Letters from India Volume I/To the Countess of Buckinghamshire 3
My dearest Sister,—I am suddenly seized with a wish to write to you. I can’t think what about, but so it is, and I am proud of having any wish—of being able to wish a wish.
All they prophesied of September has been more than realised by the wretched hot event, and if you could feel what my room is at this instant—dark and punkah’d as it is—if (I say) you were suddenly transported to it, and I had exchanged into Eastcombe, instead of sitting down to write to me, you would begin screaming for Stratton and Coleman to come and pull you out of the copper into which you had accidentally fallen. The thermometer is only at 90°, and in the hot season it used to be at 95°; but then the air was dry, and there was every now and then a storm and a cool evening; but now it is so hot and heavy day and night. Horrid! I don’t think India a nice place, and George has suddenly dis- covered that it is a desperate climate. They say this may last till the end of October, and the disgraceful thing is, that with all this we are all remarkably well. We look like so many yellow demons, and my individual appearance is even more finished than the others, for Friday night happened to be particularly hot, and the bearers who were pulling my punkah fell asleep—the first time it has happened, I must say. I was nearly stifled, and the upshot was that some of the bloodvessels about my eyes gave way, and I look exactly as if I had been fighting, or rather did look, for they are mended to-day.
We are so longing for more ships; our last sea letters were dated the 27th of April—five months ago. Last Sunday I got a letter by the Overland Packet from of the 1st of July, and another from the Duke of Devonshire of the same date, giving a great deal of amusing gossip; and as those were almost the only two private letters that came to Calcutta, they were perfectly invaluable.
I wonder, sister, you did not send yesterday to ask after me, only you are not attentive in that way. The butcher, or the grocer, or somebody must have mentioned in the morning the narrow escape we had coming down from Barrackpore. His lordship took a fancy to come down on Sunday night, which would always be more convenient, only I do not think it right; but our steamer is out of repair, so we have to be governed by the tide for the conveyance of all the servants, and the tide of the Hooghly is very imperious in its way. So the servants all embarked in the evening, and we all set off at nine with a moon rather brighter than an English sun, and clouds of fire-flies to match, and a slight pretence of fresh air or cool air. It is clearly the best hour for going out. We always send our horses to the Government House bungalow half way, and we were a large party changing horses—Fanny and in his phaeton (the other aides-de-camp in their gigs), and I observed it would be odd if we arrived safely, merely judging from the manner of horses in India; they are all raving mad, and there never is a day without an accident on the course. We went well for a mile, and then met a palanquin packed for a long journey, which, with all its accompaniments of bearers, boxes, &c., is enough to frighten any horse. One of our leaders turned short round, dragged the carriage off the road and settled himself with his head in the carriage looking at George and me—very pleasant, but we did not want him; and in the shake the postilion, who drove the wheelers, was knocked off, and fell between his two horses. The syces all ran to help him, taking immense care not really to go near the kicking horses; all the natives are frightened to death at the least trifle. Giles, to my surprise, poured forth heaps of directions in pure Hindustani; the guards, as usual, stood stockstill, without attempting to help; and George and I spoke English, which nobody understood. And while we all were busy in our vocation, the horse that the other postilion was riding watched his opportunity, saw that nobody would interfere, reared up and flung himself back on the man. We thought at first the man was killed, however he came to after a time; and, though he was very much hurt and laid up for a long while, there are no bones broke. It is a great inconvenience on this sort of occasion not knowing the language. However, Mr and Captain came up to us, and we got hold of a hackery (or bullock-cart), and made up a good bed on it for the man, and left some of the syces to take care of him, and came home safely after half an hour’s delay; but such a scene altogether I never witnessed. My nerves, which were very good in a carriage, are becoming utterly ruined from the starting and kicking state the horses always are in.
A ship sails to-morrow, so this must be finished. We had such a delicious storm last night—such thunder!—it has cleared the air wonderfully. It thinned our Tuesday’s ball too.
I think you will like to know that we are all losing our eyesight from living so much in the dark, and George writes his away.