders are flung in, set up and climbed; the rebels turn and fly for safety in the mazes of the city; the troops pour through the gaping breach, madly rush down the brickwork incline, up which so many rebel guns have during the long siege been dragged; and the mainguard is once more held by British arms. Meantime Jones has poured his eight hundred and fifty men through the breach near the Water Bastion, and is now sweeping round to join Nicholson’s column inside the Kashmir Gate. But oft as has been told the story of the 3rd Column and the blowing up of the Kashmir Gate, it will perhaps bear a brief retelling. Colonel Campbell led his troops, under cover, to within sight of the gate, close to the spot where today Nicholson’s fine statue stands. And now at a given signal Home and his little band of heroes rushed out, powder bags in hand, and headed straight for the almost demolished bridge spanning the ditch that forefronts the gateway. Behind them raced a firing party, commanded by Salkeld. On and on they ran into the hail of lead until the single plank — the remnant of the bridge — was reached. Over it the survivors dashed, flung down their powder bags against the doors and dropped into the ditch below, to be followed in an instant by Salkeld’s detachment. As one man fell he handed on his torch to his neighbour; and so the immortal flame was carried across the slender beam and through the hail of bullets, to be finally cast upon the powder bags.

STATUE OF JOHN NICHOLSON, DELHI

Delhi

187

In a moment a roar announced the success of the daring race, and the right leaf, or door, of the Kashmir Gate was blown in. The bugler who had accompanied his fellow heroes sounded the advance from the ditch, when the restive troops left their cover to charge and surge through the gate in one mighty wave of bayonets and pent-up rage. And now a moment to take breath and to permit the three columns to reform. Then on again through a labyrinth of lanes, known as Rampart Road, till the Moree and Kabul gates were won — till John Nicholson, as ever, in the vanguard of the fray, fell mortally wounded as he called on his men to follow him to certain death. And so Delhi was gradually won, and the last flicker of Mogul twilight glory was extinguished beneath the piled-up bodies of British and mutineers. The knell of future independence was tolled in the deep booming of the bastion guns as they played on those who had lately served them; the dream of consummated massacre faded before the pitiless onslaught of avenging steel; the vain boasting of forty thousand died away in the merciless blood-drunk roar of a handful of British and mercenary troops. And today? I am sitting on the dry bank facing the immortal breach to the left of the Kashmir Bastion. Behind me I hear the perpetual thud of a football in the Kudsia Garden, where once the hard-baked earth echoed the wild rush of two thousand feet carrying Nicholson and his heroes on their race to the breach and death. At my feet the bank drops almost perpendicularly to a brick-built drain, then rises to a wall about eight feet high, to again lead up through rough and arid grass to the breach itself. In ’57 the ditch was as Nature made it — a dip down sixteen to eighteen feet and then up, to face a wall of over twenty feet in height. Much need to smash it to powder before pouring human flesh and blood against a rampart so impregnable! Today the wall is all but gone. On the right the bastion stands uninjured in places and in others battered to smithereens. On the breach itself grass grows in peaceful unconcern; a few stray stones lie in haphazard disorder upon the foreground slope; the crows caw; birds twitter; the sun gradually goes down on breach, bastion and gate; I rise and slowly follow a lady in a khaki dress and flaming hat who passes, all unwittingly, through the arch immortalized by Home;

188

A Winter in India

she asks a policeman on duty if this is the Kashmir Gate; a motor-car hoots across the site of the bridge of fame; the evening shadows enfold the city in their mysterious, outstretched arms of purple fading into grey; and I leave the main-guard to the peace of ghostly memories of ’57 while I once more make my way, for a last farewell, to the sacred acre where John Nicholson, the hero of heroes of the Mutiny, sleeps soundly in the cemetery close at hand.

GWALIOR

9th March.

I

t is grilling, but a merciful breeze makes life not only endurable, but positively ideal. I have, alas! said my last good-bye to Umballa since I reluctantly tore myself away from Delhi; and today my resting-place is Gwalior, in the hotel of that name. On the whole I should certainly advocate a stop here for a day or two, especially as it is on the main “bus route” of Indian railways. For lovers of tangible history it is possible that the interminable lists of rulers, assassins and puppets, with their attendant wars and ups and downs, will fail to satisfy their historic appetite, whetted as it is by the sight of the grandly situated fort, looking, as it does, like some Stirling Castle in the centre of a plain; while for those whose delight it is to substitute the records of the past by the attractions of the present I again am slightly dubious whether modern printing presses, colleges and princely stables will quite meet all requirements. But, after all, one does not enter native states to dawdle down Chandni Chauks ablaze with colours, jewellery and incongruity. One sets foot in Gwalior to glean some slight knowledge of, and to faintly picture, the setting of the Scindia family. And now, to give you some idea of the extent of the Maharaja’s state, let me tell you it has an area of 25,041 square miles — and the statistics leave you little the wiser. Nor was I; but if we add that Greece is 24,900 we have a definite and visible standard for comparison. The state takes its name from the old town of Gwalior — some two miles from the modern city — which, although never the actual capital, has always been famous for its strongly situated fort. The name is a corruption of Gopādrī, “the shepherd’s hill,” which gradually became Gwaliar, and, with Europeans, Gwalior. Personally I think, for all the visible connection between the original and modern names, the former might just as well have been Littlehampton or Richmond Park, but that is merely, as I say, a personal reflection and probably illustrates an unmusical ear and lack of intelligence — or imagination. Be that

190

A Winter in India

as it may, I feel on sure ground when I incline to the belief that your interest does not lie in statistics or geographical descriptions, purloined, of necessity, from a gazetteer, so let us set out on a lovely afternoon for a drive to the palace. The local guide-books insist on your “doing” — hateful word! — the city of Lashkar, the modern town, on the day of your arrival, meantime ordering an elephant — placed, at a price, at your disposal by the Maharaja, whereon to ascend to the fort the succeeding morning — so I followed their instructions in so far that I did not at once attempt to scale the steep approach to the citadel. After a drive of about a mile one enters the Phulbagh, or Palace Gardens, to be quite enchanted by the lovely trees, lawns and shady avenues, whose greens are here and there relieved from monotony by the brilliant mauves of bougainvillaea and the pinks and blues of countless flowers, until you face a spotless and dazzling edition of the grey White City of Shepherd’s Bush, the Jaibilas Palace, the home of Colonel, His Highness, Mukhtār-ul-Mulk, Azim-ul-Iktidar, RafiushShān, Wala Shikoh, Mohta Sham-i-daurān, Umdat-ul-Umara (just a moment for breath), Mahārajāhiraj, Alījāh, Hasam-us-Saltanat, Mahārajā ... (I really cannot continue: we are only now halfway to his surname and his guns, which latter number nineteen, and twenty-one within his own territory). Handing in my card, preceded by a letter of introduction (a quite unnecessary addition to one’s luggage, be it added, as the Maharaja does everything in the way of permitting tourists to see the sights — but I did not know that then), I was ushered by a tall individual dressed in white and crowned by a picturesque boat-shaped pugaree into the inner courtyard, a blaze of sunshine, fountains, lawns, and dazzling walls, to be finally introduced to an official as affable as he proved to be kindly and courteous. The Maharaja, he explained, was at present busy over state affairs, but would be very pleased to see me in an hour’s time. So I wandered off and inspected his African lions, reclining in narrow captivity in a circular stone-covered enclosure and at the moment being fed. But the rush and pad, pad, pad were absent; the roar of anticipated joy was non-existent. Slowly, as though conferring a favour, his and her majesty sedately received the regal banquet and as deliberately discussed it. As to what reliability one may place in the articulations of India I now

Gwalior

191

have almost gauged the sum; but the keeper stated that the lions were only fed once daily at three o’clock. I admit that truth is stranger than fiction — but, if stated facts be true, the Maharaja’s lions outdo both. Then I drove through Lashkar, the modern capital of Gwalior (the original capital being Ujjain), founded by Maharaja Daulat Rao Scindia in 1810 when he fixed on the site for his standing army, or Lashkar, meaning camp of the army. It lies just outside the palace gates and is an illustration of what can be done with unlimited means guided aright. Wide streets, spotlessly clean, lit by electricity, with here and there a dash of green where shady trees cast their welcome shadows upon white, carved balconies, I was almost dumb-struck with the contrast to any other native city visited in India. The shops in the bazaars were neat and of dainty architecture; while in the square at the end of the Sarapha, or main street, one saw stately buildings in the theatre, the Victoria Market, the Darbar Printing Press, the Municipal Hall, and the General Post Office. The printing was in full swing when I entered; and I could almost (except for the coloured faces) fancy myself back again in Fleet Street listening to the roar of the giant machines that nightly vibrate and rattle (shattering men’s nerves) as they dole out thousands of miles of printed matter to relieve us from the necessity of conversing at breakfast. And then I retraced my way to the palace, had tea with two officials, who discussed caste with, apparently, considerable knowledge and with great interest to myself, to be finally shown up to the Maharaja’s working-room. With names compared with which Ehrenbreitstein-Eka-terinoslav were as the A B C of dialect I had somehow prepared myself for an imposing princely figure of dignity. Up jumped a small man, very dark, black moustached, revealing when he smiled white teeth, dressed in a khaki shirt, unbuttoned and innocent of any tie, who grabbed my hand, apologized for having kept me waiting, and asked me to further excuse him for a few more moments. Whereupon he bounced back into his becrested chair and appended his signature to sundry documents. Aged 37, he might have passed for five years on either side of the actual number. The silence was unbroken save for the scratch of his pen as he signed and signed, as though for dear life (whereas, in point of fact, it was to get off in his car), and I filled in the interval by looking round me. Above his head stood a gigantic “dentist’s wheel,” large enough to bring up the

192

A Winter in India

unbidden tears prior to the awful, dreaded and increasing whiz; but on closer inspection it resolved itself into a harmless fan. He sat at a regal table some twenty feet long and perhaps five broad; an orderly stood at attention, facing him, fielding the signed documents as they were handed over to him; while one greater than he leaned over His Highness’ shoulder, uttering soft words in an unknown tongue. Beside me hung a dreadful photograph of the Royal Family: the late King Edward and Queen Alexandra, surrounded by the King, his late brother, and his sisters, taken when His Majesty was about eleven and fashions incredibly unbecoming. Above it, Her late Majesty, Queen Victoria; and surmounting and flanking her, lovely paintings of gorgeously apparelled Indian cavalry, mingled with photographs of British officers, pictures of durbars and Indian scenery — in all, an air of refinement and business combined. In a few moments up once more sprang the owner of twenty-five thousand square miles, a G.C.S.I., G.C.V.O., LL.D., and the A.D.C. to the King-Emperor. He was yet again sorry to have kept me waiting, and apologized for his khaki shirt and riding-breeches, donned for motoring to some adjacent shooting-box. He had received a letter about me, and an elephant, horses and carriage were at my disposal during my visit. He was longing to be off, and I don’t blame him: he had been working all day like a — Maharaja, so I shortly withdrew and watched his departure. From all the thousand corners of his gigantic palace turbans of red appeared as though by magic; and escorted by bowing minions in jostling ranks he jauntily made his way to his powerful and throbbing car, where, after holding what appeared to be a miniature Durbar, he and his friends jumped in and raced off at lightning speed (none of your tweleve miles an hour here!) to well-earned leisure and temporary oblivion from cares of state. It is worth one’s while to wander into his Darbar Hall, dining-room and other apartments open to the public (one only requires a permit, easily obtained), as affording some idea of the appurtenances of the present representative of the ancient House of Scindia. And of this House there are reams and reams to be written — but, fear not, not by me. Let a short outline suffice. The history of the State begins, so far as the present House of Gwalior is concerned, with one

