CHAPTER V
AN OLD PORTUGUESE SUBURB
Temporal blessings pass like a dream, beauty fades like a flower, the longest life disappears like a flash. Our existence may be likened to the bubble that forms on the surface of the water.–Sloka.
It was somewhat appalling to learn that it was the duty of the chaplain’s wife to call on all the ladies of the cathedral congregation, and that no one dreamed of visiting new arrivals until a call had been made, a complete reversal of the etiquette in England.
I was provided with a list of names and addresses by a neighbour, who took compassion on my ignorance and constituted herself my guide and mentor in things social. She proved a lifelong friend. The calling had its drawbacks, but it also had its compensations for me. Among the former were the heat and glare, the dust and smells. These features of the East are inconceivable to the dwellers in a temperate climate. The dust of Madras rises from the laterite, a ferruginous earth of which the roads are made. The laterite is beaten down with water, and binds into a hard, smooth surface that is very pleasant to drive over. The constant wear of cart-wheels and the pounding of hoofs, equine and bovine, reduces it in time to the finest powder, so fine that it resembles an ochre paint of Venetian red tint ready ground for mixing. It permeates everything, and penetrates through clothing to the very skin. It stains white material with which it comes in contact, just as powdered paint would stain it. Walking over such dust is impossible for a lady who would wear light garments and keep them spotless. As for the smells, they are indescribable. A friend, who was once on a visit to us, went for a drive along the marina. The sea breeze had died away and there was a land wind.
'How far did you go?' I asked on his return.
'I went along the beach until I came to a smell. Poof! It was like a wall! You could have cut slabs off it! It was enough for me, and I turned back.'
From his description I knew exactly the spot where he had turned.
The heat in the middle of the day, when it is incumbent on gentlemen to pay their calls, is somewhat trying. The seasoned old Anglo-Indian adopts the prudent course of wearing a sun-hat in his brougham. On arrival at a house it is exchanged for the smarter head-covering that fashion decrees should be worn on these occasions. It is told of a certain absent-minded man lately arrived from up-country, who was making a call on one of the grandes dames of Madras, that he effected the change of hats in the brougham correctly, but forgot to leave his topee in the carriage when he entered the drawing-room. Throughout the regular ten minutes of small talk he continued unconsciously to wear his black hat while he held his sun-topee in his hand.
Among the compensations of calling were the drives which I was obliged to take to accomplish my visits. They led me to the four points of the compass, and were full of interest. The scenery, the natives, the gorgeous colouring, the brilliant sea and sky never failed to delight the eye. In addition, each district of the town, whether covered with buildings or with luxuriant tropical vegetation, was full of historical associations.
My first impressions of Madras were received on the beach, and were not favourable. The long flat shore, unrelieved by bay or cove, gave no promise that it would contain behind the fringe of cocoanut palms anything to fascinate the eye. No sooner was the belt passed than avenues of noble trees were disclosed with groups of picturesque houses, patches of emerald green rice-fields, thronged bazaars, and palaces set in park-like grounds. Villages of mud huts cluster outside the very walls of the compounds which contain the palatial residences of the Europeans; and the happy, careless children of the sun seem to revel in a picturesque squalor with every sign of contentment. If the dwellings of the natives are mean, the trees that shelter them are not. Many of the roads are adorned with magnificent avenues, and every compound possesses groups of trees that would be an ornament to any English park.
One of the most striking trees is the flamboyant Poinciana regia, a native of Madagascar. Its acacia foliage is of a vivid green, and its boughs are laden with masses of brilliant scarlet blossom. In some parts of India the flowers bloom before the leaves unfold. The tree then appears clothed completely in scarlet, a strange sight in the blaze of the midday sun. In Hindustani it is known as the gulmohr, or peacock-flower, from the markings on one of its petals. The name has been corrupted into goldmohur, by which it is known to Europeans in some districts.
