CHAPTER II

EARLY LIFE, VISIT TO EUROPE, AND PREPARATION FOR A CAREER

TORU, the youngest of the three children of Mr. and Mrs. Govin Chunder Dutt, was born in her father’s house in Rambagan, 12, Manicktollah Street, in the very heart of Calcutta, on the 4th of March, 1856. ‘The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day’ is peculiarly true in her case. The intelligence shown in her early years, while going through the alphabet and the rudimentary parts of education under the eyes of her loving father, foreshadowed her astonishing literary achievement. Her mother exercised great influence over the formation of her children’s characters, and the old songs and stories of the country recited by her had an irresistible attraction for Toru and fired her youthful imagination. At the same time Mrs. Dutt inspired in her heart a deep reverence for Christ. The glimpses we get of Toru in those early years gave promise of those Christian graces with which she became so richly endowed in after life. The intense reality of religion to children is not always appreciated. The following anecdote brings us face to face with one of the difficult problems of Christian ethics: When Toru was five years old, one day as they were playing together, her elder sister Aru said to her, ‘You are a Christian, are you not? It is written in the Bible that, if any one smites you on one cheek, you must turn the other also. Now, supposing any one struck you on one cheek, would you be able to turn the other to him?’ Toru replied, ‘Yes, I should.’ Aru immediately gave Toru a hard smack on her cheek. Toru burst out crying, but did not retaliate.

As the young Dutts grew older, the seeds of education bore an abundant harvest, and later on, their studies were continued under the care of Babu Shib Chunder Bannerjea, an elderly man of exemplary Christian piety and character, who enjoyed the love and confidence of his pupils. Toru, in describing her recollections of those early days, says:

‘He used to teach us English when we were quite young. As children, we were very fond of him; and older, that affection grew, mixed with esteem. He was gentle, yet so firm, during lessons. He is such a truly Christian man and sympathizes in all our joys and sorrows. How we used to try and wile away lesson time, by chatting, talking about trifles! But he never allowed us to chat long. We used, I remember, to ask one by one about the health of every one engaged in the Financial Department. How interested and anxious we used to get all at once, about Mr. So-and-so’s doings, health, and affairs. We used to read Milton with him latterly; we read Paradise Lost over and over so many times that we had the first book and part of the second book by heart.’

Here were two Bengali sisters deep in the beauties of Paradise Lost, and appreciating its wealth of imagery ‘far more completely than do most English girls of seventeen’.¹ Toru learnt the art of singing under the care of a European singing mistress, Mrs. Sinaes, and soon grew proficient in it.

Toru’s early years were spent in Calcutta and in the country house at Baugmaree—an extensive garden in the suburbs of Calcutta, covering many acres of land and shaded by fruit-trees and having in the centre a comfortable and spacious house, a perfect place for repose and a fitting place for poets. In after life Toru Dutt described the country house and its surrounding garden in a beautiful sonnet. It was the delight of Toru’s childhood to spend her holidays there and to share rural sports with her brother and sister.

The photograph facing this page represents Abju standing between the two sisters. Toru, somewhat short for her age, hardly coming up to Aru’s shoulders, is gazing with all her might at the camera.

In 1863, the family went by sea to Bombay, in one of the Peninsular and Oriental Company’s steamers, there being no railway in those days between the two cities. They returned to Calcutta in 1864.

On July 9, 1865, Toru’s brother Abju died at the age of fourteen years, and the two sisters were then left the only hope and solace of the bereaved parents. Mr. Dutt never left his daughters, taking them always with him, either to the city house in Rambagan or to the country residence at Baugmaree. This continued till 1869, when he decided on taking his wife and daughters to Europe. They were, in fact, the first Bengali ladies to visit Europe. Mr. Dutt and his family landed at Marseilles and spent a few months in the south of France, at Nice, where Toru and her sister went to school, at a French pensionnat. This was the only school to which they ever went, and there was laid the foundation of that proficiency in the French language which afterwards distinguished the younger sister. At Nice they stayed at the Hotel Helvétique. Toru at this time wrote a letter to a young cousin, Arun Chunder Dutt,² in Calcutta, describing her experiences during their stay at Nice.

Hotel Helvétique, Rue de France, Nice. March 7, 1870.

MY DEAR ARUN,—I received with gladness your letter of the 8th February yesterday evening as we were dining. I knew it was your letter before I opened it, for in one corner of the envelope I saw your initials.

When the letter arrived we were dining at the ‘table d’hôte’, as I said before, and two musicians were playing on a harp and a violin in the room, to give us a bon appetit. This is the French way. We went to see the ‘Carnival’ here; that is, the people wear masks, and colour themselves, and throw bonbons at people, and are very merry just before Lent, for in Lent they are kept very strict, being Catholics, and they want to be very jolly just before Lent. Mr. Elliott said to Papa, that he must take us to see the Carnival, and Mr. Elliott said he would wait on the Terrace to take care of us.

