ELIZA ESDAILE
My decision to remain in Calcutta was rational and reasonable. I do not know if it constituted a turning point—but regardless, it seemed more sensible than the contemplated trip into India’s interior: a long ride, since there was no civilized thing like a railway carriage in India in those days.
My salvation—how amusing it is to think of it that way now!—came from the Ladies’ Society for Native Female Education. This organization was exactly what it sounds like—a group of expatriate Englishwomen firmly planted in English Calcutta, who sought to perform “good works” among the native women, helping them to learn reading and writing and arithmetic to better themselves.
No, Reverend Davey, that characterization demeans them. We easily dismiss the benevolence of good works societies here in England because we see their members as self-serving and pompous. In India—particularly in Calcutta at that time—the Society was engaged in a noble pursuit: they sought to teach native women to read and write and handle sums, against the advice and sometimes explicit wishes of their men.
It is more than that. The culture demeans women from beginning to end: when they lose their husbands, they sometimes choose to give themselves over to the terrible ritual of sati—in which a widow joins her husband on the funeral pyre. Sometimes this is done voluntarily by a misguided soul or one who can simply not bear to live without her mate—and sometimes it is a compulsion forced upon her by her family or her husband’s. Shamefully, it is still done in India today. The Society opposed sati through its education of young girls, giving them some measure of self-worth.
They rescued me, as well. Two days after the disgraceful interview at Mr. Rowland’s office, I met Mrs. Martin Shackleford in Cooley Bazaar near Hastings Bridge. I had just been interviewed by the khansamah of a well-to-do Company official and had been found wanting, I must suppose, since the encounter was brief and unsatisfactory.
Mrs. Shackleford—a fine and proper lady of middle age—approached me as I examined a bound volume of Coleridge that had seen better days. I had determined that, despite its modest asking price, I could not afford even that modest luxury. But I lingered over the familiar lines that lay before me on that page—
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—
And WINTER slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
—long enough that the grinning Bengali before me was convinced that he would make his sale. I was about to replace it next to its other care-worn brethren when a gloved hand touched mine and said, “I have always liked Coleridge myself.”
“Then you should have this volume,” I answered, turning slightly to face her. “I do not think I can spare even the modest amount this gentleman asks.”
“There should always be enough to indulge in poetry, young lady.”
I did not know how to properly answer that. She was so firm in her statement, her eye so clear, her smile such a secret indication of knowledge that she was not sharing, that I could not help but smile in return.
“My situation does not commend the extravagance, madam.”
“Then it shall be my gift to you,” she said, and turned on the book-seller. He was clearly unprepared for her superior haggling skill; it was over in a moment, and the price she obtained was a third of the amount I had declined to pay. She opened her purse and paid it, then pressed the book into my hands.
“And now, young lady,” she said, “let us find a quiet place where we may visit.”
Georgiana Bales Shackleford—Mrs. Martin Shackleford—had been in Calcutta several years longer than I. Her husband was a custom house inspector; he had been posted there in 1842. She knew almost everything regarding society in English Calcutta, including the news of my employer’s recent death. When told of my visit, she deemed Mr. Heath’s solicitor’s behavior to be ungentlemanly at best; she knew of me from having seen my regular visits to the cemetery with the children. That I lacked a letter of reference was dismissed with a sigh and a wave.
“The Society has plenty enough work to do for five times our number, my dear Miss Weatherhead,” she told me as we drank tea in a crowded little shop on Loudon Street. “We would be glad to put you to work.”
“I have never been a teacher,” I said.
“As a governess, what else have you been? You have given children instruction they might otherwise lack. You will do nicely, if you are willing to work.”
“Of course.”
“And if you have not made other commitments.”
I mentioned the “arrangement” that Gobinda had sought to make for me. This too was dismissed perfunctorily.