Gwalior

193

Ranoji Scindia, who, owing to reduced circumstances, commenced life as slipper-carrier to the Peshwa (chief minister) Bālājī Bājī Rao. In 1726, brought to the front by his soldierly qualities, he was authorized to collect moneys in the Malwa districts, added to which he took part in all the campaigns of the day, against Delhi in 1736, against the Nizam, and against the Portuguese in 1739, ultimately dying in 1745 — the year of our own historic ’45. During Mogul days the fort (for the fort is Gwalior and Gwalior is the fort) was used mainly as a State prison; and we can picture the wretched Murad Baksh, the dupe of Aurangzeb, being murdered here in cold blood; in 1559 Akbar himself — great Mogul emperor — stayed in the fort, leaving it in January, 1600; while Teg Bāhadur, father of the Sikh leader, Guru Govind, was beheaded here. And then we read the long lists of those governors of the fort chosen by Jahangir, Shah Jahan and Aurangzeb in the days of their power. Next comes the awful collision of creeds, the Battle of Panipat, fought in 1761 between the Hindus and the Mahommedans, between the Mahrattas and the Moguls, when, following the general confusion, a Jat chief, Lokendra Singh of Gohad, captured the stronghold, to be himself turned out by Mahadji Scindia, which historic event connects the name of the fort with that of the House of the present Maharaja. But the whole history of this fort reads like the story of our own border tribes: today a raid from Berwick, tomorrow grim revenge from Alnwick. And so we read on of Gwalior that Scindia held the fort till 1780, when Major Popham captured it by using scaling-ladders. This was when Warren Hastings determined to support the claims of Raghunath Rao to the Peshwāship. Then we turn the page to see the fort restored, in May, to the Rana of Gohad. In 1785 it was almost deserted owing to famine; by treaty it was to be handed over to the British by Scindia, in 1803, but owing to refusal General White took it by force. In 1805, he, being still in command of the fort, made it over to Scindia, who retained it till 1844, when, after the battle of Maharajpur, in accordance with the treaty of Gwalior, the fort was garrisoned by British troops. In 1853, on Rayaji Rao’s coming of age, Lord Dalhousie restored it to him. From 1853 to 1858 it was held by the Mahrattas. In ’57 the Maharaja, remaining loyal to the British in face of a hostile host of soldiers and subjects, had to fly to Agra, leaving his capital

194

A Winter in India

in the hands of the courageous ex-Rani of Jhansi and the arch-fiend Tantia Topee, of Cawnpore ill-fame. From ’57 to ’85. it remained a British post, though the Scindia flag flew from the turret, being in the latter year restored to Gwalior in exchange for Jhansi. And that, very roughly, is the outline of the history of the fort. So now let us climb up and see it. Leaving the hotel about 6.15 a.m. — in accordance with strong advice, owing to the midday heat in March — I drove out into the half-dawn, already crimsoning the eastern sky in a blaze of glory, past the tomb of Muhammad Ghaus, a saint of the sixteenth century, and so on to the Hindola Gate of the fort — and an enormous, brightly caparisoned elephant. His costume was quite delightful: his action detestable. The former consisted, as to collar, of a double row of bells; his “shirt” of red fringed with yellow; his howdah — the railed-in seat saddled on his back — white bordered with green; while his mahout, seated upon a cushion of red strapped to his neck, vigorously prodded him on the head with a blunt-pointed instrument fashioned like a titanic fish-hook. But before the uphill climb commenced I asked two questions: one, why had the elephant a stripe of red slashed across his forehead; and, two, what was the building on our right. To the former I was told that the paint was “good,” the adjective, later on, being retranslated

MY ELEPHANT IN THE FORT, GWALIOR

Gwalior

195

into “custom;” and, as to the latter I discovered that the answer lay on page 108 of “Murray’s Guide-Book.” It was the Gujari Palace, built for the queen of Man Singh early in the sixteenth century, and today so deserted and desolate, so strangely echoing to the cooing of pigeons. At last we start; the fish-hook falls fast and hard on the head of the apparently indifferent elephant; slowly the hind knees bend, to be followed by the front ones; a ladder is placed against the howdah by a couple of attendants, one carrying a pole at least twenty feet long, painted red and pointed with steel. What a climb! Bang up! Overhead towered the grim walls of the fortress — a fortress perched in the centre of a vast plain upon a ridge some two miles long and perhaps half a mile broad — approached by a long and extremely steep roadway up which even the elephant walked in zigzag gyrations. I admit to a ride with juvenile London on a Zoo Jumbo; but somehow this one seemed to take a prodigious time over each footstep, when one experienced the sensation of long “pitches” at sea — and, “to speak truth,” as a foreign hotel-keeper used to say, it liked me not. However, we at last passed under the walls of the great Man Singh’s palace and finally alighted to wander through unroofed courtyards and bat-inhabited rooms and to climb upon the roof and look round at the view once daily seen by the great Raja at the close of the fifteenth century. How futile one’s little efforts seem, how petty the average aim, as one looks down into a vacant, sun-blistered court now echoing to nothing but the eternal songs of birds and the mysterious whisperings of nature where once all-important decisions, questions and treacherous intrigue were breathed by those now sleeping somewhere near at hand! Step into Canterbury Cathedral, walk about St Sophia, rest, in St Mark’s, waken the long-dead echoes in an Indian palace and answer why do we not more nearly take to heart the universal teaching which each and all exhale. And yet on we go in our flitting hour of life merely, too often, adding brick by brick to those hideous and gigantic monuments that we are ever raising, perhaps unconsciously, to the great god, Self. Inside the fort there is little, I think, to describe in a book such as mine purports to be. There are temples, barracks and a school; there are silent palaces, pigeon-haunted tombs — and memories. The Sasbahu

MY ELEPHANT IN THE FORT, GWALIOR

Gwalior

197

temples are quaint, being plentifully carved and ornamented with groups of dancers; the Teli-Ka-Man-dir — a Vishnavite temple — commands attention by reason of its height and the old surrounding sculptures, added to which it is close to the cliff of the Arwahi ravine, outside the south wall of which General White carried out his breaching operations; while the point, Faringi Pahar, calls up recollections of Major Popham’s scaling-ladders.

THE TELI-KA-MAN-DIR TEMPLE, GWALIOR

198

A Winter in India

And now we are slowly, so very slowly; plodding with prodigious jerks down the Arwahi ravine and gazing at the rock sculptures of Gwalior. Strange indeed they are! Hewn out of the very cliffs, they stand and sit, colossal and diminutive alike, untouched and mutilated in turn (some having escaped execution of Babar’s orders in 1527 to demolish them), and one sees, here, the gigantic figure of Adinath, the first Jain pontiff, there a monster female asleep; on one hand gods gazing across the ravine in a sightless stare; on the other seated divinities wrapped in contemplation. And once they were all important to human men and women; once they were supplicated, adored and, doubtless, reviled; and one can still repeople the strange gorge with kneeling hosts of devotees, one sect of a million throughout the globe. Once again descending from the oscillating howdah, I drove past the jail and on to the Chhatris, or cenotaphs, of the Scindias, situated to the west of the city, where one sees what are described as good examples of modern Hindu architecture, especial attention being called to the cenotaph of the late Maharaja. But if one is disinclined to remove one’s boots or shoes (for no mosque slippers are provided) one had better save oneself the drive, although, externally, the buildings are rather fine. Leaving the atmosphere of bygone religions and death, one can then drive on into the palace grounds and amuse oneself by studying the very human elephant where, in the stables, there are any number at work, feeding, washing, and at play. They are really quite delightful, their surroundings are shady and ideal, and they are well worth a visit. So also is the museum, where are displayed Mahratta and Gwalior guns, swords, birds, coins, shells, pugarees (of all colours, shapes and sizes), foxes, idols, birds’ eggs, drums, photographs, and goodness alone knows what else. But to me the greatest charm of all Gwalior lies, I think, in the lovely Phulbagh. Seldom, if ever, have I wandered through such exquisite palace gardens. Long, shady avenues of trees on every side, flowers in abundance, birds on every twig, an Indian sun giving a tender, late-afternoon colour to the riot of greens, mauves, blues, oranges, and pinks; while here and there, seen through gaps in the avenues, gleam the white walls and turrets of the Jaibilas Palace. It is far too beautiful, however, to be disfigured by a town-bred pen. And now that my short visit is over I can say with greater confidence that few who come to Gwalior will turn away disappointed.

Gwalior

199

THE JAIBILAS PALACE, HOME OF MAHARAJA OF GWALIOR

Lastly, the thought that (in 1901) this state — but one of dozens more — containing 9,563 inhabitated towns and villages, with a population of just under three million souls, ostensibly governed by the Maharaja, is in reality guided by a tactful, unseen British Political Agent, almost makes me violate my determination to confine this little book of impressions to what it endeavours to achieve — the passing of an idle hour or two — and rush into the labyrinth of statistics and politics. But I shall resist the temptation, merely saying that in spite of blunders, impeachments and latter-day arm-chair criticism I feel that we ought, all of us, more deeply to bow the knee of admiration to the little band of pioneers beginning with Clive and Warren Hastings and ending, perchance, with the Lawrences, who supplied us with those ingredients necessary to painting in colours of red the vast dependency that stretches from Cape Comorin to Peshawar.

JAIPUR

11th March.

N

ow I am in the heart of Rajputana, in the capital of the Jaipur state, 15,579 square miles in size, about 10,000 less than Gwalior or Greece. Once more native troops, institutions, police, and independence surround me; and the outward appearance of Jaipur city spells prosperity, cleanliness and progress. In truth, in no city so far visited in India have I seen such streets. Added to the cleanliness of Gwalior there are the attractions and novelty of great breadth, “noble” proportions and a new spirit pervading all. There is something quite unique in the whole atmosphere; something that seems to breathe of the West rather than the East: something that appears to be struggling towards the dawn of efficiency rather than to be dreaming in the twilight of stagnation and lethargy. Not that the city is entirely wrapped in a mantle of modern thought, discarding tradition, custom and quaint observances. Arriving at 2 a.m. after a long, triangular journey via Agra and Bandikui, almost the first incident which occurred threw me back to strange customs of the long ago. I was driving through the starlit night to the Jaipur hotel when suddenly the horses were pulled up sharp, nearly pitching me headlong from the victoria, while the “footman” scrambled down and in a second blew out the carriage lights. Shouts were mingled with the tramp of men and horses’ feet, and somewhat naturally assuming that some person or persons unknown, wittingly or otherwise, had transgressed the laws of the Rajputs, I enquired the cause of all the commotion. Oh no, nothing was wrong, I was informed; it was merely a custom that His Highness’ drinking-water is obtained from local wells under unenlightened circumstances. Twice, three times, did I rub my bewildered head in a futile endeavour to grasp the significance of what appeared to me a most puerile observance. It was the custom, again reiterated my cicerone in matter-of-fact tones, and denoted respect. For my part I considered it denoted more nearly lunacy (especially as the night was moonless), but reflection reminded me that I was in Rajputana, not

Jaipur

201

Oxford Street. It was the custom — that was all: the water must not be seen or in any way (the only grain of sense in the whole business) tainted by traffic — I presume dust is implied — so in the deep shadows we drove on to the hotel. But before we set out to catch our first glimpse of the pink city of Jaipur, of Jai Singh II, let us briefly review the history of this Rajput state. The Maharaja of Jaipur belongs to the Kachwaha clan of Rajputs, and claims descent from Rama, the King of Ajodhya. The state is said to have been founded in 1128 by one Dhula Rai, from Gwalior, who, with his Kachwahas, absorbed or drove out the local petty chiefs. The House of Jaipur furnished to the Moguls some of their most distinguished generals, amongst whom was Man Singh, the nephew of Raja Bhagwan Das, the friend of Akbar and the first of the great Rajput chiefs to give a daughter in marriage to the Mogul Imperial House. When we were standing in the grilling heat of Fatehpur Sikri repeopling the “pachisi” board with the royal players and their living pieces, this daughter of Man Singh was there; when we watched the great Akbar kneeling on the summit of the Panch Mahal, hand in hand with Miriam, she was there again; and when from the topmost roof of Sikandra — the tomb of Akbar — we looked through the pierced-marble trellis-work on to a time-worn dome we were gazing at the resting-place of Akbar’s wife and Man Singh’s child. And so this Man Singh who fought for the Moguls in Orissa and Assam, and was Governor of far-off Kabul, was grandfather to the Emperor Jahangir, the child born, as superstition holds, of the good-will of the hermit of Fatehpur Sikri. Then following the history of this Rajput House, Jai Singh the second fought in all the wars, in the Deccan of Aurangzeb, the grandson of Jahangir. To arrive at the derivation of the name of Jaipur, we find it in this Sawai Jai Singh the second, the founder of the city in 1728. “Jai” means victory and “pur” city, hence it was called Jaipur after him who built it. The word Sawai means 1 1/4, a complimentary title granted to him, and his successors, by the Mogul emperor. Prior to 1728 he, and his ancestors, lived in the now deserted city of Amber, six miles from the present capital. But not alone for his prowess in the field and his building of Jaipur is Sawai Jai Singh famous; for it was he who, in the intervals of fighting,

202

A Winter in India

built also that marvellous Jantra, or observatory — the largest of five erected by this royal astronomer at Benares, Muttra, Delhi, Ujjain, and Jaipur — which latter we shall ourselves explore. Towards the close of the eighteenth century the state was in great confusion, being distracted by internal broils and reduced to poverty by burdensome exactions levied by the Mahrattas. By a treaty in 1818 British protection was extended to Jaipur and an annual tribute fixed. In 1835 serious disturbances broke out in the city, when the British took strong measures to ensure order. Then coming down to the Mutiny, the Maharaja of the day threw in his lot with us; while, lastly, Maharaja Madho Singh, G.C.S.I., G.C.V.O., was born in 1861, succeeding in 1882, being moreover one of the Indian princes who visited England at King Edward’s coronation in 1902. And now I think we know enough, for practical purposes, of the founder and rulers of this most charming city. As you pass under the Sanganeer Gate and face the long broad sweep of Jewellers’ Street you can hardly believe you are actually in India. From vegetable shop to grocery, from silversmith to enamel-worker, the distance across is over thirty yards; on both sides as far as the eye can range pink flashes in the sunlight; pink walls, pink reflections, a city of pink. Made of lime and a substance called chunam, the entire walls are plastered in pink, decorated by white designs, giving one the impression of red sandstone. Sleepers in the sun there indubitably are; dreamers at door-steps; hookahs lazily bubbling; but, taken as a whole, the street breathes life, commerce, vitality. Spotlessly clean, as straight as an arrow’s flight, broad as the length of some Eastern bazaars, the city is a pleasure and a joy. Here stands the quaint Hawa Mahal, or Palace of the Wind, nine stories high, built by Madho Singh to house an emperor, and so called owing to its countless windows (affording vast opportunities for ventilation), and now used as a guesthouse for visiting rajas. Across the street stands the college, emblem of educational progress — and one is tempted to ask what else, in India. Is the answer discontent, national congress, the death of the salaam, the birth of anarchism, the need of an Arms Act? It is hard at this early date to say; but what is certain is that the college symbolizes the honest and painstaking endeavour of the “most benevolent government on earth” to uplift and enlighten humanity.