The roads were very muddy, and Mamma, Aru, Papa and myself walked a little, which made our clothes a little dirty. Papa hired a carriage; it was a very bad and broken one, I think the worst that can be had in Nice (for almost all the hired carriages here are as good as the best in Calcutta). We went in the carriage and it rolled on; Mamma said the cover of it was going to fall off (horrible idea), for then we will be very much pelted with bonbons. Papa said, ‘Just wait a few minutes and you will see the cover and the windows and doors come off and lie in the street.’ At last we went on the Terrace without such mishaps as were predicted by Papa. Mamma and Papa waited in the carriage, and we went with Mr. Elliott to see the Carnival on the Terrace. There were crowds of people on the Terrace, and we stood upon chairs to see the Carnival pass. They threw lots of bonbons, and the spectators threw at them too. There were crowds of people and soldiers below the Terrace too. The soldiers to keep order, and there were other soldiers who played on the trumpet and drum and other musical instruments. We came back to our hotel and saw that many people, who lived in our hotel, had also dressed themselves in character at the Carnival; some of them tried to throw bonbons at our window, but did not succeed, we were very high on the third storey. Madame Lahuppe, the doctor’s wife, is very fond of us; she does not know English, only French, and she makes me talk to her in French, and be it ever so bad, encourages me, saying ‘Très bien’.

We have found many friends here, among whom are many Englishmen. We went to-day to a shop of curiosities in mosaic woodwork, and bought some fine books and other things.

We do not go to the school now, we have left it, and we read French with Madame Schwayer, Papa’s French teacher.

We go to take long walks on the ‘Promenade des Anglais’. Aru had recovered, but is ill again. We are all well except Aru. And now, my dear cousin, I have come to the end of my paper, so I must close it. Please kindly show this letter to Omesh Baboo. I hope all of you are in good health,—Yours very affectionately,

TORU DUTT.

Mrs. Barton furnishes us with the following information about the education of the two sisters and their days in France:

‘They [the parents] were determined to give their two clever girls the best possible education. They took advantage of our escort to come to Europe that winter, as we were returning home. By my husband’s advice, they came with us to Nice, where my parents were then living, and the Dutts spent three or four months there, if I remember aright. We introduced them to several residents at Nice, and they all soon learnt French.’

The anecdote that follows is also obtained from the same source:

‘Their knowledge of history and of art was extraordinary, all taught them by their father. I remember one day we took them all four to Canon Childer’s house at Nice, to introduce them there, before we left ourselves. On the table stood a good-sized bronze reproduction of the “Dying Gladiator”. Mr. Barton (or their father) touched it and looking at the two girls said, “Do you know who that is?” Without a moment’s hesitation both said, “It must be the ‘Dying Gladiator’!” We were astounded, for they could only know it from books and had never been to Rome. I never saw such a bronze or marble in India, and I am sure they had not.’

England at that date had little to offer to young travellers from foreign countries, and the Higher Education of Women had hardly begun. It was perhaps a period in which the insularity of Britain was most marked. We are not surprised to read that France, the France of the Second Empire, had much more to teach the Dutt sisters and left deeper and more fruitful impressions on their minds. ‘One would like to have fuller details’, says M. James Darmesteter, ‘of their brief sojourn in France, which had a wonderful influence on the ideas and imagination of Toru. French became her favourite language and France the country of her election.’ ³

After several months Mr. Dutt went to Paris with his family. Twenty-five hours of continuous railway travel had so completely exhausted his companions that he resolved to make some stay in what he has called ‘the capital of the World—for Paris is indeed, gainsay it who will, the greatest of all cities in point of beauty, comfort, climate, and cleanliness, taken all in all’. After a prolonged stay in Paris, they started for England, via Boulogne, in the spring of 1870. Mr. Dutt determined this time to travel in a more leisurely way. Boulogne, too, was a place worth stopping at for a while; a quaint old place, of which Thackeray wrote so often.

When they arrived at Boulogne—in Mr. Dutt’s words—‘on the one hand it appeared such a wretched little maritime town with houses apparently built for sailors only, and on the other hand, the sky seemed so cloudless, the sun so bright, and the sea so calm, that it was unanimously resolved not to delay there a moment, but to cross over at once to England, and take the train at Folkestone for London.’ On arriving in London they stayed at the Charing Cross Hotel, and afterwards took a furnished house at Brompton. It was here that Toru began to develop a taste for translating poetry and later wrote poetry herself. Mr. R. C. Dutt, who was then in England preparing for the Competitive Civil Service Examination, describes the times spent with his relatives: ‘It is needless to say that I often visited them there, and spent many pleasant hours with my young cousins. Literary work and religious studies were still the sole occupation of Govin Chunder and his family, and they made the acquaintance of many pious Christians.’