“Gobinda is a good man, I might even say an honorable man—an unusual quality for one in his station. But Benares? That is no suitable place for an Englishwoman. Varanasi, they call it in Hindi: they say that a god founded the city five thousand years ago. If so, then Lord Shiva must have had a sense of humor. No, my dear, stick to Calcutta.”
“I had thought so myself.”
“A good decision. Gobinda seeks to do you a good turn, but by the next full moon he will have forgotten you completely.” She patted my hand in a friendly, almost motherly, way. “But I shall not!”
WILLIAM DAVEY
The Ladies’ Society for Native Female Education was already more than three decades old when Eliza encountered them; I learned more about their means and objectives after I quit Sydenham for London, but at the time I thought that the appearance of Mrs. Shackleford was altogether too coincidental.
Still, Eliza’s initial account betrayed no hint that anyone among the Society was a mesmerist—or, indeed, a chthonic spirit. I knew of their work: they were a benevolent society seeking to do good in a land far from home. They sought to bring literacy, numeracy, and Christian education to women in a land where such persons were often denied the former two and remained ignorant of the latter. It seemed a perfect match for Eliza’s talents.
In the midst of the tropical heat, it must indeed have seemed a dream of spring.
ELIZA ESDAILE
It was not difficult work at first.
The Calcutta I experienced with Mrs. Shackleford was a very long way from the neat compound where Mr. Heath met his tragic end; I never again found myself in Garden Reach, the more affluent part of the city.
Calcutta is like and unlike any city you might know, Reverend Davey. It is crowded—teeming—like the poorest parts of London, and dirty in a way that mere words cannot describe. The Hindoos hold certain animals sacred and permit them to roam through their streets unmolested; every native seems to have something to sell, or else is a beggar of the most wretched sort. I saw Gobinda several times over the next few weeks as I walked along the streets or passed through the markets, but he did not approach me.
In that society, native women’s faces are often veiled from casual examination and it takes some considerable effort to obtain the merest glance. Ladies of the Society have an easier time of it: evangelizing clergymen must needs communicate the Gospel to men only—in any case, to those who will listen. They must deal with both Hindoos and Mohammedans: there are adherents of both faiths in Calcutta. But unlike the men—skeptical and superstitious—the women seem to thirst for it, all of it, even the simplest lessons of arithmetic; but you cannot imagine the joy of a young doe-eyed girl, clapping her hands at having successfully tallied a small row of figures.
I did not forget my former life in Calcutta. Not every Sunday, but still from time to time, I visited the graves in the English Burial Ground—but it was primarily to lay a small bouquet for little Rose.
Life in Calcutta is marked by two things: the weather and the festivals. The most remarkable weather is a fierce rain—the word they give it is monsoon. That term has made its way into English vocabulary, like “bungalow” and “verandah”—but no rain here can possibly compare to the deluge that pours from the sky in early summer. It is at the tail end of monsoon season that the Hindoos celebrate their great feast of Krishna, who is among other things a sort of love god. Some of them paint themselves bright colours, if you can imagine it, and men accost women and offer themselves for carnal pleasure. It is a time for proper persons to avoid the street.
It was at this time that Mrs. Shackleford—who desired that I address her as “Georgiana,” though I found it difficult to do so—removed a number of us from Calcutta to Hooghly, up the river. This smaller town was the site of a prison with an attached hospital; the Society was primarily on hand to work with the women whose husbands and brothers were incarcerated in the jail or being treated in the hospital. Since there was at that time no railway—Mr. Trumbull had only just begun to plan the route—the removal involved packing up supplies and books and arranging for transport for our luggage and ourselves thirty or forty miles upriver on flat-bottomed dinghy-boats. A few of the older ladies dreaded the prospect—but it was something new for me, so I entered into the project with zeal.
The day before we were to leave, I chanced to again see Gobinda while I was on an errand for Mrs. Shackleford in Cooley Bazaar, near where she and I had first met. Where he had previously avoided me—as if he were watching my movements but sought not to be seen—on this occasion he approached directly, his eyes fixed upon me as I haggled with a merchant. I had become rather good at the skill under Mrs. Shackleford’s tutelage. I had also become adept at avoiding the multi-coloured revelers who offered to share their Holi festival with me. These two things distracted me enough that I was quite surprised when I suddenly found him standing directly beside me.