Jaipur

203

Look up! There on the summit of the Aravili hills stands the Mahargarh, or “Tiger Fort” where once roamed tigers, now tenanted by gunpowder, troops, and privacy not even to be disturbed, according to local lore, by tourist, viceroy or emperor. And so you wander on through this city of pink, into the camel enclosure, through to the Maharaja’s coach-houses, where are to be seen one hundred and one carriages of varying shape, size and design. Here is a monster purdah van, so cumbersome as to require four camels to draw it; there a state landau of silver and gold; here an elephant plods along beneath a burden proportionate to his strength; there skips about an untethered goat. You pass on into the Jaleb Chauk to watch Jaipur in litigation. Barristers, pice-a-line scribblers, plaintiffs, defendants, and storytellers are all enjoying the morning sunshine or sheltering from it beneath the cool, white colonnades that encircle the four-square court. A woman squatting on her heels, gorgeously apparelled in orange and blue, sells plums to the legal world; sleepily blinking oxen doze away the scorching hours; a solicitor, garbed in a duster of white, sorts his documents upon his table of mother earth; while on all sides rises up that never-ceasing hum inseparable from the gathering together of India. The “man in the street” points out the palace, and, on enquiry, shrugs his shoulders. The Maharaja is all right; and I wait for the “but,” which precedes statistics of the zenana and candid criticism of a colourless ruler. Prior to actual entry into the Palace Gardens — a vivid contrast, if the “man in the street” is to be credited, to their princely owner — one passes into the inevitable Diwan-i-Khas and Diwan-i-Am, both painted in Eastern style and upheld by marble pillars. Out again into the dazzling sunshine, reflecting glittering brass doors and the ablutions of the public, through drowsy court to fountain square and so on to the Fern House, where the Maharaja built him a cool shelter for the scorching days. Just listen to the rhythmic music of the fountains as they play upon the palms and ferns. Entering from blistered chunamed paths, the air strikes almost cold; and you feel you could sit here for hours, just listening to “the rain.” But one must tread yet further chunamed courts, pass the temple and stoop into the old zenana buildings, to overlook the famous palace tank. One must listen to the hollered “Oh! Ah! Oh! ... Lazily!”

204

A Winter in India

echoing across the lake in what proves to be a futile effort to call up a “mugger.” For this is Alligator Lake, where the captive meat is flung to the extremity of its line to splash upon the mirrored glass below. But no muggers stir; only a tortoise glides along; and above, a fleet of kites, crying harshly for the alligators’ meal. At last the flesh is torn in pieces and pitched high into the vault of blue; a chorus of glee; a rush of wings; a snatching rivalling a Liberty July sale; and silence once more. Emerging from the arched-roof ground floor of the zenana, you look across a long expanse of chunamed paths intersected by courtyards and a temple, and backgrounded by seven-storied Chandra Mahal, or Moon Palace, the residence of His Highness Maharaja Dhiraj Sawai Sir Madho Singh. The palace breathes the East. Zenana here; zenana there; disused bathing-tanks and silent fountains in deserted courtyards; luxury and ease: sunshine and unbroken peace. Wander on again, and sigh at your ignorance. Enter Jai Singh’s wonderful observatory. How many hours did this fighting, building knight of old spend amid his strange zodiacal dials, mural quadrants, cups for calculating eclipses, and beside his gigantic Yantr Samrat, reputed to be the largest sundial in the world. Here in the blazing sun is Scorpio, there Capricorn, here Aquarius and there Gemini. There are twelve of them, built of stone and all differently placed for direct observation of celestial latitude and longitude. But, one asks, what is this towering ladder of stone and steps reaching into heaven? — to be precise, some 90 feet towards it. And the answer is that this is Jai Singh’s gnomon (a pin which by its shadow shows the hour of day). Furthermore, that if you will step down and look at that crescent of white stone on either side of it, called graduated quadrants, you will read the exact hour at the present moment. And sure enough this “pin” (contrast it with those familiar to us in rural gardens, perchance a foot and a half in height!) towering above one like some gigantic racket court throws its shadow from the titanic dial at 11.37, which is correct. But it is all so pitifully deserted today, so bewildering, so scorchingly hot! How often did the great Maharaja sit in this very blinding sunshine, on the raised platform known as Jai Singh’s seat, gazing at his treasured brass circles, his maps of the celestial sphere and his innumerablesundials? How often was he disturbed in intricate calculations of other

CHANDRA MAHAL THE MOON PALACE OF THE MAHARAJA OF JAIPUR

206

A Winter in India

worlds by rumours of war in this one? How often did the command of the Mogul Emperor to lead his troops into the turbulent Deccan interrupt his astronomical and building studies? Who can tell! But the place somehow still breathes of science, knowledge, war, and progress. The swift march of time passes, visibly, across the gigantic quadrants, making one realize with startling vividness, as the giant shadow climbs and climbs before one’s very eyes, that three score years and ten are but as a digit in the reckoning of history. There is so much to see in Jaipur that one hesitates between the alternatives of abbreviation and elaboration, to, I trust, hit upon a more or less happy medium. The royal stables are close at hand, illustrating the equine retinue — three hundred — of an Eastern potentate; the carpet factory echoes to the chant of “Leave three threads and put the fourth in red!” where children of tender years — black little mites, with smiling faces and white teeth — ply with nimble fingers the multi-coloured threads that transform themselves before your eyes into Indian carpets. The brass-workers bend low over their tasks, gradually shutting out their light of day for 12 rupees a week; beside a bent-backed figure — fast going blind — sits a child chanting Persian letters in mechanical and unmusical rhythm; while above all is heard the eternal tap, tap, tap of a hundred “tent peg” wooden hammers chiselling beautifully engraved trays, bowls and nicknacks innumerable. Now come and see the Jaipur tigers. Regent’s Park again? No, they in no way resemble the inhabitants of our Zoo, and are worth a short visit. A roar, a bang, and one instinctively jumps back a pace as a bellowed snarl rumbles on to echo itself to oblivion through the Tripoliya Gate. For fourteen years this monster has roamed the jungle, twelve miles off, daintily feeding on cattle, women, children and men, till one day he sees a goat stupidly standing upon an adjacent sward of green, shivering with fear, but apparently unable to move. Here is a meal easily won; a crouch, a spring, a crash through bamboo twigs and leaves, and a drop of some twenty feet on to soft earth. A trap! He has at last been snared. The hunters cluster round, chanting for joy while the infuriated beast roars and roars his fury at the bottom of the pit. Three days he howls and leaps in vain; three nights he makes the jungle echo with the ungovernable rage possessing him; and on the fourth the hunters come again, laden with sand, spades, oxen, a goat and a cage, which latter is dragged over the mouth of the pit by the oxen. Then the sand

Jaipur

207

is shovelled in; the tiger, weaker but still mad with fury, pads round and round, stamping down the sand and, unconsciously, hastening his ultimate captivity. Slowly he finds himself nearer and nearer to the level ground — and to the cage. He howls for food, and lo! just above him and only separated by a few bars, now opened, he sees a goat. A spring, and he has bounded through the open door; a crash of iron upon iron as the bolts bang to; a song of joy for the hunters; a meal for the tiger — and imprisonment. So the Jaipur tigers are tigers, as you find out soon enough. But while your pity goes out to the still wild beasts, their hatred shining from their eyes, you are somehow glad to hear that on the first sign of illness, and in every case after a certain time, the captives will be released, to roam again at will in the jungle of their birth and youth, while others will take their places, for the entertainment of Jaipur. Then the museum in the lovely Ram Newas Gardens is most interesting and positively puts to total confusion of face two-thirds of such houses of instruction as I have seen in various parts of the world; while the Albert Hall itself, in which the treasures are stored and of which the late King-Emperor laid the foundation-stone in 1876, is a delightful building, reminding me somehow of a white Sikandra.

THE ALBERT HALL, JAIPUR

208

A Winter in India

Whosoever is responsible for the arrangement and the cataloguing of the exhibits is deserving of the utmost praise: the greatest idiot amongst us, who can read, is as able to enjoy and understand what he is looking at as would the various curators of the British Museum. I do not propose to enumerate the charming exhibits: they must be seen to be appreciated, not talked about. Returning to the hotel, I was bombarded by many cunning vendors of arms. One somewhat amused me by a request to buy a sword, guaranteed to cut a buffalo in two with one blow, which, should I fail in accomplishing, would be presented to me provided “master” put up the 12 rupees required for the sacrifice.

14th March.

A

very charming drive is that to Galta. You pass through the crowded city, whose pavements, though wide and entirely suited to pedestrian locomotion,are regularly scorned for the never-ceasing dangers of the road, till you reach the Galta Gate and the fringe of the desert. Above you on the summit of the ridge of hills that flanks Jaipur stands the quaint shrine of the sun god, and you get out to climb the paved roadway that winds up to the summit of the Galta Pass. One ascends this hill not, I think, to obtain a closer view of the shrine, but to get a bird’s-eye one of the whole city, surrounding hills and desert. And one is amply repaid. On the summit, three hundred and fifty feet above the plain, just look down. Below lies a sandy desert, interspersed by frequent clumps of brushwood, ending in the city walls; the city you hitherto imagined pink is so no more; white and yellow predominate, the only pink clearly visible being that of the upstanding Palace of the Wind. And then you recollect that in the side streets the plaster is of white or yellow, the main thoroughfares alone being coloured picturesque salmon. Now look through the two Galta gates, and see a really finely constructed street. Imagine you are standing on a mountain in Regent’s Park overlooking Upper Baker Street. You will follow the street in one long straight line through Baker Street, Orchard Street, North and South Audley Streets till your gaze bumps up against

JAIPUR, FROM GALTA

ONE OF THE INHABITANTS OF THE MONKEY GOD TEMPLE, GALTA, JAIPUR

Jaipur

211

Curzon Street. So it is from the crest of the ridge on the eastward of Jaipur. Your Upper Baker Street is Mohanbari, Baker Street the Ram Gunj Bazaar, the Audleys the Tripoliya Bazaar, while Curzon Street is the speck of pink in the far distance, the Chandpole Gate. It gives you an idea how Jaipur was built. But to dimly portray the actual scene it is necessary to flood the great city of London in a burning, dazzling Indian sun and to confine your gaze to the one long street. For here upon your right stands the Tiger Fort perched on the red summit of a spur of the Aravili hills; on the left the quaint fortress crowned by the Temple of Ganesh — the elephant god; looking over your right shoulder, from the rest-house a little farther down, you catch a glimpse of Amber Fort on a more distant ridge of the Aravilis; while behind lies the Pass itself, two wild and rocky cliffs — abode of monkeys and Hindu priests — streaked by a zigzag road leading down to holy tanks, temples and the plains beyond. The monkeys are marvels of cleanliness. Their coats as of fine grey squirrel fur, and their manners an illustration of ancestral possibilities. The priest fed them from his hand; they clambered around one in fearlessness and fun, when I photographed one at a six-foot range. The silence was broken only by the distant calls of women toiling up the Pass with burdens of faggots, plums, husks, and radish on their heads, and by the drone of worshippers in the Monkey God Temple close at hand. The sunshine lit up the Aravili hills and flooded in a perfect blaze of gold and silver the picturesque city below; and reluctantly I tore myself away from one of the most charming landscapes I ever recollect.

AMBER

15th March.

