Letters from India Volume II/From the Hon E Eden to Blank 1
I wrote to Mr. yesterday by the overland mail, and therefore you will probably know two months before you receive this that, finding I could not quite get rid of the remains of that fever I had three weeks ago, and being tired of bad nights and hot hands and living in my own room, I look to the real Indian cure of going down to the Sandheads, and though I am only thirty miles from Calcutta, yet I declare I think I feel better—‘a little peckish or so’ and not so hot. This sort of fever has been in every house in Calcutta and Barrackpore. They say it was nearly as bad last rainy season, only that we did not think about it, as it was our first year and we had our English healths. Poor innocents! but it is worse this year from the rain having failed. The air is so hot and steamy and the tanks do not fill, so that the atmosphere is muddy and bad, and altogether it has been much like an influenza in London, only that people here have no strength to lose, and whatever they do lose they never regain. George breakfasted with me at half-past six this morning, and, as I had not seen him for some time at that early hour, I could not help looking with astonishment at his fresh colour and real healthy appearance. He grows tired and pale after writing through a whole hot day, but the animal itself is apparently better than ever. I wish we all had half his health to divide amongst us.
We came to anchor at Kedgeree at half-past five yesterday, and the water was very smooth and the air delicious on deck, but the cabins were so hot at night, after the large rooms and the punkah at home, that I could not sleep a bit. Dr. Drummond has given me up his cabin, and the captain has obligingly sawed away the partition between that and mine, which gives me a little draft. We went down to Saugur—actually into blue sea-water—in the morning, whereby I and all the native servants were remarkably sea-sick; so then we turned back again and anchored at Kedgeree. Kedgeree is a pretty place—about two inches of bank, then a little jungle and an old ruin of a house that a former postmaster lived in, a little thatched bungalow which the present less well-paid man inhabits, a flag-staff which acts as a semaphore, and then a few native huts. Mrs. Rousseau, the postmistress, sent me a basket of fruit and vegetables. I wish she would come herself, as she must want to see another European woman. I suspect her husband must be the original Rousseau. It is just the place he would have chosen to live in—utterly out of the reach of human kind. If he, and his wife happen to dislike each other, it must be a delightful position to be in.
We breakfast at eight, lunch at twelve, and dine at four (a new set of hours); but I only appear at dinner. The captain is very hospitable and good-humoured.
We went down beyond Saugur yesterday. It was really cold enough on deck to be glad of a shawl, and Dr. Drummond would not let me go to sleep there for fear of a chill. I wonder what we should have thought of it in England. The thermometer was at 84°, but that is very low at this time of year, and there is no sun and such nice dry salt air. It sometimes seems such an odd bit of life when we are anchored opposite Kedgeree. We three and Mr. Dorin play at cards in the evening on deck, and it ought to do good to be out as I have been every day seven hours in real blowing air. We met four ships coming in yesterday —one the ‘Wolf,’ commanded by ’s cousin, and he went on board for five minutes; and in the evening another Madras ship anchored close by us, and I persuaded him and Dr. Drummond to go on board to see if they could find any curious birds or beasts or anything to buy; but they could not—nothing but a Newfoundland dog, a very rare animal in this country, and Mr. , the extra provisional member of Council.
Fanny has begun with this epidemic, but slightly, she says. George finds that turtle-soup and port-wine are great preservatives.
We have settled to go home to-morrow, as I shall then have had nine days’ of it, and my nights are so bad here I cannot sleep at all. We came up to Diamond Harbour this evening.
We have seen the last of our dear open carriage till we get to Benares. It is gone to be lined and painted, and is to embark, with many others of our goods and half the servants, in a fortnight; so George and I went in the great coach. As it is almost all glass, and all the glasses let down, it is, in fact, an open carriage, only it feels like the Lord Mayor's. Anything is better than the job-carriages here; they jingle and shake like taxed carts.
I should say we are all very well again, but we have got off our party to-morrow night in consideration of an immense ball for the King’s birthday, which we give on Monday with supper for 900 people (bless me!)—our last large Calcutta party, as half the servants will go towards Benares in about a fortnight. George, in his frisky way, went to the play to-night. There are no punkahs in the theatre, and not a breath of air. Fanny and I took a drive by the beautiful moonlight.
Have you read Mrs. ’s book? I have a horrid suspicion it is the sort of book you may like, and I cannot bear it. I cannot bear any book (except ‘Law’s Serious Call’) where people are called Atticus and Amanda and Fritilla, or words to that effect. Altogether it is so tiresome it is quite irritating. I borrowed several books from Mr. Macaulay for my expedition and read them all through, and feel better informed than usual this week. Mrs. Elliot has sent George such a beautiful cabinet. He told her to buy an eligible article whenever she liked it, but he never could have foreseen such a piece of luck as this. It is about the size of a small wardrobe, with shelves, and drawers, and desks, and the most beautiful style of lacker-work, and cost only 10l. I gave her a commission for a shawl, and she has sent two absolute masses of embroidery, and so beautiful that George will insist on having one of them.
I must put this up to-day, as the ‘Bengal’ and ‘Adelaide’ both sail to-morrow, and then there will be a cessation of opportunity for a little while. This is a bad time of year for us; the ships from England make such long passages, and there are, moreover, not many due. In about a month we shall be beginning to fidget for the arrival of our Simlah boxes, for we shall not pick up any clothes here. It was announced yesterday by the milliner that there was not another yard of satin of any colour whatever in Calcutta, except a small remnant, possessed by a mad German, of white satin for shoes. Miss is to marry without a trousseau, which is to be made when the French ships arrive. I always like these little colonial distresses.
God bless you, my dearest ! This leaves us all quite well and our influenza done in answer to yours. This has been an idle month in the writing line; so, if you hear anybody complain, you must say touchingly, ‘Ah, poor thing! she has not been well.’