As an avenue tree, nothing equals the banyan in Madras, which retains its leaves until the fresh flush comes with the monsoons. Four varieties are common on the roadside and in the compounds. The many-stemmed Ficus indica is the finest, and to the eye of the foreigner the most wonderful of all the trees in the East. It is seen to best advantage standing by itself in the compound, where it looks like a small grove. Some are of enormous extent with a perfect forest of smooth columns, which have been compared to the pillars of some great cathedral aisle. Bishop Heber exclaimed, as his eyes rested on a hoary giant in Central India, 'What a noble place of worship!' In old trees a palmyra or a neem tree may sometimes be found growing from the central trunk. This is brought about by the agency of the birds that drop seeds. It is called by the Hindus 'the sacred marriage,' and is highly venerated. There are many superstitions concerning the banyan. One is that lightning never strikes it; 'a notion,' says George Johnstone in his 'Stranger in India,' 'probably founded on experience. The fact, if truth it be, is to be accounted for by the resinous non-conducting quality of its leaves and wood.' With its many stems and evergreen foliage it is the emblem of immortality. The tradition is that all nature will pass away except one big mystic banyan tree. Under this tree the Diety will be enthroned and glorified. The leaves are of a glossy green and the fruit is a scarlet berry of the nature of a small fig. Birds during the day, and bats at night, chatter and quarrel over the feast. Some natives are said to eat the fruit, and all who have no brass and china platters make use of the leaves. They are pinned together with stalks of grass and form excellent plates and dishes for the boiled rice. After use they are thrown aside and fresh ones are manufactured for the next meal. There are many beautiful specimens of the many-stemmed banyan in Madras ; but the largest that I ever saw was at Madura, in the com- pound of the house usually occupied by the judge. When Mr. Weir filled that position, a party of American visitors came to see the tree. They had heard tales of its enormous size and were sceptical as to their truth. The States consider that they possess a monopoly of big things including trees. At sight of the giant the gentleman of the party was manifestly impressed; but he would commit himself to no opinion until he had thoroughly examined into the matter. He paced out the area that its branches covered and calculated in thoughtful silence. At last he spoke. 'Wai, judge,' he said, 'I guess yours is rather a tall tree!' More than that he would not admit.
The pepul, the Bo-tree of the Buddhists, is of the banyan tribe. It is to be found near all Hindu temples. According to the teaching of the Hindus, man's duty in life is to plant a tree, dig a well, and beget a son. To plant a pepul is more than a duty, it is a sacred act, and no heathen gardener will root up a pepul seedling willingly. The legend relates that when the old tutor of the gods had taught them all that was necessary to know, they turned him into a pepul. Their affection for their preceptor remained, and out of love for him they came sometimes into the tree. Its foliage is like the aspen, and is so delicately poised that it is always trembling. Often when I have failed to feel the lightest breath of wind, I have seen the pepul leaves quivering against the yellow sky of the setting sun. Other trees stood motionless with drooping foliage in the heavy warm air, but the pepul was alive with gentle movement that was almost uncanny. The trembling is attributed to the presence of innumerable spirits that never sleep. Night and day they watch and listen to learn what human beings are doing. And on this account no native will impart any information beneath its branches to another person, lest the story should be overheard and repeated by the mischief-loving sprites. When it flushes with verdant growth men rejoice; it is a sign that all crops will flourish and bear a plentiful harvest.
There are two other varieties of banyans that are common in Madras. One of these has pendulous roots that hang in dark fringes from its boughs, ever reaching towards the earth which they never touch. I have seen an avenue at Coimbatore of these trees with their brown roots so thick overhead that they seemed to form a tunnel of earth, pierced at intervals with openings to let in the light. The other banyan has no rootlets nor supporting stems to its branches, and its long arms suffer badly when the cyclone sweeps in from the Bay of Bengal.
The tamarind is a familiar tree common to most compounds. In shape it is not unlike an elm. Its foliage, of the character of acacia, is extremely fine, each tiny leaflet being barely half an inch long and not more than an eighth of an inch broad, yet its green crown is so thick that the rays of the sun scarcely penetrate, and the weary traveller and tired cooly eagerly seek its shade during the fierce noontide heat. The fruit crop is valuable, as the tamarind is a necessary ingredient in every curry. Its presence in the garden is not approved of by the gardener. The acidity, which is so marked a feature of its fruit, extends to its leaves, and the moisture dropping from the foliage is said to be tainted also; it poisons the vegetation on which it falls; also it produces decay in tents that are pitched beneath its shade. No native will sleep at night under it, as it is supposed to be a favourite abode of devils. I once carried my little daughter out into the compound at Trichinopoly, and, not noticing where I was going, wandered to a beautiful tamarind tree under which I often sat in the morning. The ayah hurried after me with an urgent entreaty not to take * baby ' there. 'Why, ayah?' 'There's a devil in the tree,' was the reply, given with bated breath and terrified glances at the soft, thick foliage above, and she fled to the house, lest the devil should take possession of her. As a protection against the consequence of my rash act 'baby' played with bunches of neem leaves the next day. The leaves of the neem or margosa (Melia indica) are said to drive away evil spirits; the natives hang them up in their rooms as we hang up old horseshoes.