In London they knew Sir (then Mr.) George Macfarren, and his wife was their singing mistress. Sir Bartle Frere ⁴ and his family they also knew very well, and ‘many a merry day did Aru and I pass with them at Wimbledon’. Another friend the Dutts knew very well by correspondence was the Chevalier de Châtelain, a friend of Victor Hugo, and a well-known translator of several of Shakespeare’s plays and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.

In 1870, The Dutt Family Album was published by Messrs. Longmans, Green and Co., with the following preface:

‘The writers of the following pages are aware that bad poetry is intolerable, and that mediocre poetry deserves perhaps even a harsher epithet. There is a glut of both in the market. But they venture on publication, not because they think their verses good, but in the hope that their book will be regarded, in some respects, as a curiosity. They are foreigners, natives of India, of different ages, and in different walks of life, yet of one family, in whom the ties of blood-relationship have been drawn closer by the holy bond of Christian brotherhood. As foreigners educated out of England, they solicit the indulgence of British critics to poems which on these grounds alone may, it is hoped, have some title to their attention.’

Mr. R. C. Dutt wrote: ‘When the Dutt Family Album came out, Govin Chunder presented me with a copy, marked out the poems which were his own, and read, almost with tears in his eyes, the verses he had written on his deceased son.’

The sisters passed their days happily in London in reading books and in intercourse with earnest-minded Christians. Of Toru her father wrote: ‘She had read more, probably also thought more, and the elder sister generally appeared to follow the lead of the younger; so that I have often been asked by strangers, which of the two is Miss Dutt?… It seemed perfectly natural to Aru to fall in the background in the presence of her sister. The love between them was always perfect.’

In another place he says ⁵:

‘Let me recount two scraps of conversation out of a hundred that come crowding into my memory. The scene is in London, and not very long after our arrival there.

‘G. C. Dutt. “I say, Aru, you wanted much to see Lord L.⁶ when in Calcutta. Here is Lord L. as our visitor.” Lord L. “Did you want to see me—well! and what do you see? (rather pathetically)—an old, broken, weary man. What book is that you have in hand?” Aru. “One of Miss Mulock’s novels, John Halifax.” Lord L. “Ah! you should not read novels too much, you should read histories.” No answer from Aru, Toru answering for her sister. “We like to read novels.” Lord L. “Why!” Toru (smiling). “Because novels are true, and histories are false.”’

With regard to the latter part of this conversation, Mlle Bader observes in the memoir prefixed to Toru’s Le Journal de Mlle d’Arvers: ‘Toru Dutt, in replying with such a paradox, proved a true daughter of this poetical Hindu race who prefer Legend to History.’

Another conversation is quoted as having taken place between Sir Edward Ryan ⁷ and the sisters:

‘Aru. “I often wish, Sir Edward, we had made your acquaintance some years ago.” Sir Edward. “Why?” Aru (hesitating). “Well!” Toru (taking up the word). “Because then you could have introduced us—that is Aru’s thought, I am sure—to Mr. Justice Talfourd, the author of Ion.” Sir Edward. “Ah yes! I should have been so happy; Ion was played at his house, and there was such a literary company. Everybody of any note in London. But how do you know I was a friend of Talfourd?” Toru. “He mentions you in Ion, in the preface, and speaks of your walks together, when life was young, between Ross and Monmouth, or in the deep winding valleys indenting the tableland above Church Stretton, ‘or haply by moonlight’—those are his words, I think—‘in the churchyard of Ross’.” Sir Edward. “Ah, yes, yes.” Toru. “And he mentions you again in his Vacation Rambles, when he met you on the continent quite by chance.” Sir Edward. “Ah, yes (looking pleased), yes, you seem to have read a great deal.”’

Both sisters had been assiduous novel-readers.

‘It was ever thus’, wrote Mr. Dutt, ‘that Aru walked under Toru’s protection and guidance. The fostering wing of the younger was stretched forth from earliest childhood to protect the more gentle elder sister.’ With touching pride in her achievements, Mr. Dutt delights to acknowledge her superiority, laying aside the authority of a father, and deferring to her judgement as one scholar to another. He writes:

‘Not the least remarkable trait of Toru’s mind was her wonderful memory. She could repeat almost every piece she translated by heart, and whenever there was a hitch, it was only necessary to repeat a line of the translation, to put an end to it, and draw out of her lips the whole original poem in its entirety. I have already said, she read much: she read rapidly too, but she never slurred over a difficulty when she was reading. Dictionaries, lexicons, and encyclopaedias of all kinds were consulted until it was solved, and a note taken afterwards; the consequence was that explanations of hard words and phrases imprinted themselves, as it were, in her brain, and whenever we had a dispute about the signification of any expression or sentence in Sanskrit, or French, or German, in seven or eight cases out of ten, she would prove to be right. Sometimes I was so sure of my ground, that I would say, “Well, let us lay a wager”. The wager was ordinarily a rupee. But when the authorities were consulted, she was almost always the winner. It was curious and very pleasant for me to watch her when she lost. First a bright smile, then thin fingers patting my grizzled cheek, then perhaps some quotation from Mrs. Barrett Browning, her favourite poetess, like this: “Ah, my gossip, you are older, and more learned, and a man”, or some similar pleasantry.’

Here are some more personal recollections by Mr. Dutt in the Bengal Magazine, July 1878, of the time when he and his daughters were all on their way to Sir Edward Ryan’s.

‘Very pleasant is the journey from Onslow Square. Past Holland House with its glorious reminiscences of Lord and Lady Holland, and Sydney Smith, Macaulay, and Rogers. One beloved child says she had seen the very snuffbox which Napoleon gave Lady Holland—at the British Museum, a few days ago—and repeats, in her sweet soft voice, the verses which Byron ridiculed, and which Archdeacon Wrangham translated into Latin so beautifully:

Lady! reject the gift, ’tis tinged with gore, These crimson spots a dreadful tale relate. It has been grasped by an infernal power And by that hand which sealed young Enghien’s fate.

Lady! reject the gift—beneath its lid Discord and slaughter and relentless War, With every plague for wretched man—lie hid, Let not these loose to range the world afar.

Think on that pile, to Addison so dear, Where Sully feasted, and where Rogers’ song Still flings its music on the festal air, And gently leads each Muse and Grace along.

‘And another beloved child pulls her father by the sleeve with “Won’t they let us see Holland House, if we stop a moment?” Then on, along the road through fields of cabbages and turnips and mangel-wurzel until: “Here we are—Addison Road—this must be it.” “Not at home. Sir Edward Ryan has gone out.” “Ah, what a pity! Let us leave our cards—we shall call again.”

‘Next day, just as we had done our breakfast, rat-tat-tat goes the knocker. Sir Edward. “I am so sorry I missed you yesterday. You must come again. Will you now come with me in my carriage and see my office, the place where the Civil Service candidates are examined? Would you like to see the Duke, the Secretary of State for India? Not to-day? Well, never mind; but I shall expect to see you at my house very soon.” Then long conversation about old times and Indian friends—and then Sir Edward takes his leave.

‘A few days after we are in Addison Road again. Sir Edward Ryan is at home and we have a warm welcome. In the vestibule there is a beautiful marble bust of Dwarkanath Tagore. There is an exact copy of this bust in the Town Hall at Calcutta. In the dining-room there is an engraving of Rasamoy Dutt, from the painting by Charles Grant; an oil-painting of Lord Macaulay—the hair combed back, thick, bushy, Walter-Scott-like eyebrows—and a portrait of Lord Auckland. “But you must come and see my library first.” So we moved onwards out of the dining-room.