J

ust as the cold snap of the dawn is giving place to the warmth of approaching sun; as the colours begin to form before one’s eyes; when the morning anthem of ten thousand birds is newly and in evergrowing volume being sung, that is the hour to setout for the deserted city of Amber. And in the half-light as you drive along the already crowded streets and watch the women grinding corn, the water-carriers staggering under their pitcher loads, the commerce of the city once more in play, your thoughts may stray far from the bewildering, forming colours of Rajputana to a piazza kissed by a shimmering lagoon. It is a long cry from Jaipur to Venice, it is true; but as you see host upon host of pigeons — in legions innumerable — flooding the great broad streets, fearless, and confident of substantial consideration, your memory instinctively flies back to the Italian piazzetta where flocks, at most no greater, of these creatures feed upon the bounty of that world-famed square. But soon all that is left behind, and the Amer Gate is passed, opening out to sand, cactus and a long succession of moulding, desecrated tombs, temples and private houses. Along the desert road you drive for some four miles, enflanked by the now sunlit Aravili ridges on your left and bordered by the Galta hills upon your right. Monkeys romp and riot where they will; peacocks adorn the hedges and the fields; the old Water Palace stands up boldly and isolated in the centre of the temporarily half-dry Man Sagar Lake; till as the Amber Gate reveals itself you catch the glitter of water reflected from such portion of the lake as is not a plain of green. And now it is time to alight. An elephant stands nodding his trunk, after the manner of his nervous kind, awaiting the arrival of some

THE PALACE OF THE DESERTED CITY OF AMBER

214

A Winter in India

lazily inclined individual to whom the two-mile walk to Amber would appear to overtax his limbs. But for ladies, the halt and the antique there is, in truth, no other mode of progress (I ignore a bullock cart) as the incline to Amber, pretty steep, prohibits horse traffic. Having, personally, had my surfeit of elephant riding at Gwalior, I decided to walk the distance — and indeed why not? As an experience by all means mount Jumbo’s back, but it will take you a third again as long as on foot to reach your destination. After about fifteen minutes’ climb one gets one’s first view of what Kipling has called “the Queen of the Pass.” In a lovely gorge of the Kali Koh hills lies, or rather nestles, Amber, the old capital of the Kachwaha Rajputs. Local authorities state that it is named after Ambarisha, the son of Mandhata, the King of Ajodhya. For six centuries it was the home of the Kachwahas, but in course of time, owing to its cramped situation at the base of the hills, it proved unsuitable as the capital of such a large and influential state as Jaipur had become, so Sawai Jai Singh built the present city six miles off. But today as it stands out boldly on the hillside, lit by the now highrisen sun, overshadowed by the Jaigarh Fort, towering five hundred feet above, and reflected in the waters of the sparkling lake that laps, as it were, the very walls, the palace looks most imposing, and the Pass itself calls up memories of our highland scenery and Dalmatia. Nearer and nearer we approach, then leave the main road to cross the dry part of the Maota Lake, once so deep and broad, and the scene of many a boating hour in the long-dead past. We entered the Palace Garden through a massive gateway, beneath which many a time Man Singh had sailed. Today the lake is partially dry, and so on foot we walked across its less than half-dried bed, climbed up to the palace gate and passed into the old Court of Justice, an unroofed enclosure, shaded by eleven trees, flanked on the left by the famous Diwan-i-Am, and surrounded by disused stables. But here, somehow, one missed the sense of utter and pitiable desolation so associated with Amber; financially minded creatures approached one: the gatekeeper fawned for a pass — forgotten; and a band of pilgrims noisily clattered ahead into the Temple of Durga, the goddess of Destruction.

Amber

215

But wait! All that has been penned of the abysmal silence and loneliness of this forsaken spot is truly justified; here was but the outer shell of the kernel of devastation and silence to come. In the temple echoed the voice of a priest (for the temples are still used), the brushing of a sweeper and the droning of worshippers. The daily sacrifice, of a goat, was due; and a heap of sand prepared on the right of the “altar” indicated the slaughter-house. Hidden behind red and green draped curtains were paintings of Kali; facing, was a black and white checkered marble floor; and in the inner gloom, the dim image of the goddess, the chanting of the priest — reverberating through a wilderness of desolation — and the distant cooing of pigeons. Climb up to the historic Diwan-i-Am. Disregard the apparently undecided controversy as to whether it is so or is the Diwan-i-Khas, for to some it is the one, to some the other, and just look around you. There in loneliness, solitude and white plaster it stands, illustrating the insecurity of the past, the jealousy of an emperor and the apparent indifference to art of Mirzo Raja’s successors. For to the very throne of the Mogul Emperor Jahangir, son of Miriam and grandson of Man Singh, was borne one day the tale that in Rajputana there was builded an Audience Hall rivalling in beauty and splendour his own red sandstone pavilions. And unmindful and uncaring that his own grandfather had builded it, that his very mother had many a time looked into it from her screened coign of vantage, the site of the present Sohag Mandir, his wrath was so kindled that a feudal lord should dare to raise a monument coequal with imperial magnificence that he forthwith sent envoys to Jaipur to report how much of truth there might be hidden in this incredible rumour of presumption. But Mirza Raja heard word of their approach. In due time they arrived — to scoff and laugh behind the Maharaja’s back. The wonderful red sandstone pillars, domes and ensculpture so talked about were all a myth, a silly, idle tale, spawn of an Eastern bazaar that knew not grandeur. A few white marble pillars in the centre, surrounded by bare, plain whitewashed supports and domed by more whitewash, the forty-pillared Diwan-i-Am was no rival to imperial splendour. Let it stand.

216

A Winter in India

THE DIWAN-I-AM, AMBER

And to this hour it remains as Mirza Raja faked it. You can see today on one pillar, overlooking the old Court of Justice, where the plaster was hurriedly thrust in to smooth over the finely chiselled carving, prior to decking it in white; you can look all round and perhaps regret that it has not now been removed from roof and pillars alike; but you also can hear peal upon peal of laughter ring out far across the Maota Lake as Mirza Singh lies back in his throne, rocking with laughter, as he and his courtiers watch Jahangir’s envoys gradually disappear through the gap in the Amber hills, to be swallowed up in the mists of the Ramgarh plains. But it is passing strange that Jai Singh the second, on the decease of Aurangzeb, at the approaching death agony of all Mogul greatness, did not throw off the cloak of plaster. Perchance, however, added to his qualities of soldier, astronomer and architect he was blessed with the all-saving gift of humour. But the echo has long died away, leaving only the sighing of broken hopes, and the ghosts of bygone days to repeople the famous hall. Pass through two antechambers, dark, once sheltering what of intrigue, of

Amber

217

plot and counter-plot? and look out of any one of the small windows opening on to the glittering lake see the Mohanbari Garden, surrounded, like some grape garden of Agra, by sparkling waters; gaze up at the wooded Amber hills topped by two domed watch-towers, sentinels of the city; then let your eyes fall again upon the green-treed Dila Ram Garden, lipped by the scintillating mirror below. So peaceful! So deserted! So typical of earthly pilgrimage! From spot to spot retread the footsteps that for a hundred and twenty years echoed through these silent courts. Here is the wonderful Ganeshpole Gate, a blaze of beauty, brass and tracery, leading to the Diwan-i-Khas, sometimes called the Hall of Victory. Pass through into the perfect peace and silence of a desolate courtyard, now only tenanted by mango, orange and pomegranate trees and disused fountains, and echoing but to the eternal haunting cooing of the pigeons. Step inside the Jai Mandir and see the roofs and walls glitter with the mirrored and spangle work so famed in Jaipur; pass down narrow passages, along with many an unseen ghostly form, into the cool bathing-rooms of creamy marble; stand upon the roof-top and repicture, in that stonebalustraded enclosure, those moon-dances which took place on many and many a bygone night. Can one not still hear the patter patter of the tripping feet, the music of the East throbbing its mechanical rhythm as the spangles swing and turn in the moonlight? Can one not see the Potentate himself, sunk deep in soft cushions, lazily puffing from his bubbling hookah as the shadows sweep, like moving silhouettes, to and fro on their unroofed, starlit stage? And then pause for a moment in the Sohag Mandir, where, behind the pierced marble screen, the Maharaja’s ladies were wont to overlook the Diwan-i-Am. Surely, as one stands on the very spot on which they sat these long dead years ago, one can catch some faintly breathed echo of the zenana’s whispered comments on the assembled courtiers below. Built, as the entire Ganeshpole Gateway was, by Sawai Jai Singh early in the eighteenth century, Miriam herself could never have gazed from this actual latticed window for the first time on her future lord, the great Emperor Akbar; but from this spot, from behind the earlier grille, she more than likely looked down on a scene of unspeakable grandeur as the Emperor made known his royal pleasure to take a wife from the feudal state of Jaipur. What must have been the young girl’s feelings? Pride at the honour conferred upon her

A STREET OF THE DESERTED CITY OF AMBER

A TEMPLE IN THE DESERTED CITY OF AMBER

220

A Winter in India

House? Fear at departure from her familiar surroundings in the Amber hills? Indifference, attraction or repulsion? Ah! as one enters the Sukh Niwas — the so-called Hall of Pleasure — one cannot help repeopling the dainty chamber with those whose pleasure, and sorrow, are now a thing of naught. The water coolly ripples at the feet of those whose lives and happiness lie enshrined in the fleeting goodwill of an all-powerful lord; the scent (alas! by now so faint) of the sandalwood doors fills the air with its peculiar scent; Miriam, perchance, sits idly dipping her hands and feet into the gently flowing stream, while her maids and attendants ply her with a thousand questions as to the mighty Emperor’s ways, moods and love-making. But she is apparently tired and anxious for solitude; she passes out into a long, dark and narrow passage leading into a small court, to again give access to a larger. No one is here. Beneath the sixteen-pillared miniature “Diwan-i-Khas” of the zenana she seats herself wearily — and thinks. So soon now! Only a few more days of the dearly loved Amber hills; only a week or two longer of the familiar and beloved Pass; and then ... Ah! what then? ... the glitter of an Emperor’s zenana, the splendour of Fatehpur Sikri, the casting of the fatal dice, lifelong eternity in an alien land. There is no choice ... the word has gone forth ... and yet ... and yet.... Ah! would she could choose for herself. How gladly would she serve ... another ... why should she be ashamed? Yes, she would revel in service of ... the captain of her father’s bodyguard.... How familiar the features were, his dark, black eyes, that full black beard, his gorgeous uniform and manly carriage. Ah! why had she ever been allowed to gaze at all through the marble screen at the Durbars held below. Why did... But suddenly a face appears from the upper of two balconies encircling the courtyard. “Princess!” it calls, “the Emperor awaits you.” And her dream of simple service fades away beneath the bidden sacrifice for her beloved House, in the dazzling glare of the sunshine — so banished from her tortured heart. A sob, but half uttered, is stifled, and the proud princess. steps down, all smiles, into the blinding noontide to meet and fawn upon her future lord. And who is so bold as to say that some of our dreams may not be true to life? Can we never hear echoes of laughter, of tears, of the sudden snap of a heart-string in these time-worn halls and palaces

THE DESERTED CITY OF AMBER

222

A Winter in India

now trod by alien feet? Is there no faintest whisper of the sacred past in these silent, eerie haunts? — these cemeteries of loves and hates, as Kipling so vividly calls them. Can we never repicture the fluttering veils, the orange and the gold, the purple and the mauve, as they once passed (eternally, as their owners thought) through the now drowsy halls and courts that were brightened by them for an hour? Or does the never-ceasing cooing of the pigeons still remain but the cooing of pigeons — not the echo of incomprehensible answers to all our stammered questionings? Stand with me for a moment, in this palace of the dead, upon a south-west balcony and overlook desolation rivaling. Pompeii and Messina, the desert and the sea. Dumb are the temple bells: white the bones of those who rang them; ruins yawn and doorways gape; here is a crazy wall unwilling to release its slender hold upon the hillside and sink into the adjoining wastes of dust, tinder and scorched-up grass; there is a street cut short by fallen masonry that chokes the grinning gap between two cactus-bordered lanes. It is all ruin or desolation — only the temples stand to carry on the shadow of the busy, seething life that once surged up and down those mountain sides — to them the all-important centre of an imagined never-ending circle of hopes and fears and length of days. Too pitiable all! Walk through the stricken town, and, if you have trod that awful modern Golgotha, Messina, you have some conception of the devastation and unutterable loneliness of Amber city. But here is no note of sorrow — only a muffled cry of desolation. No appalling destruction overtook this city in a flash of time — only the slow march of years has placed a crumbling hand upon its once-proud walls and gently laid its hundred thousand builders, rulers, courtiers, and slaves in a common grave of oblivion and equality.

BOMBAY

20th March.