The neem is like the ash, without its freedom of growth. It is planted near native houses as a preservative of health, as well as a warning to devils to keep their distance. The word 'margosa' is Portuguese for 'bitter.' The oil that is pressed from its olive-shaped seeds is exceedingly bitter and has a strong scent of garlic. The warm climate of the Tropics encourages insect life, and the natives anoint themselves with the oil as a protection; the smell is so abominable that Europeans prefer the insects.
There are several other trees that are pleasant to look at as the carriage rolls smoothly over the level roads of red laterite. Near the sea the portia tree (Thespesia populnea) lifts its tulip blossoms into the sunlight. The foliage is a bright green, and the flowers are of a primrose tint with deep madder blotches in the centre. They open and drop quickly without giving the dust time to settle upon their creamy petals. The place to see the portia in perfection is moist, humid Colombo, where the fiery blasts of the land-winds are not felt.
The most graceful of all Eastern trees is the palm the sea-loving cocoanut palm. Its slender stems are thrown up in artistic sweeps towards the sky, no two making the same curve, and its crown of foliage spreads out into a bouquet of fronds, arranged by nature with a skill that exceeds the cunning of the human hand. When the sun has set and night is approaching the fire-flies swarm out and carry their scintillating lamps to their playground among the fronds.
Madras is well said to be 'a city of magnificent distances.' Not only are the roads long, but the private drives up to the houses are a considerable length. The Mowbray Road, running parallel with the old Mount Road, is bordered with some fine banyans. The branches interlace overhead and form a long aisle of wood and foliage. It is beautiful in all its aspects : in the early morning, when the mist is rising and the blue smoke of the wood-fires hangs like a curtain of delicate gauze over the still vegetation in the broad rays of the noonday sun, when every leaf glistens with reflected light ; at sunset, when horizontal shafts of gold pierce the western side of the road and touch the grey stems of the trees; and even at night, when the full moon throws a lacework of patterns upon the roadway. The road ends abruptly at the entrance to the grounds of the Adyar Club, losing itself in the crossway called Chamier's Road.
The compound of the Adyar Club slopes down to the Adyar River one of those smooth, still backwaters, like the Cooum, that begins as a watercourse, and spreads out into broad reaches. It is a natural boundary to the suburbs of Madras on the south, and is unpolluted by drainage. It has always been the favourite resort of the lovers of boating. The club-house has a history that is interesting. It belongs to the Portuguese Roman Catholic Mission at the Luz, to which it was bequeathed by De Monte more than a century ago. Petrus Uscan, the son of an illustrious Armenian of Julfa, came to Madras early in the eighteenth century and settled there. He built up a flourishing trade with Manilla in the Philippine Islands and accumulated a fortune. His name is connected with the Marmelong Bridge and with the steps to the church on St. Thomas's Mount. When he died (1754) his commercial mantle fell upon the shoulders of a merchant named De Monte, the descendant of one of the proud old Portuguese dons who settled at Mylapore. Business prospered with De Monte as it had done with Uscan, and a fine fortune was made. He had an only son whom he sent to England to be educated. During his absence De Monte built the house now used as a club, and furnished it with every luxury that money could buy. The time approached for the young De Monte to return to join his father. The white sails of the ship appeared in the south, and the distant boom of a cannon announced a little later that the vessel had come to anchor in the Roads. De Monte hurried to the beach as fast as his Arab horse could carry him. The Muckwas rowed him out through the surf, and he climbed the gangway ladder with an eagerness he could not control. His eye scanned the company as he came on board, but he searched in vain; his boy was not there to meet him. Then the captain came forward, and a hush fell upon the passengers as they drew away and left the two together. It was a sad tale that the captain had to tell of a foolish quarrel followed by a duel. Only the evening before had the disputants crossed swords and De Monte had been killed. Bowed with grief the broken-hearted father was conducted to his son's cabin where the dead body lay. He bore the beloved remains to the house by the Adyar, and afterwards to the cemetery at Mylapore. When he died he left the house and grounds to the Portuguese Mission in the Luz.