‘I think it is Sir John William Kaye, the historian of the Afghan War and the great champion of the late East India Company, who said in an essay in the Cornhill Magazine that he had never seen any place more suitably fitted up for the work of a literary man than the library of Lord Macaulay. Was Sir Edward Ryan’s library fitted up in imitation of that of his friend, the great historian? I do not know, perhaps it was; certainly it looked a paradise for a literary man. A table near the window—large, clean, free from litter, with a few bundles tied in red tape upon it; another table opposite, with sundry articles thereon, which we did not notice at first, but which were afterwards shown to us by the owner. Book-cases all round the walls rising up to the ceiling, filled with books, and on the top of them, rolled up inside wooden frames, maps which when pulled out would cover and conceal the book-cases and form a sort of geographical tapestry. One or two globes and telescopes, I think. Not many pictures, one only I remember—an oil-painting of Mr. Babbage (of the calculating machine), who was a relative of Sir Edward Ryan. Glancing over the books I thought the collection complete. Not a history, not a poem, not a novel of any celebrity, wanting; and the whole so beautifully arranged. Sir Edward Ryan let us look at his books for some time. There were many presentation copies from recent authors, living and dead. A copy of Henry Sumner Maine’s Village Communities was open on a small table in a corner. Sir Edward Ryan, who had evidently been reading it very recently, spoke very highly of it. Then he took us to the table with the mysterious objects to which I have already made a reference. What do you think they were? Masks, a crown, daggers, a sword, false beards, periwigs, and all the small paraphernalia of the stage. There had been amateur theatricals in the house lately. Sir Edward was always stagestruck when in Calcutta, and was one of the warmest patrons of the Chowringhee and Sans Souci theatres, though I do not know that he ever acted himself. Perhaps the office of Chief Justice which he held was the obstacle in his way. Members of the Board of Revenue, like H. M. Parker, or Secretaries thereof, like Henry Torrens, might wear the buskin—but a Chief Justice! He put on one of the masks and donned the crown, to the great amusement of my young ladies. “Had they been to any of the London theatres yet?” “Yes.” “Where had they been?” “Drury Lane, the Queen’s, the Gaiety, Covent Garden.” “Well, and what had they seen?” “Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.” “Ah, that was very good; it had been got up magnificently. What else?” “Amy Robsart.” “Ah, had they seen Amy Robsart at Drury Lane? I was just going to recommend you to take them there. Sir Walter Scott’s plot has been altered—I cannot say for the better. It is Varney who falls through the trapdoor and not Amy. Did you enjoy it?” “Yes, Sir Edward, we enjoyed it immensely.” Then there was talk of Talfourd and Dickens, and Thackeray, and what not besides. “You at least know”—to the youngest lady in the room—“that Talfourd was a friend of my youth. Dickens I knew.” “Yes, he dedicated Pickwick to Talfourd, and as Talfourd was so much your friend, we thought you must have known him also.” “Oh yes, I knew him, but Thackeray was a very intimate friend.” “Thackeray was born in Calcutta and was a relative of Mr. Ritchie, our Advocate-General in Calcutta.” “Do you know Thackeray’s daughters? they are living in your neighbourhood?” “No.” [We did not then. But afterwards we made the acquaintance of Miss Thackeray at the house of the Master⁸ of Trinity College in Cambridge.] “Which of Thackeray’s novels do you like best?” “Oh, Esmond, of course.” “Which do you like?” “Pendennis.” “Pendennis is the most popular novel. But surely Esmond is far superior as a work of art.” “I think it is the best novel that ever was written—better than the best of Scott’s—and that surely is high praise.” “Ah, you are young, you will modify that opinion by-and-by—but Thackeray himself considered it his best work, and Trollope, no mean judge, thinks very, very highly of it. Have you read The Small House at Allington?” “Oh yes, and I like it very much. There is nothing sensational in Trollope, that is what I like best in him. His novels are so like ordinary life.” “Is that praise or censure?” “Well, that is as you take it; ordinary life is dull and insipid often, so are the novels of Trollope; sensational stories can only please the young.” “And what are you? are you not young? I consider your father quite a young man. I have seen him when he was younger than you are now. I have got the silver vase still, which you students of the Hindoo College gave me when I came away from India.” Some of the ladies in the house, Sir Edward Ryan’s daughters, having taken entire possession of my womenkind, Sir Edward and I had some conversation on serious subjects—religion, social progress in India, Civil Service Examinations, and the like. He was surprised that myself and all my brothers had become Christians. “Prosono Coomar Tagore’s son too”, he added thoughtfully; “as to social progress”, he continued, “you have brought such evidence with you, that I can hardly believe my own senses. It is a very great credit.”’

Toru was very fond of children, and wrote a characteristic Bengali letter from Brompton, London, on September 26, 1870, to a little cousin in Calcutta. It also shows the poor knowledge she had of her mother tongue, even to the extent of mis-spelling her own name.

The following letters were sent from the same address to Arun Chunder and another cousin in Calcutta.

No. 9, Sydney Place, Onslow Square, Brompton, London. October 7, 1870.

MY DEAR ARUN,—I was very glad to receive your letter, but very sorry to answer it, for, really there is great dearth of news. I had not been able to go out for nearly two weeks, on account of having got a rather bad sprain in my foot. I am now quite well.

We have now hired a new house, and came to it on Tuesday night. It belongs to Mrs. Murray, who, now being married to the clergyman of our Church, is very glad to let it. It is a very nice little house, not as large as our other house was. We have no piano in this house, so Papa is going to-day to hire one.

The cat which we brought from the Square is still with us, and the kitten is very playful now.

Does Mrs. Sinaes come to teach Saccoon?⁹ And if she does, what piece is she learning now? I suppose by this time she has finished Hamilton’s Instructions.

You ask when we are coming back. When Plato’s year comes round, eh? But really I know as much about that subject as you do. We will go back some day, or perhaps we shall not go back any more, for man proposes, but God disposes.

May God keep us all in His holy keeping, and bless us.

My love to you, and my respects to my uncles and aunts.—Yours very affectionately,

TORU DUTT.

November 3, 1870.