O

nce more Bombay. The last of close upon, if not exceeding, five thousand miles of railroad has been cast behind me; and my final, temporary, resting-place is the Taj Mahal Hotel, overlooking the famous Apollo Bundar. And after journeying from Bombay to Peshawar, from the Khyber to Benares, from Umballa to Simla, I can only reiterate my primary opinion that railway travelling in this country so differs, in comfort, ease and peace from our English trains as to rob distance entirely of its terror and time of its value. And now the snows of the Himalayas are but glittering memories; the burning ghauts of the Ganges but a cloudy mist of smoke; the peaceful graves of the Mutiny heroes, and the kingly tombs of the great Mogul emperors take their appointed place in the gorgeous and enthralling picture of India, whose foreground is bright with an Eastern sun and peopled with the millions of the Northern Provinces, and whose background gradually fades away in the snow-crowned boundary ridges of Kashmer, Tibet and Afghanistan. But before we wander through the tortuous bazaars of the vestibule of India; before we tread its great broad streets, peep into its strangely scented opium dens, its native theatres and haunts of midnight vice; before we toss our uneven way across the vast bay to the caves of Elephanta; and before we attempt to focus the canvas of Bombay island before our half-bewildered eyes, let us pause just a moment or two to hear what whisper of the long-dead past the front door of India may echo for us today. It appears certain that in the days of the Persian and Roman empires the west coast of India traded with their merchants; but so far away, so almost mythological, are the traditions of that period that we may close the great volume of history to reopen it at that thrilling chapter of 1498, when Vasco da Gama rounded the Cape of Good Hope to reach Calicut. Thirty-six years later, Sultan Bahadur Shah, of Guzerat, ceded the islands of Bassein, Salsette and Bombay to the Portuguese. It was not,

224

A Winter in India

however, till 1608 that the English appeared upon the Eastern scene. In 1616 we established a factory at Surat; in 1661 Bombay was ceded to England as part of the dowry of Catharine of Braganza; and in 1665 King Charles, the Merry, handed it over to the East India Company. In reference to the name of Bombay it is imagined to be a corruption of Bon Bahia, or Fair Bay. Coming down to 1672, Bombay was made the head-quarters of the government of the company. And from this date the history of Bombay is embraced in the thrilling story of the East India Company, which, if you would read in a lucid, charming and unstatistical style I can recommend none better than Flora Annie Steel’s “India through the Ages.” The train has now rumbled over the Sion Causeway, threaded the huddled suburbs of Bombay island, and come at last to a standstill in the Victoria terminus. A drive through streets ablaze with sunshine, colour, life, and commerce takes us to the welcome rest of the Taj Mahal Palace (is it necessary to add hotel?), a magnificent and towering building overtopping the ruffled surface of the great sweeping bay below, alive with its countless fleets of anchored shipping: cruisers, sloops, liners, tramps, cargo barges, yachts, and bustling tugs. Then — more welcome — lunch. Now when one arrives in Bombay, entering or leaving India, one must justify one’s claim (generally insisted upon) to the dignity accruing — later on — to a qualified G. T.; and the sights that must in pursuit of same be “done” include the Caves of Elephanta. So at 2 p.m. picture another raw recruit, not yet a full-blown Globe Trotter, seated in a launch, below the Apollo Bundar, in company with nine other simple-minded souls, illustrating the sheep-like tendency of humanity as a whole, the strange belief (amounting almost to reverence) in the infallibility of Murray and Cook, and exemplifying the fabrications of preceding trippers — too young at travelling to admit to having been “had.” For what are the caves? Where does the interest lie? (I do not speak geographically, which affirms the exact distance to be six miles off — and seems sixty); and who first exploited the delightful and profitable hoax? Listen. The very sea laughed; laughed in showers of spray that jeered at us as hour by hour (gross exaggeration!) we plunged on and on past battleships, buoys and coal tramps, gradually losing sight of the

BAY OF BOMBAY

226

A Winter in India

dome of the Taj Hotel, and fast parting company with comfort, rupees and temper. I speak for (nearly) all. One hour is advertised (was, at any rate, to me) as the duration of the watery pilgrimage: forty minutes late an anchor plumped overboard (causing more spray, but who cared now?) and an old rowing-boat, propelled by a solitary punt pole and a myriad cries, bobbed up and down in wave-drenched insecurity as it slowly and painfully approached the launch. So you land — on to slippery, spray-soaked slabs of cement. But never mind! the caves are near — the far-renowned caves — and the increasing whistle of the wind will surely die away amid the corinda bushes and the palms of the island. So walking, slipping and miraculously recovering one’s foothold, at last one really “lands,” to face a miniature merry-go-round, a loathsome smell and a dozen carrying-chairs. A closer study of same convincing me that they were the carriers of more than past G. T.’s, I trudged up a long flight of steps, followed a path for some few yards and entered the far-famed caves. And what is left? Little enough. And one is perhaps inclined to think that the pity lies not in the almost total destruction around, but in the preservation of such portion of gods and symbols as time and man have spared. Distortion sits down with malformed females; hundredheaded gods with ten-armed men; Dwarpals guard shrines dedicated to the symbols adored of Benares; while facing you as you enter sits Siva flanked by grotesque Rudra, the destroyer, and Vishnu, the preserver. The East is the East — and unsuited to Western eyes. All unintelligible, almost repulsive and totally inexplicable. You are back in the side alleys of India’s Holy City, but in place of seething multitudes of earnest worshippers, only the unmusical drone of a guide repeating his parrot’s lesson breaks the silence; the gods and symbols are, for the most part, in ruins; you rub your eyes, perchance blush, and return to the turbulent sea, which ultimately pitches you up against the Apollo Bundar in a further hour and twenty minutes. But, you say, what would the trip be like in calm weather. Too hot for words. The caves do not, in my, or in the others’ opinion, justify the long and monotonous journey. Personal impression — too many rupees and an afternoon wasted.

Bombay

227

But now come and see Bombay by night. It is life, real, living, degraded, and true to facts. And as such, as an illustration of the trafficking of India after dark, is perhaps worth recital. For some twenty minutes you drive through clean and open streets, gradually narrowing into the lesser highways of the native quarter, where you suddenly stop. The eternal chatter and roar of humanity and tramcars is entirely gone; you grope your way down a short passage, turn sharply to the left — to behold the wreckage of life. But be careful what you touch — the place is indescribably filthy — as you push aside the mouldy curtain that separates reality from dreams and fantasies. Two little lamps placed upon the floor cast their subdued light upon half a dozen apparently sleeping figures, pillowed on wooden head-rests, and holding in their hands bamboo-stemmed pipes. Around the walls hang hideous oleographs of royalty, tarbushed dignitaries and Hindu gods, flanked by a hundred squares of dirty sacking (for wholesome air is totally divorced from the atmosphere beloved of the flotsam of Bombay) and the partially discarded wardrobe of the recumbent creatures. Suddenly one stirs, to grope for a long, needle-shaped spoon, which is dipped into an inkpot-dimensioned china cup filled with the essence of oblivion and dreams. Over the lamp the unsteady needle is held until the liquid congeals into a tiny pellet which is inserted into the bowl of the sleeper’s pipe. A second moves, rises, and murmurs of fantastic absurdities. He is a modern Shah Jahan; the squalid room has become, for him, the Diwan-i-Khas; and he the emperor. Poor miserable wreck, he totters from lamp to lamp, speaking of what the little pellets lie, and craving a further anna’s worth of the indispensable release from earth. And this is a typical Bombay opium den. You feel inclined to grip your throat and rush forthwith into the purer air of the native bazaar, but somehow the spell-bound sleepers hold you back. Thoughts of de Quincey float before your mind; thoughts of intolerable loneliness, of incessant perambulation through lanes of vice, of the gradual unloosening of moral and social ties. And you speculate. Will this curled-up travesty of God’s image ever rise up and, like the immortal smoker,

228

A Winter in India

tread under foot the insistent calls to oblivion? Will he one day follow the lead of the classic writer (who in my humble opinion should never have written his imperishable book) and scribble, in Urdu, his conviction that the curse may be indulged for a season, checked and conquered? Will he ... but no, it is impossible. He gradually sits up, stretches out his arms and commences to scratch himself as does a flea-tortured dog or a normal monkey. He has passed beyond the outposts of man; descended the hideous abyss of drugged hallucination, there to wallow till annas or life give out. He is a slave, bound hand and foot to the unbreakable chains of opium; a captive in the awful prison house that knows no boundaries; a victim to, God alone can tell, circumstances, heredity or undeveloped will. Here, for a single anna, lie oblivion from care, peace and happiness — and soul-destruction. It is gratifying, however, to know that the law is gradually drawing its humanizing net around the traders in and exploiters of this deathly drug. As the Act stands today no opium may now be sold in opium dens, but must be purchased from outside licensed dealers, and ten annas’ worth is the limit a smoker may consume in twenty-four hours. But the pity of it all! Somehow one’s heart bleeds to watch such total degradation, to see the disruption of will and body, of character and soul, in a tiny pellet and a thin cloud of smoke. Nerve-racked, useless in the stress of life, cumberers of the earth, they totter into and stumble out of these Hells of Nothingness, night by night, seeing visions of indescribable beatitude and dreaming dreams of vague impossibilities, only to be realized, all too soon, in the eternal insensibility of death. There are other rooms to visit, other dens to explore; but let us be gone. Let us leave the poor rudderless derelicts to the mercy of some unseen, unnoticed wind of Providence, with the half-whispered prayer that it may blow them into the harbourage of restored manhood ere it drifts them out to the limitless wastes of the sea of destruction. Now pass out again into the life of the great bazaars. If you would read an intimate and fascinating description of the side paths of the town I should unhesitatingly recommend S. M. Edwardes’ “By-Ways of Bombay,” written by the Commissioner of Police and therefore authentic; but so that you may realize the life that flows this way and that through the main bazaars of this great city, I shall quote what he,

Bombay

229

with his peculiar opportunities and intimate knowledge, has written, and what I personally saw last night. So wrote the great poet of Persia: Sit thou on the bank of a stream and in the flow of its waters watch the passing of thy life. Than this a vain and fleeting world can grant thee no higher lesson. Of the human tides that roll through the streets of the cities of the world, none are brighter or more varied than that which fills the streets of Bombay. Here are Memon and Khoja women in shirt and trousers (“kurta” and “izzar”) of green and gold or pink or yellow, with dark blue sheets used as veils, wandering along with their children dressed in all the hues of the rainbow. Here are sleek Hindus from Northern India in soft muslin and neat coloured turbans; Gujarathis in red head-gear and close-fitting white garments; Cutchi seafarers, descendants of the pirates of dead centuries, with clear-cut bronzed features that show a lingering strain of Med or Jat, clad in white turbans, tight jackets, and waist-cloths girded tightly over trousers that button at the ankle. There, mark you, are many Bombay Mahommedans of the lower class with their long white shirts, white trousers, and skull-caps of silk or brocade ... Arabs from Syria and the valley of the Euphrates; half-Arab, half-Persian traders from the Gulf, in Arab or old Persian costumes and black turbans with a red border.... After them come tall Afghans, their hair well oiled, in the baggiest of trousers.... Negroes in the Bombay Mahommedan dress and red fez; Chinese with pig-tails; Japanese in the latest European attire; Malays in English jackets and loose turbans, and Heaven only knows how many more besides.

And that is Bombay. So we leave the haunts Vice for the Halls of Pleasure. Red, flaunting, obtrusive, and compelling, they stand around you and above. Vice seats herself at a thousand lamp-lit altars for the worship of pedestrian Bombay. The songs of singing girls are wafted from an open window to the street; and we pass up an ill-lit stair to the brightly illuminated “diwankhana” above, to hear at closer quarters the strange, weird melodies of Hindustan. My companion knows and loves each one, as he knows loves each alleyway of crime, intrigue and murder, and nods an appreciative head at what appears to me to be a tuneless wail; and then we pass out again into the shrines of Immorality, served by bedecked and bepainted priestesses recruited from every race and clime. You cannot pass by these temples of Depravity unmoved

230

A Winter in India

or unobserving. You are enveloped by them; they engulf you, as they ensnare Bombay. But who shall dare to call all fallen humanity but vile, worthless jetsam in the stagnant pools of life? In one ill-kempt den I saw a sad-eyed girl ministering tenderly — far from the glare-lit, profitable altar overtopping the street below — to a moaning sister in affliction, incoherently rambling in delirium of earlier, happier and purer days. There were tales to be heard at the recital of which the eyes of humane women would well up with tears of sorrow and sympathy — tales too sad and too true to be repeated in any light book of impressions, tales only fit for repetition in some deep work on social reform. But let us be gone again. Let us speed through these networks of Japanese dolls’ houses, past the barred-in and caged doors of gaudy Vice, and leave these blatant, weary halls of unimagined misery to echo on to the muffled wail of pain but half drowned in the forced laughter of grim necessity. Here is a Mahratta theatre, ablaze with flaring lights and ringing with frantic applause at the whole some, melodramatic sentiments of a slim damsel (needless to say, a youth) who refuses to wed an old roué who had adopted her some twenty years previously. And again we are witnessing the musical contortions — in another corner of the local Leicester Square — of a troupe of minstrels be-labouring drums with the fury and independence of a self-respecting boarding-house proprietress. And yet again, we are in the “lock up.” A groan from within a pitch-black cell, and a flare of light from without, reveals a wretched woman ill-skilled in the delicate art of kleptomania; while close at hand three revellers from a native feast are closing an evening of conviviality in the close grasp of each other’s arms behind an iron grating. And so from point to point we wander amid the labyrinth of Eastern Bombay — weird city of vice, depravity, innocent amusement, and seething crime.

