Letters from India Volume I/To the Hon Mrs Eden 3
My dearest Mary,—Is not it time to write to you? I really often put off writing when I am in the mind for it, from the impossibility of finding anything new to say, and the conviction of the bore my letters must be.
A very beautiful Armenian woman died yesterday, who has for several years been a subject of curiosity to Calcutta. The Armenians do not mix much in society, but she came occasionally to our parties, covered with the most splendid diamonds, and every day she drove on a particular part of the course in a beautiful carriage, with an oldish, ordinary-looking Armenian driving his gig, close by her. They never seemed to speak, but he never quitted the side of the carriage. Some said he was her father-in-law, or her uncle, watching that nobody spoke to her; some, that he was her lover, trying to speak to her himself. However, for five years this has gone on every day, and last week we passed them several times. Her death is in the paper to-day—of fever, of course, and I see she was only twenty-four. I think the poor woman must have died of the bore of those drives.
We came up to Barrackpore last night, and are preparing this morning for a party to the Barrackporeans. There are not ladies enough belonging to the station to dance, but we have got a conjuror, who has been acting at Calcutta with great success, to come for the might. They say he is a very vulgar man; asks if any gentleman will lend him an ’at or an ’andkerchief: but is a good conjuror; and as he charges 20l. for the night, he ought to be.
We have, as usual, got the house full, a system which has entirely spoiled the charm of Barrackpore to me. It is such a comfort at Calcutta to have four days out of the seven, and very often five, without the danger of even a morning visit; whereas here, we have people all day long. Any idea of being in the country is all nonsense, when you can only go out one hour in the twenty-four, and that is in the dark now. Even George has given up gardening as a bad job. I must say, after we have abused the weather so much, that the change the last week has been quite delightful. The evenings are quite cool, partly from very thick fog; but still they are cool, and the days are no longer oppressive. We still go on with our punkahs, and, indeed, I am ashamed to say that I keep mine still going all night; but then I pull the sheet well over me, so you may imagine that the season is very inclement. The old Indians really get up a shiver, and say, ‘Well, I think you have nothing better than this in England!’ Poor dears! ‘Yet nature might have made me such as these,’ therefore ‘I’ll not disdain,’ as Autolycus says. Indeed, India will make me so in another year, so perhaps it is better not to disdain.
Will you tell Miss Ridley that Mr. sent me her letter, and as I am always particularly glad to do anything she asks, I asked him to dinner forthwith and to a ball, and now we have brought him to Barrackpore, which is the only great distinction the Governor-General can show to a young writer. We have brought Mr. , Robert’s protégé too, and they seem to be very happy. Mr. is very good-looking, I think, and has brought colour and health enough to last him full three weeks, though a fortnight is the general term.