MY DEAR ARUN,—I have just come in from my walk, that is, from my six turns in the Square. It is densely foggy and cold to-day. We went to the Mildmay Park conference. We heard Saphir, who is the translator of Auberlen from the German, deliver a speech. He spoke English very well. When coming out of the Hall we saw a Highlander standing near the entrance. Mrs. Barton was here to-day with Arthur, and her brother, Mr. Elliott, a Punjab Civil Servant.

The trees are now quite bare, except a few. The square looks quite desolate with the naked trees. We see robins every day when we go to the square, hopping about the ground, or sitting on the bare trees. They are very pretty little birds, as you know.

We are now reading Extraits Choisis with Mrs. Lawless.¹⁰

How is Saccoon getting on with Signor Nicolini? We are getting on capitally with Mr. Pauer. I am now learning with him Schmetterlinge or Butterflies. It is a very pretty and easy piece. Aru is learning a Sonata by Mozart, edited and revised by Mr. Pauer.

Mrs. Macfarren, our singing governess, is coming to-morrow. She has a beautiful contralto voice. We are now learning to sing a duet ‘Hame never cam He’, a very pretty and touching Scotch song. Aru is learning for a solo, ‘Sunbeams of Summer,’ and I am learning ‘My soul to God, my heart to thee’, a very pretty French song. I have now exhausted my news-bag, so adieu.—Yours very affectionately,

TORU DUTT.

November 22, 1870.

MY DEAR COUSIN,—I have hardly time to write any letter, as our time is entirely given up to study. First we practise on the piano from seven to half-past seven, when we have our breakfast, then we have our Bible reading. It is generally over at half-past eight. Then we practise again on the piano till half-past nine. After that I read The Times, for I take a great interest in the War, and I am sure I know more about it than you do. At ten, Mrs. Lawless comes. She goes away at half-past three. Then we generally read with papa at four, and on Fridays, Mrs. Macfarren comes to teach singing, and on Mondays we go to have our music lessons from Mr. Pauer. We then practise again on the piano.

We are going to meet Dean Alford at dinner at Mr. Bullock’s, who is his son-in-law.

We want to speak French more fluently than we do, and for this purpose we speak in French with our servant, who is an Italian, and knows French very well. I hope to speak it much better than I do, in a few months.

I am now learning with Mr. Pauer Souvenir de Collonges and Schmetterlinge No. I. I have learnt No. II, and am going to learn No. III.

I think my letter will be worse than yours. I have given all the news I could muster to ma cousine, and I cannot think of anything to write to you.

I hope that England may not embroil itself in a war. The Times of to-day says that Russia’s intentions are very pacific.

There is something the matter with our bath again. Mamma went to see to it, but it was nothing.

We have taught Isabella to cook some Indian dishes, and on our table, with mutton cutlets and roly-poly, comes up hot Kuchooree or cabbage Churchuree or ambole of eels. Isn’t this nice?

My love to all of you. Hoping you are all well,—Yours very affectionately,

TORU DUTT.

To Omesh C. Dutt, Esq.

December 11, 1870.

MY DEAR COUSIN,—I did not yawn while reading your letter as you predicted; on the contrary, like Dr. Johnson after reading Robinson Crusoe, I wished it were longer.

We had a great deal of snow on Monday and Thursday last. On Monday we went to Mr. Pauer’s to take our music lessons. The streets and the front steps of our house were so slippery from the snow that at the outset I got a fall on the doorsteps in the snow. Was not this pleasant? In this cold weather too? On Thursday I got another fall in the snow. But, excluding the falls that I got, it was very pleasant (though I am sure Papa did not think so) walking on the snow. It was very funny to see the street boys snow-balling one another, first in play, and then in real earnest, many a foot-passenger getting his share of the snow-balls. We too made some snow-balls. Our balcony was quite white with the snow. We threw our snow-balls at Mamma’s conservatory, or at the chimney—not having anything better to throw them at!

You ask why we do not go to any theatre. Well, we are going to the Drury Lane Theatre next Wednesday to see Amy Robsart acted. I am sure we shall enjoy it very much.

It is sure, as you say, that the Rev. Mr. ——— has long passed the noon of life. His new wife has long passed hers too. You ask if she is pretty. Well, she is what English people call sweet-looking, and what I consider plain enough. We did not go to church to-day, for the newly-married Reverend gent holds forth so long, that he realizes what that hymn says:

Where congregations ne’er break up And sermons never end.

We are now reading with papa Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream. We have finished Waverley. I like Fergus MacIvor so very much. I like Evan Dhu too. Waverley is all very good for a hero, but he is rather too sentimental. Is not he?

You seem to be quite a Republican, and very much against the Emperor. I am not, though. The Evening Standard calls Gambetta, Shambetta, for generally all his news about French victories are fabulous. I will give you a pun of Shirley Brooks in lieu of the bon-mot of the Pope. What is the difference between a certain agile animal of the Alps and the present war? Do you give it up? Because the one is a Chamois (Sham war) and the other a real war.

