Now that Fanny is away, and I have to write to her, besides answering English letters, I am quite overworked. She went this day week, and is now at Berhampore. They are both delighted with their camp life and with all they see, and it seems to answer much better than they expected; but as she is writing a journal home, it will be hard upon her if I repeat her story.
We had a party as usual, for the three days of Barrackpore.
We had such a lovely drive down to Calcutta last night, the moon was so bright and the air so soft.
I had an immense tribe of visitors yesterday morning. Brigadier came again this morning about that review at Dumdum, and as they all say it will be less fatigue to go up at break of day than even late in the afternoon, as it is very hot now till sunset, I am to go to his house early on Monday morning and stay the day there. It sounds rather dreadful, and I think an artillery review must be worse than a common review, inasmuch as cannon make more noise than guns. The Brigadier pledges himself that I shall have a good luncheon, three rooms to myself, liberty not to receive the ladies of the station, and he solemnly asserts there is no Mrs. to do the honours, &c., and that there shall be nobody but his aide-de-camp to take care of me; so I shall request whichever of our aides-de-camp goes with me to run his aide-de-camp through the body if he talks too much, and then it will do very well.
There! like a clever creature I brought my writing things up with me, and I am very comfortable here in my own rooms, and quite at leisure. A great many of the Dumdum ladies have called, but Captain has very wisely informed them I should be tired if I saw them, which I am sure would have been the case. He and I came up very early with Wright and Rosina and Giles, and about four carriage-loads of other servants, who have settled themselves and the little ponies that draw their carriages under a group of cocoa trees close by, where they are cooking and laughing and looking very comfortable. The Brigadier has got a bad sick headache, poor man; which is awkward the day of a review. It is awfully hot; the thermometer at 84° in this room; all shut up; and, what is very distressing, is that I have to dress twice, and he has remembered everything but a looking-glass—strange neglect!
I was going to tell you that in a box we packed up yesterday, and sent by the ‘Fergusson’ to Robert, there is an Indian shawl—a present from Fanny and me to ; so will you give it to her with our love. It is nice soft wear.
There is a new large looking-glass just come, so I must dress.
I am so tired, I have a great mind to cry; only if one cried every time one felt tired in India, no number of pocket-handkerchiefs would suffice; but my bones ache, and I think I never shall be cool again.
George arrived at four yesterday, in great state, with the whole of the bodyguard, and the whole concern after him; and the guns fired and the trumpets sounded, and the people ran and the officers drew their swords; and when I called to Wright for my bonnet, she could not come because she was sobbing; and when I asked what was the matter, ‘I was looking at my lord, ma’am, and thinking of the day I first saw him in Grosvenor Street, and my lord persuaded you to take me, and now, ma’am, he is quite as good as a king.’ ‘Yes, but think of the climate and the dust and the bore of it all, Wright, and see if you can’t find my bonnet; and, moreover, if my lord had been a real king, he would not have stuck himself at the top of a prancing horse to go off at four in the broad sun to see a quantity of smoke and natives.’ The thermometer was at least 150° on the plain, I am sure. He took all his staff (with all their horses kicking) after him, and I followed in the open carriage with the four young horses kicking too, and the postilions not understanding a word I said. However, we lived through the first ten minutes, and then the horses were all stunned and quiet, and we were the colour of lobsters. After a time I got on the elephant which we had sent up from Barrackpore, and at last George joined me, and we saw the review very well from thence. There was a mine blown up, which was a pretty sight, and shot nearly as redhot as the people looking on, and the thousands of spectators were past all calculation. ‘Me tell Missee Wright,’ Rosina said, ‘that my governor, poor ting, his hand ache with bow, bow, bow, to everybody’s salaam, and everybody say my governor very nice man.’
We got home in time to dress, then to the messroom, where we sat down with 200 people, George and I in the middle, supported by ‘the Brigadier’ and ‘Mrs. Colonel :’ don’t you see the sort of thing, with an ‘Auckland’ and stars and illuminations all above us, and the heat! My jemadar, with his usual cleverness had provided himself with a great fan, or I must have disappeared into my own plate, and been carried off by mistake for melted jelly. Then there were fireworks the instant dinner was over, and a ball the moment the fireworks were extinguished; and as soon as that began we came away, and the drive home was worth any money—‘the pleasant, the cool, the silent.’ But I am very tired to-day. However we have no company to dinner all this week, bless their hearts! and we are going to take a quiet late drive.
Fanny seems very well and prosperous, and says it is really cold, part of the day at Raj Mahl.
We have been here a whole year this day, so I must write to you, and I think I will send off my letter. George says it seems like half a year, I think it seems like twenty. But there is much to be thankful for. We are all (as far as we know) well on both sides of the water; we have had no misfortune to bear, or to tell; and I feel to know you more and to love you better, and to be more intimate and devoted to you than ever. The thread has been drawn out to its utmost length, but it has not an idea of breaking, has it, dear? and it grows more like a rope every day. If they won’t let us go home soon it will be a cable. I grudge the loss of your society, and your look, and your voice; but still at the end of this whole year of India, it seems to me that I have lived with all of you and with nobody else, so my English accounts add up well. As for India: looking at it dispassionately and without exaggerating its grievances for fun, I really think I hate it more now than at first. I try to make out for you stories and amusement from the pomp and circumstance of the life, and I can fancy you saying, ‘Oh! they talk so much about that, they must like it;’ but it is because there is nothing else to frame a cheerful letter on. I think the climate a constant and increasing evil, inasmuch as it becomes every day more difficult to occupy myself.
In the meanwhile I flatter myself the English Ministry is changing about this time, or perhaps a month later, and if you can but have us recalled, I do not insist on a second anniversary.
I am particularly bitter to-day. We are returning our Dumdum civilities, and there are some of the artillery officers here; and this morning one of them came in and wished me ‘many happy returns of the day, and all to be spent in India.’ ‘Few, you mean,’ I said; ‘the many and the happy can’t be here.’ But away he went, got on board his yacht, which is lying at our Ghaut, and fired a salute of twenty-one guns, which shook all the windows, and then came back and said he had been celebrating the anniversary of my birthday. However I must finish. God bless you.