21st March.

I

f the Caves of Elephanta irritate one (if, I say, for what appeals to one annoys another, thank goodness! and vice versa), surely the Towers of Silence alone amply repay a visit to Bombay. Let me commence

Bombay

231

by an extract from Dr John Fryer’s “Book of Travels,” published in the year 1698: “On the outside of the great Inlet of the Sea is a great point abutting against Old Women’s Island, and is called Malabar Hill, a rocky woody mountain yet sends forth long grass. A top of all is a Parsee tomb [refers to the Mody’s Tower which was built in the Christian year 1669] lately reared.” Now just as we bury our dead to be slowly devoured of insects and worms; as the Hindu burns his to cast his cindered bones into sacred Ganges; so does the Bombay Parsee take his departed to the summit of Malabar Hill — the highest point in all Bombay — to be eaten of vultures.Which at first sight appears totally repulsive, but, on closer examination, becomes, at least, questionable. The form of burial originates of course from the reverence paid by Parsees to the elements. Fire is too sacred to be used in consuming the dead; water is too greatly respected and so is earth; added to which it is laid down in the Zoroastrian religion that rich and poor alike should be united in death. Meanwhile we are standing on Malabar Hill, at the foot of a long flight of steps, interspersed by roughly laid cobbles, up which the bodies are carried on iron biers (iron, as it is, according to the Parsee, not considered unholy) by official corpse-bearers, called Nassasalars. The daily funerals — which must take place before sunset — average three; and, in imagination, we shall join the procession just ahead. The four bearded Nassasalars stumble up and up with their white-draped burden, to be relieved at intervals by four reserves, until the gate of the compound is reached. Pass through into a lovely garden, the last of a long procession of white walking two by two, and joined to each other by a white handkerchief, until a notice confronts you: “Parsees only are allowed to enter this place.” But disregard it — for you are one of the mourners — and pass on. At the end of a further twenty or thirty yards you reach a shaded diminutive square, where the dead body is being laid upon the ground; the face is now uncovered, revealing the features of a youngish man, to which the mourners bow in reverence, prior to returning to the beautiful, peaceful, flower-strewn garden already passed. Here they, firstly, pray for the safe arrival in paradise of the soul of the deceased, then descend to a tank of pure water, wash their hands and return again to the garden where sandalwood

232

A Winter in India

is presented to the priest. This is burned in one of the Fire Temples, and the ashes thereafter ceded to the donor, who takes a pinch and touches his forehead with it as a token of respect to the fire, the element worshipped by the Parsee. The official corpse-bearers meanwhile have reshouldered their load and passed through an iron openwork gate — forbidden and sacred ground to all, Parsees included, except to the Nassasalars, who have gone through various religious formalities to qualify them for the privilege — leading to one of five whitewashed, solid stone cylinders, about fourteen feet high, which entirely obscure from view the interior of the “tower.’’ On the walls, however, there are the strangest and grimmest of coping-stones; large, repulsive vultures, watching every movement of the Nassasalars as they approach nearer and nearer to a small, black, shuttered door showing up clearly, from this advanced post, against the white. Now look inside — which no man has done since they were consecrated, except only the corpse-bearers, and which you are only doing through the medium of a model placed in the centre of that charming, restful garden behind you at the moment. Picture a round column say fourteen feet high and ninety in diameter built throughout of solid stone, except in the centre, where a well some fifteen feet deep and forty-five in diameter leads down to an excavation under the masonry, containing four drains at right angles to each other, terminated by holes filled with charcoal. Round the upper surface of this solid circular cylinder and completely hiding the interior from view is a stone parapet,

above described. The upper surface of the solid stone column [inside the tower and only visible on the model] “is divided into seventy-two compartments, or open receptacles” (or coffins), “radiating like the spokes of a wheel from the centre well, and arranged in three concentric rings, separated from each other by narrow ridges of stone, which are grooved to act as channels for conveying all moisture from the receptacles into the well and into the lower drains. Each circle of open-air stone coffins is divided from the next one by a pathway, so that there are three pathways, the

Bombay

233

last encircling the centre well, and these three pathways are crossed by another pathway conducting from the solitary door which admits the corpse-bearers from the exterior.

Lastly, in the outermost circle — that nearest the wall — are placed the bodies of men; in the centre those of women; and in the inner, smaller circle, nearest the central well, those of children. This somewhat lengthy description is almost necessary to a proper understanding of these strange Dakhmas; but now watch the evergrowing interest of the feathered scavengers. The Nassasalars enter the small black door, place the white-robed body on the circle of coffins nearest the wall and farthest from the central well; the robes are removed; the corpse-bearers retire to the garden, divest themselves of their clothes — which will never be used again as they have now been polluted — and wash themselves in an adjoining building; while the vultures — fifty of them at least — swoop down from the tower parapets to carry out their gruesome portion of the burial rites. In two hours only the skeleton remains, to bleach in the sunshine for eight days, when the Nassasalars again enter, gloved and carrying “tongs,” to deposit the bones in the lime-bedded pit. Then comes the monsoon, or casual rain, to wash away the dust into the four underground drain-canals, filtered, first, by charcoal, then, on a lower level, by sand and gravel. Thus in death all Parsees meet, mingling their dust in a common pit. Of the five towers, three are for ordinary use; one exclusively reserved for the Modi family, whose ancestors constructed it in 1669, when the Parsees first settled in Bombay; and one for those who have committed suicide or suffered death under the penalty of the law. But the gardens are quite lovely, the flowers and shady trees emblematic of beauty, peace and rest; and as the last gruesome act of a Parsee funeral is seen by none — nor ever has been — one must overcome one’s primal repulsion at the living coping-stones of the great squat towers, and reflect that speed in destruction is surely preferable to slow decay and decomposition. From a sanitary point of view letters from the highest to the lowest in both the medical and scientific worlds attest to the perfect arrangements and conditions of Parsee burial. And if you would see a unique, moving and strange rite, climb up Malabar Hill to the Towers of Silence.

234

A Winter in India

After admiring the gorgeous, panoramic view of the island I drove down to one of the city jails — a model of cleanliness and industry in the centre of squalor and dreamland inactivity — and finally returned to the hotel, quite delighted with my short visit to Bombay. And now it is all over. In two and a half hours it will be Saturday, the 22nd of March — the date of our departure from fascinating India. I have travelled, comparatively speaking, a good many miles across the earth, have visited some thirty-four countries; but of them all none will hold kindlier or happier recollections than the great stretch of land which we vaguely call India. Nowhere, I think, will you find such a combination of historical interest, lovely scenery, quaint customs, and healthy climatic conditions as this vast dependency affords in the winter, tourist, season; nowhere, I am certain, will one meet with greater kindliness, courtesy and hospitality than in strange, inexplicable and enthralling Hindustan; and as the mighty dome of the Taj Mahal Hotel sinks down lower and lower into the mirror of the sunlit sea (as it is now doing, for the last words are actually being penned on board the “Mantua”) one can only sigh one’s gratitude for all the fascinating experiences and impressions one has culled between “Cape Comorin and Peshawar.”

The Suez Canal Being The Translation Of An Essay Delivered In French By Count Charles De Lesseps

THE SUEZ CANAL

T

he traveller coming from Europe and passing through the isthmus, for the first time, may fail to discover at once the charm of those bare horizons whose only attraction is the dazzling light of the sun, the power of whose rays is undiminished by the slightest degree of damp. When one has lived there one becomes gradually accustomed to dream dreams of infinity and to appreciate the variety of lights and shades of the great billowed undulations of that sandy sea whose colours change every hour of the day — here a mirage, with the fantasies, castles, lakes, and forests of the Arabian Nights: there a view which loses itself in the ever-receding horizon towards the unknown worlds of space. Elsewhere are the mountains of Suez, whose reflections gild the waves of the Red Sea. Beyond, one conjures up visions of India, China and Japan, those continents which attract us by an irresistible desire to spread our civilization and to rejuvenate by contact with peoples who illustrate to us what they were before our race had grown up. When one arrives in Egypt from Europe nothing is seen beforehand of the land, which is absolutely flat. Suddenly one sees the lighthouse, passes along-side, following a channel dug out between jetties of big blocks of stone thrown about haphazard — and one is in Port Said. Coal barges laden with men smothered in dust surround the vessel. These human ants, encouraging themselves by a monotonous and rhythmic chant of Eastern music, fill the coal bunkers with a rapidity which is without equal elsewhere. The pilot comes on board, and slowly, without exceeding the speed of ten knots an hour, one enters the canal between banks just high enough to guard it from the waters and mud of Lake Menzaleh. Several camel drivers and some flights of pink flamingos stand out alone against the skyline; while a small stream of the Nile which feeds Port Said, as well as the railway line connecting that town with Ismailia and the rest of Egypt, occupies the right bank. One goes on thus for forty-four miles till El Kantara is reached, where the caravans from Syria cross the canal. The banks gradually begin to increase in height till El Ferdan is reached, sixty miles from

The Suez Canal

237

Port Said. There begin the heights of El Gizreh, where at seventy-two miles from the commencement of the canal is found the highest point of the isthmus, fifty-two feet above sea-level. At seventy-five miles, Lake Timsah is entered on the right, on the border of which is the town of Ismailia, the centre of the administration of the company. It is here that the fresh-water canal, coming from Cairo, joins, to send its waters to the north to Port Said and to the south to Suez. At the junction of the canal with Lake Timsah, St. Vincent, the company’s hospital is noticed. Farther on is a chalet formerly constructed for Said Pasha. Leaving the lake, one passes, first, Toussoum, where a venerable Marabout, the Sheik Ennédek, wishes you “bon voyage,” and then Serapeum. The Bitter Lakes are traversed at full speed; Chaluf is passed; also Port Tewfik, a platform erected by the company at the end of a lake which extends from Suez to the roadstead. Two more turns of the screw and one anchors in the Red Sea, after having covered eighty-seven miles, or one hundred and sixty kilomètres. In ancient times, according to Herodotus, a large canal existed which connected the Red Sea with the Nile. This canal, begun by Nécos, son of Psamméticus, 630 b.c., had been completed by Darius, son of Hystaspe, after the Persians had taken possession of Egypt. Herodotus, an eye-witness of what he tells us, saw, fifty years after Darius, the canal in full working order. It commenced at Bubaste, on the Pelusian branch of the Nile, today called Zagazig; first running in a westerly direction, then in a southerly and finally joining the sea at Patymos. The Ptolemées kept the canal in repair and improved it. Strabon, who was travelling in Egypt shortly before the Christian era, also saw the canal full of ships; he attributed the first construction to Sesostris, before the Trojan war. He reckoned the width at one hundred cubits and the depth sufficient to permit the passage of the largest vessels. The Roman emperors, especially Adrien, carried out considerable works. The first caliphs finding it in a bad state repaired it, but finally left it to deteriorate. It appears that all navigation ceased completely towards the ninth century, a.d. According to Plutarch, Anthony arriving in Egypt after the battle of Actium found Cleopatra occupied in trying to get her fleet across the narrow space which separated the two seas, by having it transported