I am learning with Mr. Pauer a piece called Myrthenblüthen No. III. It is very pretty, soft, and melancholy. We are learning to sing the duet ‘I know a Bank’ with Mrs. Macfarren.

I am very glad that you like the Dutt Family Album’s exterior….

My dear cousin, I think I must stop here, for I have had my lunch just now, and it is not very pleasant to do anything after one has had a very good repast.

I must apologize if my letter is dull, but I hope you will not find it so. My love to all of you and my respects to my aunt. May God guard us from all kinds of danger and sin!—Yours very affectionately,

TORU DUTT.

To Omesh C. Dutt, Esq.

Toru was a good singer. Aru also could sing, but she was greater as an artist. ‘In the performance of all domestic duties Aru and Toru were exemplary. No work was too mean for them. Excellent players on the piano were they both, and sweet singers with clear contralto voices.’

Toru was an enthusiastic admirer of France, and had deep sympathy for her misfortunes of 1870.

‘Toru Dutt loved not only our language and literature,’ says Mlle Clarisse Bader, ‘but also our country, and gave proof of her affection when France was dying.’ The following account will give us some idea how deeply Toru was stirred by the contrast between the magnificence of France as she first knew it in 1869 and the sufferings and ultimate defeat of 1870. The ‘child who was barely fifteen at the time, the Asiatic girl has drawn and written our patriotic sufferings’, says Mlle Bader, ‘with an anguish worthy of the heart of a French woman.’ Toru was in London during the Franco-German War, and the unfortunate plight of the French made a deep impression upon her. She recorded in her diary at this time: ‘29th January, 1871, London, No. 9, Sydney Place, Onslow Square. What a long time since I last wrote in this diary! How things have changed in France since the last time I took this diary in hand. During the few days we remained in Paris, how beautiful it was! what houses! what streets! what a magnificent army! But now how fallen it is! It was the first amongst the cities, and now what misery it contains!

‘When the war began, my whole heart was with the French, though I felt sure of their defeat. One evening, when the war was still going on, and the French had suffered many reverses, I heard papa mention something to mamma about the Emperor. I descended like lightning, and learnt that the French had capitulated. The Emperor and all his Army had surrendered at Sedan. I remember perfectly how I ascended the stairs, and told the news to Aru, half choked and half crying.’

Toru was an earnest Christian, and she thought that the misfortunes that befell France at this time were due to the depravity of the French people. She remained unshaken in her love for the French in spite of their defeat and of her Christian education, which caused her to consider the downfall of France a punishment for irreligion.

‘Alas! thousands and thousands of men’, says she in her diary, ‘have shed their hearts’ blood for their country, and yet their country has fallen into the hands of their enemies. Is it because many were deeply immersed in sin and did not believe in God? There have been, however, and there are still, thousands among them who fear God. O France, France, how thou art brought low! Mayest thou, after this humiliation, serve and worship God better than thou hast done in those days—Poor, poor France, how my heart bleeds for thee!’ She had hoped for a long time, and hoped till the end. Here is a posthumous poem, one of her early attempts, which refers to the disaster of 1870, and expresses a ray of hope for the future.

Not dead,—oh no,—she cannot die! Only a swoon, from loss of blood! Levite England passes her by, Help, Samaritan! None is nigh; Who shall stanch me the sanguine flood?

Range the brown hair, it blinds her eyne, Dash cold water over her face! Drowned in her blood, she makes no sign, Give her a draught of generous wine. None heed, none hear, to do this grace.¹¹

The family went to Cambridge in 1871. Here Toru, with her sister, sedulously attended the Higher Lectures for Women, with great zeal and application. Toru knew that her knowledge of French was defective, but now in Cambridge it was ably directed by the late M. Boquel, in his French lectures, and also afterwards privately by M. Girard at St. Leonards, during the last part of their stay in England. Mr. J. C. Dutt tells us, in his article in the Twentieth Century on Toru Dutt, that she and her sister had had their first lessons in French from his father, Mr. O. C. Dutt. In a letter referring to this time at St. Leonards, Toru says: ‘Mr. Girard, the French teacher, used to come twice or thrice a week to give papa and me lessons in French. Aru, of course, did not read with us.¹² He is very fond of poetry and translated some two or three pieces from the D.F.A.¹³ into French verse.’ Later on he spoke with warm admiration of the Sheaf gleaned in French Fields. When they were girls of sixteen and eighteen respectively Miss Arabella Shore ¹⁴ met them in Cambridge. She records the impression made upon her mind by their excellent command of English and especially by their wide knowledge of European life and thought. The photograph of Aru and Toru taken together at St. Leonards shows Aru sitting, still suffering from the effects of her recent illness, and Toru standing beside her, in an attitude of affectionate protection, beaming and vivacious, with abundant curly black hair falling over her shoulders, dark eyes full of fire, the picture of health and strength. In September, 1873, the Dutts returned to Calcutta in the P. & O. steamer Peshawur.