The merchant seemed eager to conclude the matter quickly—and on highly favorable terms for me—and I found myself in possession of my parcel, looking directly at the old khansamah.
“Good afternoon to you, Memsahib,” he said with a slight bow. “I trust you are well.”
“I am, thank you,” I answered. “But I am not Memsahib.” This was a form of address that natives of Gobinda’s class reserved for ladies of the household, not fellow servants. “May I help you today?”
“Let us walk,” he said.
We passed slowly through the bazaar. Unlike the jostling, crowded experience that was customary, those around us seemed to keep their distance somewhat, so that we passed unhindered along the dry wooden planks laid over the mud of the plaza. It was as if a path opened up before us.
“I see that you remain in Calcutta, Miss Weatherhead, and that you have found a position with Memsahib Shackleford.”
“You are quite knowledgeable about my affairs, sir.”
Gobinda smiled. “Memsahib Shackleford and I have known each other many years, Miss. She is a good soul. But—”
“But?”
“I wish to tell you once again that I have located a position for you in Benares. My cousin’s brother-in-law has a close friend employed as a khitsugar—”
“Gobinda.” I stopped walking so abruptly that he almost collided with me; but despite his age, he avoided me dexterously. “I see no reason why I should undertake a dangerous journey of some hundreds of miles inland, to a city where everyone would be a stranger. I have been in Calcutta for five years; I have a respectable position with the Society—”
“Miss Weatherhead,” he interrupted me. His expression, normally dignified but tinged with a slight smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes behind his round spectacles, had become quite serious. “Miss Weatherhead,” he repeated, “I cannot impress upon you too strongly that if you remain in Calcutta, you are in danger. Grave danger, of a sort that you cannot readily understand.”
“Really? From whom, may I ask?”
“Do you remember the night that Heath Sahib died?”
“It is etched on my memory, Gobinda. I can never forget it. Why do you ask?”
“Something happened while you were in the conservatory that night, Miss Weatherhead.”
A chill swept over me, as if the sun had suddenly disappeared from the sky. I looked around at the bazaar: it looked oddly distant, like a sepia-tint portrait which someone had indifferently coloured.
Gobinda reached his hand out and touched my hand where it emerged from my sleeve—and suddenly I saw something in the air, like little scraps of paper fluttering by; but they were not paper … they seemed to be almost immaterial, with a faint glow like burning camphor.
And then, most frightening of all, I heard the same voices that had come to me that night in Mr. Heath’s house.
Eliza, they said. We are looking for you. We have something for you, Eliza.
“What—” I said, pulling my hand away. The little scraps disappeared; the voices died, and the bazaar returned to normal. Gobinda let his hand drop to his side.
“Did you see—”
“I do not know what you are about,” I said angrily. “Nor do I wish to be subjected to any more of your tricks.”
“It was no trick,” he answered levelly. “You are in danger, Miss Weatherhead. The house of Heath Sahib will soon be occupied by another family—but even if they were in need of a governess, I would not recommend your estimable self for the position, for you should not remain in Calcutta while they are looking for you.
“While you are here, they can fix upon you—but if you leave, Miss Weatherhead, and go far away, I might be able to distract them.”
I do not know now whether heeding his advice would have saved me. There is no way of knowing. Benares was far away, but perhaps not for them. I might have reached there and been protected by Lord Shiva—though in the Hindoo myth, even he is slain. It was all beyond me at the time. All I knew was that Gobinda and his Hindoo fakery had frightened me—and so I left him, hurrying across the bazaar, heedless of the mud on my shoes and my skirts. When I looked back, he was still standing there, watching me go, his hands by his sides and his expression one of genuine sadness.