238

A Winter in India

by land over the isthmus. The isthmus is full of Biblical interest. Abraham crossed it going to Egypt on his way to Memphis, where already for some time had existed the greatest monuments in the world. After Abraham; Jacob, coming from Syria, crossed the isthmus opposite Lake Timsah and stayed at Rameses with seventy followers, four hundred and thirty years before Moses was found in the bulrushes. The Bible tells us that the first halting-place of the Children of Israel, after leaving Rameses, was Succoth, which, in Hebrew, means tent. This same place is called today, in Arabic, Oumriam, that is, the Mother of Tents. The third stopping-place of the Israelites was Etham, which has kept its name. The tribes who sometimes take their cattle into these parts are called Ethamites. The Bible says that from Etham Moses retraced his steps. He encamped at Pi-Hahiroth, which, in Hebrew, means Bay of Reeds. Pi-Hahiroth is between Migdal and the sea opposite BahalTsephon and is still called by the Arabs Oued-Bet-el-Bouze, which means bay or valley of reeds. This valley, where they abound, is near Lake Timsah. It is probable that Moses passed Lake Timsah at the spot where the last lagoons of the Red Sea reach. The basin of the Bitter Lakes was a gulf, as is the Gulf of Suez today. God, to favour Moses, sent a fearful storm which stopped Pharaoh’s army from pursuing him; while Moses profited by the night and low tide to cross the lagoons which were, and still are, two or three miles wide. The tempest abated, Pharaoh arriving with his army was overtaken and engulfed by the rising tide. Moses wandered in the desert on the other side of Lake Timsah for three days, halting at a spring which he called Mara, that is Bitter Wells because of the taste of its waters. God inspired him with the idea of putting in sweet herbs to render the water drinkable. This custom has remained in use to the present day. When the Arabs wish to drink or water their animals they put in a sort of berberry which grows in the desert and has the power of absorbing all saline and alkaline matter. The Holy Family flying before the persecution of Herod crossed the isthmus, stopping not far from Lake Timsah, where my father, during the construction of the canal, had a chapel erected and dedicated to the Virgin Mary, whom the Arabs call Setti-Mariam and whom they themselves hold in veneration. This chapel was decorated by a charming

The Suez Canal

239

picture of the Holy Family in the desert, painted and presented by the celebrated French artist, Berchère, and is now actually in the Roman Catholic cathedral of Ismailia. The Persians gave battle in the plains of Pelusium; Alexander trod the soil of the isthmus; Cæsar disembarked on the shore of Pelusium and achieved a dazzling victory. Pompey died there, by assassination. After the battle of the Pyramids, Napoleon, visiting Suez, was nearly swallowed up by the waves of the Red Sea, and only escaped owing to the swiftness of his horse. Accompanied by Berthollet, Monge, Costaz, Jomard and all those “savants” whose works have left an imperishable monument to the passage of the French armies through Egypt, he explored all the isthmus, being the first to discover the bed of the old canal, when he cried: “Gentlemen, we are in the midst of Pharaoh’s canal!” He passed in front of Lake Timsah, rejoining Egypt by the valley of Gessen,the Ouady-Toumilat of the Arabs, where Tel-el-Kebir is found. Since the most ancient times the peoples of the basin of the Mediterranean have owed their power to their commercial relations, by the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf, with India and East Africa. The splendid palaces and temples of the Pharaohs were decorated by gold and precious stones of the East; later, the great kingdoms of Asia as well as Tyre and Sidon owed their power and luxury to their intercourse with India; while the fleets of Solomon brought back from the Red Sea the riches which accumulated in the Temple of Jerusalem. The empire of the East, the republics of Italy — Venice especially — inherited the benefits of the commerce with India, but the Turkish race who came and settled on the ruins of the Eastern empire deflected the trade from the old route, want of security interrupting the communication of the civilized world with the Far East by the shortest route. Western genius searched for a new route, and as the simple crossing of forty miles of land became an obstacle, navigation wished to have a secure and certain means of reaching Indian ports, by a detour of three thousand miles. Spain and Portugal sent navigators to find the new route. In exploring, Christopher Columbus discovered the American Islands in 1492, and the continent of America in 1498. Vasco da Gama rounded the Cape of Good Hope and anchored at Calicut (Madras) the same year,

240

A Winter in India

in May, 1498. From that date the maritime and commercial life in the great centres of business were found in the ocean ports, the command of the seas passing successively from Spain and Portugal to Holland and England. Colbert presented a memoir to Louis XIV on the cutting of the isthmus of Suez, but it was only at the end of the last century that this thought took shape. Napoleon commanded the engineer Lepère to study the subject. On the 28th of October, 1799, being present at a séance of the Institute of France, he assured them that the Suez Canal had existed, that it would be quite possible to rebuild it on the ruins which remained, and that he had plans drawn and the necessary levels taken. An engineer, he said, would soon arrive in Paris with the memoirs, plans and designs. The project of Lepère suffered under an error which had existed since Herodotus and which attributed an appreciable difference in level between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea, the latter being thought to be higher than the former. Also, Lepère used to some extent the route of the Pharaohs, and had recourse to the Nile to establish communication. It was said, as well, that a port could not be maintained on the Pelusium side, where it was thought that the inexhaustible mud would engulf all works undertaken. The names successively given to this locality mean mud: Zin, in old Egyptian, Peluse, in Greek, and Tineh, in Arabic. These misconceptions influenced the opinions of two illustrious men, Stephenson, of England, and Talabot, of France, who were struggling with the project, favoured by my father, of establishing a direct canal from one sea to the other. It was, however, the project of the engineer Lepère which gave my father the first idea of cutting the isthmus of Suez. This is how he told it at a conference which he held in Paris in 1864: “In 1831 I was sent from Tunis to Egypt as Vice-Consul at a period when steam had not abbreviated the duration of voyages, I set out on a sailing vessel; my ship (a bad one) was called Diogenes, and the captain’s name was Pilate; the crossing took thirty-seven days, and on arrival at Alexandria we were placed in quarantine. M. Mimaut, Consul-General of France at Alexandria, one of those men who have shone most in the consular service, and who was as distinguished for his wit as for his knowledge and upright character, had the kindness

The Suez Canal

241

to come personally and visit his young Vice-Consul, and gave him the means of occupying usefully the leisure of the quarantine by reading the commission on Egypt, the most beautiful and fruitful result of our glorious expedition of 1798. M. Mimaut had particularly recommended me to study the memoirs of the engineer Lepère on the joining of the two seas; and this was the first time that I endeavoured to learn what the isthmus of Suez was, when I discovered, in the able reports of M. Lepère, the history of the canal.” While this idea was growing in my father’s mind he continued his diplomatic career, a career which his family had followed for a century. He retired, in 1849 and, furnished with the documents which he had collected during close on twenty years, at once contemplated the execution of the Suez Canal. He wrote to his old friend, Ruyssenaers, Consul-General of the Low Countries at Alexandria, who was later one of his most active helpers, asking him what his opinion was of his chances of getting this project accepted by the Viceroy, Abbas Pacha. M. Ruyssenaers replied that he had nothing to hope at the hands of the prince. In 1854 Abbas Pacha died and was succeeded by Said Pacha, with whom, in consequence of some curious circumstances, my father was bound in close ties of friendship. When he was Consul-General in Egypt the country was governed by Mehemet-Ali, who attributed willingly to my grandfather the cause of his eminence. My grandfather had received from Napoleon and Prince Talleyrand the mission of pointing out to the French Government a man capable of bringing order out of the chaos which existed under the rule of the Mamelukes. My grandfather chose Mehemet-Ali, then only a simple colonel, helped to bring him out of obscurity, and to put him on the road which led to power. Mehemet-Ali thus conceived for my father a very warm affection, and was delighted to see him often welcome one of his sons, Said. This young man early threatened to become enormously stout, and Mehemet-Ali strove to fight it by condemning Said to severe fasts, which did not please his youthful and growing appetite. Said found a less severe regime at my father’s house, and a companion who was devoted to physical exercise, in which he took his part, and in spite of his great stoutness attained much agility. In answer to the congratulations which my father sent him on the

242

A Winter in India

occasion of his succession, the Viceroy asked him to pay him a visit. My father disembarked at Alexandria on the 7th of November, 1854, and accompanied Said on a journey he made across the Lybian desert with his army in order to get from Alexandria to Cairo. It was during this journey that my father opened up to the Viceroy the project of cutting the isthmus of Suez. In a letter to his mother-in-law he told the poetic impressions which decided him to open his heart. “It is 5 a.m. The camp is beginning to stir; the freshness of the air tells of the nearly approaching sunrise; several rays of light begin to colour the horizon; to my right, in all its clearness, lies the east; to my left the west, all dark and cloudy. Suddenly from this side I see appear a rainbow of the most vivid colours of which the two ends stretch from east to west. I must own that I felt my heart beating violently, and I had to steady my imagination, which already saw in this sign of alliance of which the Scripture speaks, the moment reached of the real union of the West with the East and the day settled for the success of my project.” Arriving at Cairo, the Viceroy received the Consuls of the foreign Powers and announced to them publicly that he had resolved to open up the isthmus of Suez by a maritime canal, and had told my father to form the company which was to carry out the enterprise. On the 30th of November Said Pacha signed the edict of concession granting “to his friend, M. Ferdinand de Lesseps, the sole power to create and direct a company to cut the isthmus of Suez.” Two French engineers in the service of the Viceroy, MM. Linant Bey and Mougel Bey, drew up a rough draft which was, in 1855, submitted to an international committee, which settled the definite plan that served for the base of the works. Inspired by the studies of the hydrographic engineers, Lieusson and Larousse, the entrance to the canal was decided to be at the place which took the name of Port Said, where the greatest depth was found only three thousand yards from the coast, while the same depth on the Pelusium side was only to be found at 6000 yards from the port proposed by MM. Linant Bey and Mougel Bey. From 1854 to 1858 my father set himself to try and obtain sovereign power from the Porte to the edict of concession of Said Pacha, but without success owing to the opposition of Lord Palmerston. My father worked very hard, rushing from Cairo to Constantinople, to

The Suez Canal

243

Vienna, Paris and London, holding conferences in France and England to demonstrate the pacific and civilizing nature of his work. Nothing discouraged his indefatigable activity. However, he did not persuade Lord Palmerston, who found the Porte more than ready to listen to his advice, as to follow it they had simply to adhere to their policy of stagnation. Lord Palmerston has never clearly explained the real motives of his opposition. One may be allowed to ask if they were not of two kinds — on one side would not the creation of a route open to all, and of which the upkeep principally interested the whole of the Powers, be an obstacle to the policy which England had for long followed, of establishing a paramount influence in Egypt? On the other hand, the opening of the isthmus of Suez must bring, in the great commercial exchanges, changes such as a nation placed at the head of the maritime movement might dread the consequences. Whatever it was, Lord Palmerston ostensibly founded his opposition on the technical opinion of Stephenson and on the little confidence which the financial success of the enterprise inspired in him. On the 14th of August, 1857, he declared to Parliament that he considered the project chimerical, and on the 23rd he added: “This company, as I have always said, is one of the most remarkable attempts at fraud which has been put into practice in modern times. It is a complete trap from beginning to end.” We have said that a statesman of the standing of Lord Palmerston would not have held and proclaimed such opinions unless he believed himself to be serving the interests of his country. Could not such a great brain have foreseen immense results of the enterprise, which even surpassed the predictions of my father, who foretold at the beginning a traffic of 3,000,000 tons and an income of 30,000,000 francs? (Here follow statistics ranging from 1870 to 1907. In the former year the tonnage passed through the canal was 436,609: in the latter 14,728,434. Taking the receipts, in 1870 they amounted to 6,600,590 francs, or £264,023; while in 1907 they rose to 120,118,521 francs, or £4,804,740.) But before this was reached what efforts my father had to accomplish and what marvellous resources he had to develop! Exposed to the likelihood of never seeing the commencement of the canal if he waited for the consent of the Porte, he formed his company at the end

244

A Winter in India

of 1858, with a capital of 200,000,000. He offered this capital to the different European nations in the proportion of the importance of their commercial position. France alone subscribed 120,000,000; England, who has the merit to always identify herself with her Government in all questions of foreign policy, withheld. The 80,000,000 which remained were taken by the Egyptian Government; and the first stroke of the pickaxe was struck at Port Said on the 25th of April, 1859. An order came at once from Constantinople to stop the work. It was brought by a delegate of the Sultan, Mouktar Bey, and would have been fatal but for the benevolent complicity of Said Pacha and the support of Napoleon III. While this storm grumbled, a young engineer, M. Laroche, braving the threats of which he was the object, proceeded, with M. Feinieux, a representative of the contractor Hardon, to commence the works at Port Said, where everything had yet to be created: the workshops, the jetties protecting the channel of approach, and the ground itself. A line of beach which was only one hundred yards broad and which was sometimes submerged by certain storms constituted the only earth separating the sea from Lake Menzaleh. The earth dug up to commence the port or to dig the canal made the ground on which today stands Port Said, a town with more than 60,000 inhabitants. On the canal, while waiting for the small dredges (as they were then) to be mounted and ready for use, Egyptian workmen furnished by the Government carried out the work of making the banks between Port Said and Chalouf. These workmen were recruited under the form of forced labour, a proceeding in practice since the days of Pharaoh, to carry out the execution of works of public use. Before the invention of machinery one can imagine that it was necessary, in a country where the making and upkeep of canals, carrying far and wide the waters of the Nile, was indispensable to the very existence of Egypt. But while in olden times the Egyptians had not been paid, my father wished it to be otherwise, and the workmen received their wages with regularity. However, the Porte, whose ill-will remained unmodified, compelled Ismail Pacha, who succeeded Said, who died in January, 1863, to forbid the continuance of the work on the canal unless the company gave up the employment of Egyptian labour and the right, which she held in the deed, of cultivating lands reclaimed from the desert — which