Chamier's Road runs eastward towards the sea and parallel with the river. It curves and changes its name before it reaches St. Thome, passing several fine houses standing in well-wooded compounds that stretch to the river's edge. One of these houses bears the name of Brodie Castle. It was built by James Brodie, the eldest son of James Brodie, of Brodie, N.B., and of Lady Margaret Duff, the daughter of William, first Earl of Fife. Lady Margaret was burned to death at Brodie House in Scotland in 1786. Her son James also met with a violent death. He loved the beautiful river and was never happier than when he was sailing over its broad reaches. One day he was starting out for a sail when his wife came to him in great distress and begged him not to go. He asked the reason, and she, somewhat unwillingly, confessed that she had had a bad dream about him and feared its portent. His only reply was to laugh at her superstitious fears. Saying that he would show her how little occasion she had to be nervous, he got into his boat and sailed away. She never saw him alive again. What happened exactly no one knew. The boat was overturned and Brodie was found dead in the water. The house was put up for sale and bought by the firm of Arbuthnot for the use of the Arbuthnot family. For some time Sir Thomas Strange lived in it.
In 1866 another sad fatality was connected with the house. John Temple, Lieut.-Colonel in the Madras Army, and a brother of the late archbishop, was drowned with three other people while boating. Mr. Henry Cornish, who was then editor of the 'Madras Times,' and afterwards co-editor and part proprietor with Sir Charles Lawson of the 'Madras Mail,' published an account of the accident in the 'Madras Mail' on the death of the archbishop. He said :
At the time of his death the colonel was president of the newly organised Madras Municipality, an outcome of the recommendations of the Army Sanitary Commission, who had strongly condemned the insanitary arrangements in Indian towns. ... A tiffin party had been given by the late Mr. John Mclver, manager of the Bank of Madras, at his house, Brodie Castle. . . . Among the guests were Colonel Temple, Captain Frederick H. Hope, Aide-de-Camp of Lord Napier, the then Governor, and Mr. Bostock, the Peninsular and Oriental Company's agent. About six in the evening these three gentlemen, with two Misses Mclver, daughters of the host, went out for a row on the river in a boat belonging to the house. . . . The intention was to cross the river and take a stroll on the opposite bank, but after going a short distance the boat grounded on a sand-bank. According to Mr. Bostock's evidence, who was the only person who saw what took place, the party had to land on the sand-bank in order to right the boat.'
Apparently in doing this the boat received a strain, for soon after re-embarking it sprang a leak and filled rapidly. The whole party was thrown into the water, and Mr. Bostock alone was able to reach land. He found safety on a small island and shouted for assistance. He was heard by Mr. J. D. Mayne, who occupied one of the houses on the banks of the Adyar, and he was rescued by that gentleman. The rest of the party were unfortunately drowned, and their bodies were recovered some distance from the spot where they sank. The two officers were buried on Christmas Eve with full military honours. The Governor, Sir William Dennison, and the Commander-in-Chief were present. The Miss Mclvers were the sisters of Sir Lewis McIver, M.P., who was in the Madras Civil Service before he entered Parliament.
After passing Brodie Castle the road bends towards St. Thome. The river Adyar widens into a broad back-water with mud banks and shallows and the roadway is raised on an embanked causeway. Brown wading birds paddle in the ripples, filtering the mud through their long beaks, and the water-snakes pursue their sinuous way in their hunt for the frogs. Once while we were away from Madras a strange sight was to be seen from the bridge that crosses the Adyar. The water was unusually low, and round the piers were masses of writhing snakes intertwined like tumbled coils of rope. What had brought them there no one seemed able to say. It was a loath-some sight which did not last long, and it has never been seen again. The backwater extends on either side of the road, reflecting sky and landscape, the gorgeous colours of the sunset, the groves of palms, the handsome trees, and the skimming gulls and curlews. The moan of the surf upon the shore becomes audible, and St. Thome is reached with its silent old streets, its big cathedral of modern growth, and its pleasant little bungalows, nestling confidently upon the beach with the waves beating up to the very compound walls.