Toru wrote two letters to Miss Martin on their return voyage to India, dated respectively, September 29, 1873, Gibraltar, and October 3, Alexandria. Before the original letters were destroyed, the following résumé of their contents was taken. Both the sisters had suffered from sea-sickness during the somewhat rough weather, which had now passed away, and they were both enjoying the present beautiful weather and the sunsets. The pets, guinea-pigs, &c., were doing well so far, and Toru’s father visited them every day and reported on their condition to Aru. In the second letter it was mentioned that one of the birds had died. The Dutts had made friends on board, but they were too shy to join in the singing and playing, and the time was passing pleasantly but idly. Toru had been reading some of Erckmann-Chatrian’s stories from the Contes et Romans populaires and also some pieces of Shakespeare translated into French by the Chevalier de Châtelain. Mention was made of a very nice service held on deck one Sunday. Porpoises had been seen and birds had alighted on the deck.

We have referred already to Toru’s English friend, to whom this volume is dedicated, and whose life and work are so inseparably connected with the name of Toru. Miss Martin is the only child of the late Reverend John Martin, M.A., of Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, and vicar of Saint Andrew’s the Great, in the same town, from 1859 to 1884. In 1856 he married Sophia Jane Rodd, youngest daughter of the Rev. Dr. Rodd of St. Just, in Roseland, and later of Trebartha Hall, Cornwall. After Miss Martin grew up, she shared with her mother the ordinary duties of a clergyman’s family, and in consequence of her friendship with Toru she early grew to love the missionary work of the Anglican Church and became an ardent student of the problems connected with the spread of Christianity and education in India and elsewhere. Miss Martin left Cambridge after her mother’s death in 1894 and has since resided in Bournemouth. She takes a keen interest in English social problems and in Indian affairs generally, for she loves the Bengali people, and sympathizes with their hopes and aspirations. Two visits have been paid by her to Calcutta in 1910 and 1913.

Miss Martin says of Toru:

‘There is no note of our first meeting, but it must have been in the summer of 1872, before my fifteenth birthday. The Dutts lodged in my father’s parish, at Regent House, in Regent Street, overlooking a large open space called Parker’s Piece, the latter word being a corruption of an old Saxon name for “open space”, a term very familiar in Cambridge. The family did not attend St. Andrew’s the Great, but St. Paul’s Church, which was perhaps one reason that their acquaintance was not made as early as it might have been. Anyhow, it was not until some cousins who also attended St. Paul’s said to us one day: “Why have you not called on the Dutts?” that we went. They were naturally a familiar sight in Cambridge, and the two sisters were often seen walking on the Trumpington Road and elsewhere. After we became friends, no notes were kept of our conversations or meetings, but, fortunately, many years after, some entries were found in an old diary of my mother’s. None of us at that time had any conception of the fame to be connected with the name of Toru Dutt. Many friends were made by them during their stay in Cambridge and elsewhere, and though, owing to my absence at school at Malvern Wells, others had more opportunity of intercourse, yet we, from the first, claimed friendship from each other. During the school terms we wrote weekly. Her letters were always received on Tuesday mornings, and the eagerness with which they were expected is still vividly remembered.

‘My mother’s diary from December 1872 to April 1873 contains references to almost daily intercourse between the Dutts and ourselves, to walks with Toru and teas at 11, Park Terrace. The last entry is dated April 29, 1873: “The Dutts left for Hastings.” We never met again, and perhaps our correspondence became the more intimate in consequence.’

Alluding to these happy meetings, Toru wrote as follows in one of her letters from India:

‘I remember some of our walks so vividly. Do you remember the visit we paid with your mother to Addenbroke’s Hospital and how on our way back your mother stumbled in Downing College, while we were coming through that building’s grounds? And that long walk, when you showed me the Gog Magog Hills in the distance? It seems all so far off, dear, does it not? And those nice cosy evenings, when I took tea with you, dear, only you and I; once we had A. L. with us and papa used to come at nine or ten to take me back to our lodgings. Do you think we shall see each other again? I do not think we shall, but we shall meet in that happier world. I long to see our darlings again, and each day past but brings us nearer to the happy goal,

A day’s march nearer Home.

And again: ‘How is Mrs. Babington’s Orphanage getting on? I well remember the day when we visited it. You were with me and the J.’s, our fellow-lodgers. You said to me in a whisper that “You would have better liked the walk alone with me”.’