The Suez Canal

245

belonged to no one — and of irrigating and making them of value. The Porte insisted also that the Egyptian Government took back from the company the canal which they had made at their own expense to bring drinking water from the Nile to their works, no indemnity being offered in compensation for the various losses; while the conditions of the enterprise would have been so altered as to make ruin imminent. The struggle which my father had to maintain lasted nearly a year, when Napoleon put an end to it by accepting, on the demand of Ismail Pacha, to settle the difference by arbitration. The just sentence which he pronounced in 1864 gave satisfaction to the demands of the Porte and compensated the company for the losses imposed on it, by an indemnity of 84,000,000 francs charged on the Egyptian Government. In consequence the company was obliged to substitute machinery for hand labour. If the sentence of arbitration had given them material help, their difficulties were no less extreme, as the machinery was still in its infancy as far as the implements for dredging and making banks was concerned. My father confided the general undertaking of the canal to two Frenchmen, M. M. Borel and Lavelly, who showed themselves worthy of their task. M. Lavelly, aided by a very clever engineer, M. Lecointe, chief engineer of the Société des Forges et Chantiers de la Méditerranée, thought out a dredge which till then had been deemed impossible. This dredge threw the rubbish into a pipe seventy mètres long, of which the end was high enough to carry away the earth extracted over the banks of the canal. The methods employed by M. Lavelly, who superintended the enterprise on the spot, were soingenious that on the 17th of November, 1869, the Suez Canal was solemnly inaugurated, without protestation on the part of the Porte who had in 1866 adhered to the concession accorded by the Egyptian Government since 1854. The upper part of El Guisr, the highest point in the outline of the canal, had been raised by M. Corvreux, who worked under the orders of an intelligent engineer, M. Gioia. M. Larousse, the builder of Port Said, superintended the work of the contractors in the region of Suez. Dussand Brothers built, with artificial blocks, the jetties of Port Said, where M. Laroche, from the beginning of the town to the opening of the canal, represented the company with talent. The general direction

246

A Winter in India

of works was in the hands of a clever engineer of the Corps des Ponts et Chaussées de France, M. Voisin Bey. The organization of transport was studied and practised by M. Guichard, who died in 1896, being president of the canal company, in which office he had replaced my father in 1894, to be succedeed in turn by Prince d’Arenberg. The whole of the work of making the canal had necessitated the removal of 75,000,000 cubic yards of earth, only 25,000,000 having been removed in eight years from 1859 to 1867, so laborious had been the preparatory period, in mid-desert, of so vast an enterprise; while 50,000,000 had been cleared away in the two years from 1867 to 1869. The opening of the canal took place with great magnificence. Ismail Pacha, who had just obtained from the Porte the right to replace his title of Viceroy by that of Khedive, lavished all the splendours of Oriental munificence so as to receive in a worthy manner all the illustrious guests he had gathered together. The Empress Eugénie presided at a ceremony which might justly fill her with pride, for a veritable Isabella the Catholic she had been from the beginning, the staunch protector of my father’s work. On board the royal yacht, “l’Aigle,” were my father and his two sons, followed by ships conveying the Emperor of Austria, the Prince Royal of Prussia, Prince Henry of the Netherlands and a crowd of notabilities gathered from all parts of the universe. One hundred thousand Arabs, or Bedouins, collected at Ismailia, animated the desert with the brilliance of their costumes and the luxury of their scents. On the occasion of this ceremony my father had wished to erect a statue at Port Tewfik to the memory of Lieutenant Waghorn, an Englishman whom he had known formerly at Alexandria, and who had demonstrated the superiority of the route through Egypt to that of the Cape for journeys from Europe to India. This officer fought against the incredulity which ordinarily kills on their first appearance the most interesting innovations because they disturb habits and replace routine by the unknown. During several years, alone and without any aid, he actually proved the soundness of his theory by carrying letters from London to Bombay and from Bombay to London, crossing Egypt by dromedary and the Red Sea in the bad native boats. The determination which Lieutenant Waghorn threw into his idea was the means of the creation of the first postal service from India by the Suez Canal.

The Suez Canal

247

The canal opened, new difficulties arose. The project had met with so much scepticism that commerce was not prepared to make use of it. The favourable forecasts of Sir John Hawkshaw, General Sir Andrew Clarke and M. Methven, captain in the P. & O., were still too recent to have produced their effect in England. Ships of small dimensions but with powerful engines consuming a great deal of coal could not take enough cargo to cover expenses by the freight which competition provoked by easier means of communication tended to cover. It was necessary therefore to change the proportions of the ships and to invent engines which were less cumbersome and more economical. England, above all, had need of all the pliability of its commercial spirit to bend itself to this transformation. An old-fashioned fleet had to be scrapped, in which was a large part of her fortune, and a new one built, risking considerable capital by so doing. England applied herself courageously to the task, maintained her rank and even acquired wealth. She justified what my father told his shareholders, who were complaining of Lord Palmerston’s opposition: “Be patient, later the English guineas will contribute to your dividends.” Passing through the canal today on the beautiful steamers which plough through it, it can well be understood what an immense revolution has been accomplished in shipbuilding if one reflects that the first ships that passed through the canal did not average more than one thousand tons. Before these great changes took place the company had to pass through a crisis which nearly overwhelmed it. The first dividends being less than the expenses, a loan had to be negotiated at the end of 1871 to meet the deficit. So little was believed of the success of the enterprise that no banker in France or England would come to the company’s aid. Of the 20,000,000 asked only five were raised, and it was scarcely possible for the, company to wait, without going bankrupt, for profits to put matters on a firm footing. The company succeeded in weathering this storm, but another difficulty at once arose. The company was authorized by its deed to levy ten francs per ton of carrying capacity on ships passing through the canal. It had been understood that this toll should be levied on the gross tonnage. Several Powers disputed this right, having their objection upheld by the Porte, which agreed with the opinion expressed in 1874 by an international commission

248

A Winter in India

assembled at Constantinople. The Porte decided that the ten francs should be calculated on the net tonnage and that the company might levy, provisionally, a surtax of three francs, to be removed in proportion as the tonnage passing through the canal increased. My father, who considered his company was being robbed, refused to put into force the decision of the commission of Constantinople till the day when, by an order of the Porte, an Egyptian army lined the banks of the canal, ready to enforce, by arms if necessary, the new tariff, unless the company gave way. These grave anxieties did not prevent my father, who added to great kindness of heart an inexhaustible energy, from occupying himself with the welfare of his fellow-creatures. He made the council of administration adopt a definite settlement for the employees of the company and as regards their participation in the profits of the concern. These principles also provided, under the generous inspiration of my father, all the workmen with means of support in their old age; and this liberal arrangement, which has been carried out, is such that all employees, European or Arab, with their families, are protected against want. Lord Beaconsfield, in 1875, bought for 100,000,000 francs the shares of the canal belonging to the Egyptian Government, which now brought in an annual revenue of 27,000,000 francs. Also, at the same time Egypt gave up, in payment of past loans, to a number of French financiers the right which she had reserved for herself in the deed to deduct 15 per cent on the actual profits of the company. Egypt thus lost, between the 15 per cent and the shares, a revenue of nearly 37,000,000 francs, at the time when the capital which she had sunk in the company under form of subscriptions or indemnities brought in about 200,000,000 francs. Lord Beaconsfield, by his daring stroke of business, had immediately placed England in the position of partner in my father’s enterprise, which had been offered to her in 1858. An English commission, under the presidency of Mr. Cave, soon left for Egypt, one of its members being Colonel Stokes, later, Lieutenant-General Sir John Stokes. Relations of confidence sprang up between him and my father, the result being an arrangement by which three administrators representing the English Government as well as shareholders were admitted into the council of administration of the company. These three

The Suez Canal

249

administrators were: Sir John Stokes, Sir Charles Rivers Wilson and Mr. Edward J. Standen. Certain prejudices, however, which existed in the English commercial world were not quenched, rising to a great intensity after the victory of Tel-el-Kebir. A considerable number of our largest clients solicited the support of the English Government with the view to obtain from Egypt the concession at Suez of a second canal. Its influence succeeded in setting aside an agreement which we had prepared with Mr. Childers, the Chancellor of the Exchequer in the ministry of Mr. Gladstone in 1883, in the hope of settling various questions relating to the tariffs of the company and the enlargement of the maritime route. My father would not admit that anyone had the right to establish a rival to the canal for the construction of which he had been invested with exclusive privileges and powers. From this point of view he could not enter into discussion with the initiators of a project which for us was null and void. As directors of a company with capital not only for enriching our shareholders but to materialize a work of progress, was it not our duty to examine the causes which had set up such bad feeling between the company and its cliéntèle? Invited by the Lord Mayor of London to be present at his inaugural banquet in November, 1883, my father went to London, where I accompanied him. During the construction of the canal I had been his secretary, and since 1870 he had made me his coadjutor in the direction of the company to which I had given myself up since 1893. He also wished me to represent him to the English shipowners, to study their lawful wants and to find a means of coming to an understanding. Together we held on the subjects under litigation public meetings at Liverpool, Manchester and Newcastle. Then my father, having been recalled by business to France, left to me alone the care of discussion in London with the members of the second canal party. The meetings which we had, and which were held in the offices of the P. & O. Company, lasted a fortnight. We had the misfortune not to know each other, which is frequent between men and nations and is often the cause of the gravest misunderstanding. When we did get to know each other we realized that we had common interests which would be much better served by our agreement than by vain quarrels. I did not have to deal with the question of the

250

A Winter in India

second canal, for on that subject no discussion was possible between us. I talked with the clients and strove sincerely to find the bases of employing the canal, safeguarding at the same time the rights of the French, to whose perseverance the canal was due, the interests of the shareholders who had courageously run the risks of the venture, and the wants of the public. The understanding which ensued bore the following consequences: — 1. The duration of the passage had become too long, owing to the increased number of vessels using the canal: it took forty-eight hours. In order to shorten it the question was put before a scientific international commission, to know if it was best to have two parallel canals or one large enough for boats to pass each other without losing time. The canal had at this period a width of twenty-two metres on the surface and a depth of eight metres. The commission advocated keeping to one canal, enlarged and deepened. The works undertaken since then have brought the depth up to more than nine and a half metres. The minimum width is more than thirty metres today at the level of the new depth; it is by reason of the inclination of the slopes necessary for their solidness, thirty-seven metres on the level of the old depth of eight metres. However, in spite of these results, already considerable, the continuous improvement was carried out without interruption. From now the expenses of construction and enlargement were more than 600,000,000 francs. Twenty years ago ships had to stop at night in the canal. This inconvenience, added to the complication of passing each other, which could only be done at stations ten kilometres distant one from another, was a visible cause of prolonging the journey. A service has been organized which allows ships to travel as easily by night as by day. An electric apparatus which they carry at their bows lights up the way, which is marked by fires, placed at intervals along the banks. This progress by night, somewhat fantastical, offers one of the most picturesque sights, besides being the advantage it is to navigation. It was inaugurated by a steamer of the P. & O.

The Suez Canal

2. 3.

4. 5.

251

furnished with the electric apparatus supplied by Sautter and Lemonnier, of Paris. The working of it, which had a great success and which appeared quite simple, had, however, required the most minute study, which two sailors attached to the company followed out. It is the result of the enlargement of the channel and the establishment of navigation by night which have reduced the journey from forty-eight hours to eighteen. The Pilot Tax, which was seventy-five centimes per ton, is no longer levied. The tariff of ten francs a ton has undergone reductions calculated on the added net revenue of the shareholders. At the present day the tax is seven francs seventy-five centimes. The company instituted in London an office of enquiries where shipowners could get into communication with it. Seven shipowners and English merchants entered the board of administration, which, with the official representatives of the Government, brought up to ten the number of Englishmen forming part of it. The council of the Suez Canal was as follows: twenty French, one German, one Dutchman, and ten English. The ten English formed in London a committee of consultation under the presidency of Sir Thomas Sutherland, the distinguished head of the P. & O. Company, which owed to him the prosperity which it enjoyed.

I could not recall the negotiations which I have had with eminent men, who have become my friends, who have been inimical to the company of which my father and I were in charge, without rendering homage to the sentiments of whole-hearted loyalty which characterized the performance of their duties as administrators, and to their practical experience and co-operation so valuable to the commercial advancement of the canal. Outside the sphere of politics France and England have joined hands in furthering a work of universal utility from which all races were invited to profit, in equal degree without distinction in nationality.