St. Thome was the name the Portuguese merchants gave to their settlement in the ancient town of Mylapore, the Maliapha Emporium of Ptolemy. Here, it is said, St. Thomas was buried, A.D. 68. Mylapore was a flourishing city then, with a prince to rule over it. Ships from many countries far and near put in with their merchandise, bringing pilgrims to the tomb of St. Thomas. Among these were said to be the ambassadors of Alfred the Great (A.D. 883). Thither, without doubt, came the great traveller Marco Polo in the thirteenth century, in whose time the town was prosperous. The narrow streets still remain, many of them too narrow for a carriage to pass along. They were laid out when the palanquin was the chief means of locomotion for the wealthy; and Marco Polo, borne on the shoulders of the fishermen bearers, must have passed by those deserted ways down which I gazed. The houses that line the streets are small, and many of them in a ruinous state. The wooden rafters and beams decayed and the roofs fell in. As they fell so they seem to remain in the present day, a symbol of the decay that has overtaken the trade of the port.
Early in the sixteenth century the Portuguese appeared on the Coromandel Coast. Tempted by the anchorage in the Adyar, they brought their little ships over the bar into the backwater. They obtained leave to settle at Mylapore, and were granted a lease of a part of the town that touched the sea. Warehouses and dwellings rose quickly and the new quarter received the name of San Thome de Mylapore. They fortified themselves and built a wall round their property, and the moribund trade of the town revived.
There was no such thing as going to the hills then; the heat of the summer must have been well-nigh insupportable when the breeze from off the sea died away and the hot land-wind blew. The merchants sought relief inland, and built garden-houses among the luxuriant trees of the Luz. The Luz lies between Teynampet and the sea, and is within easy reach of St. Thome. The large airy houses with their thick walls and massive pillars were more suited to the taste of the proud old dons than the crowded fort. They laid out gardens, cultivated the sweet Persian rose, the oleander, and the double jasmin ; they lived in princely fashion with a number of slaves to do their bidding. The road between the Luz and St. Thome, as well as the streets of Mylapore, presented a gay and busy scene. Palanquins, bright with scarlet silk and lacquered woodwork, bore the dark-eyed Portuguese ladies to the market in the city, while a bevy of gaily dressed slaves followed close upon the heels of the chanting bearers. There was as much rivalry among the ladies over the brave show made by their household as there was over their own silken skirts and lace mantillas. The gentlemen, with flowing plumes and satin cloaks, rode to their warehouses on the restless little Persian horses, brought down from the north by the Afghans. Strings of pack bullocks carrying bales of cotton goods to the seaport, and lines of porters bending beneath their loads of strange treasures that were sent in exchange for the cotton and other Indian products, passed to and fro in a never ending stream. They have all vanished; the Luz Road and the streets of Mylapore are deserted save for a chance pedestrian who turns to gaze in idle curiosity at the unusual sight of an Englishwoman in her carriage, or a pony-jutka taking a party of Muhammadans from Triplicane to the beach.
The palaces of the dons are occupied by Hindu gentlemen, whose families, although not purdahshin, live in the retirement of the thickly wooded compounds, some of which are enclosed with high walls. The gardens round the houses are encircled with hedges, from which comes a breath of the sweet inga, like the scent of the honey-suckle in England. In vain the eye scans the grounds through open gateway, or chance breach in wall and hedge, for glimpse of silken garment and flash of golden ornament ; in vain the ear is bent to catch the sound of the merry voices of children playing among the oleanders and roses. The silence that broods over the Luz is even greater than that which has settled upon the dead city. Yet nature lives, and the mynas and parrots chatter and scream with a royal licence, as they chattered and screamed in the time of Marco Polo and of St. Thomas. The crows are vociferous upon the verandah roofs, and the squirrels, with jerking tails, scud shrieking along the walls. The song of the gardener comes from the well as he draws water for the garden ; and occasionally the sound of a tomtom may be heard, as some domestic festival is being celebrated within the jealously screened halls.
The Luz church, to which De Monte left his money, stands in a grassy meadow at a little distance from the road. It was founded (1516) by the Portuguese Capuchins, and for nearly four hundred years its bell has called the people to prayer. Its congregation no longer consists of rich merchants, proud dons with their lace-veiled donnas, but is composed of natives and a few Eurasians. These last have some of the high-sounding names of the Portuguese nobility, but they inherit little else from their distinguished forbears.