Archive for the ‘India’ Category

construction next door

I have been thinking about Sara Jeanette Duncan lately. I should be thinking about her work, but I’ve been thinking about her. OK, when I cough (a lingering cold), I think about her. Because here’s the thing. I have it easy compared to her life in London. If I sometimes find it tough to keep up with the dog on the walk to Kensington Gardens, how did Duncan find it, walking from Paulton’s Square? For a while she lived quite close to Kensington Gardens, but in her last years in London she lived closer to the river. How did she get from the square down there to the park up here? Did she bother or did she rather sit in her little square? What I love about Kensington Gardens is the wind, the feeling that you are breathing fresh air despite the traffic bordering the park top and bottom.

Here’s a picture of what’s been going on next door and why I was seeking fresher air. Was Duncan able to seek this freshening feeling, did she take a bus, did she walk, was she able to walk that far with her tuberculosis or mystery respiratory ailment imported from India? I suppose I should buy a biography of her life, but I rather enjoy walking around London wondering if she coughed here or panted there. Is that weird? The walk from the King’s Road to Kensington Gardens would be about 45 minutes today, on clean sidewalks beside automobile traffic. Transport for London confirms it is a 41 minute walk.

In Duncan’s day, she would have walked through air thick with smoke from people’s coal fires, on dirty streets  in damp leather shoes with frayed laces. Who knows how long it took to walk that distance? Walking beside other people with TB, coughing. Then again, if you could read while walking, as in this photo from a decade earlier….

walking 1906

On Kensington Church Street 1906, (not SJD), from Dave Walker’s blog

I haven’t found a quick statistic on how many Londoners had TB back then, but I did find this:

In 1911 the National Insurance Act encouraged a state-led campaign against tuberculosis, allowing sufferers who had insurance to be treated in sanatoria. … The Metropolitan Asylums Board was finally empowered to care for uninsured tuberculosis patients in 1913 under the Public Health (Prevention and Treatment of Diseases) Act. … The London Open Air Sanatorium was opened in 1901 by the National Association for the Prevention of Tuberculosis. When the Metropolitan Asylums Board bought the institution in 1919, they renamed it Pinewood Sanatorium, providing 160 beds for adult patients. The hospital was situated in 82 acres of pine forest near Wokingham in Berkshire. Pine trees were believed to be beneficial for sufferers of tuberculosis and three exercise tracks were marked out through the woods. –City of London Archivist Katharine Short, “Pinewood Sanatorium

According to Katharine Short, Canadian soldiers were treated at Pinewood during the Second World War. The hospital was closed in 1966, when it was used for, among other things, television studios. (Not, apparently, Pinewood Studios, which has been operating from Heatherden Hall in Buckinghamshire since 1934).

So the question is: was Mrs Everard Cotes insured? But wait — she was cured of her TB in Simla, India. Here she is in her mild plaint at being forced to sit all day in her Simla garden:

“And Tiglath-Pileser has come, and has quoted certain documents, and has used gentle propulsive force, and behold, because I am a person whose contumacy cannot endure, the door is shut and I am on the outside, disconsolate. … I am only banished to the garden. … My eye, which is a captious organ, is to find its entertainment all day long in bushes – and grass. All day long. … From morning until night I am to sit for several months and breathe, with the grass and the bushes, the beautiful pure fresh air. … In vain I have represented that microbes will agree with them no better than with me; it seems the common or house microbe is one of the things that I particularly must not have.” –The Crow’s Nest

Ah, but that garden cure would surely mean that some years later she would be drawn to Kensington Gardens?

The title of this post is the subtitle of a book I still haven’t got around to reading. It is supposed to be about writers with tuberculosis or asthma and how disease affects writing: Le souffle coupé : respirer et écrire by François-Bernard Michel (1984). Here is a nice little summary.

Today’s challenge: name another writer (Canadian or non) afflicted by breathing problems?

book cover

from Univ. Rochester “Beauty for Commerce”


Ethel Wilson, ABCBookWorld

There is nothing quite like poking about second-hand bookshops while on vacation. I was looking for anything by Sara Jeannette Duncan. Instead I found Ethel Wilson’s first novel, The Innocent Traveller. The cover of this 1960 edition is lovely, with a woman wearing a hat with travel information spread out in front of her. But the contents are slightly disappointing. It is not as much about travel as Graham Greene’s Travels With My Aunt, and not as much about innocence as Henry James’s Daisy Miller.

The central character, Topaz, does go to Brighton for boarding school, and takes a quick trip to Paris with her brother to recover from disappointment in love — summed up in one enthusiastic paragraph or so. Topaz’s grand trip occurs in middle age, when she moves with her sister and niece to Vancouver. No, the innocent in the story is Topaz’s other sister, Mary, who is first introduced in this way: “Out she went to India, poor Mary, to marry a missionary. Glory surrounded the absent Mary who soon bore two little spinsters in the heat and died. Poor Mary, buried almost as her eyes closed, in that distant consuming heat.” It is the child Topaz who informs us of Mary’s innocence by quoting an overheard conversation on the day that Mary leaves.

Despite the long voyage, Mary arrives mere paragraphs after she leaves. And here is her arrival. Read it with Duncan’s marriage to an English man in India in mind, or with the voyages of so many missionary wives. Read it but do not weep, because Wilson mocks.

Mary, dressed in the grey of a dove, found herself arrived at the inevitable moment. She stood alone facing this man who was Edward, but who was nearly a stranger. She was more alone than she had ever been in her whole life. She was in India. She had reached the Mission Field. She looked steadily, almost fearfully, at Edward and tried to smile. … Mary broke into weeping which she could not restrain, sprang forward and cast herself, more in homesickness than in love, upon Edward’s beard.

Wilson’s father, Robert Bryant, was a Methodist missionary in South Africa. By the time she was ten, both of her parents were dead, and she was sent to live with relatives, first in England and then in Vancouver. When I first read the text above, I wondered how she could write so callously of a death so similar to her own experience. On second reading, it seems to me to be coldly angry.

Topaz reports her father’s remarriage, after the “fatal birth”, as a conversation among children. “Did you know that Father is going to Grindelwawld?” It seems that Father must go to Grindelwald Switzerland to be able to marry the sister of his deceased wife. Pronounce the “w” as a “v”, you Harry Potter fans.

Click here to read a more favourable appreciation of The Innocent Traveller on a blog site called Buried in Print. Click here and here to read about her life. The Ethel Wilson Fiction Prize is awarded annually to a B.C. writer.

Gurjinder Basran’s novel Everything Was Good-bye won the 2011 Ethel Wilson Fiction Prize

I linger’d; all within was noise

Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys

That crash’d the glass and beat the floor;

Where once we held debate, a band

Of youthful friends, on mind and art,

And labour, and the changing mart,

And all the framework of the land;

This is not from a review of the play we went to see last night ( Posh), but from a poem by Tennyson mourning a Cambridge friend (Canto 88, In Memoriam A. H. H., Representative Poetry Online). Tennyson and his friend Hallam joined the secret society or club called the Cambridge Apostles in 1829. The Canto quoted above describes what goes on behind A.H.H.’s former door at the university, and thus could be about the Apostles, according to this website. The Apostles were influential beyond university, including its Bloomsbury members and its spies. Read more about them here.

E. M. Forster

The author of the novel A Passage to India, E.M. Forster also was a member of the Apostles. Forster’s novel, The Longest Journey, supposedly opens with a recreation of an Apostles’ evening. If you were wondering how the photo of the British director of a film based on an English novel, A Passage to India, slipped onto the pages of a site about Canadian writers, Forster is why. And what does he have to do with Canadian Writers Abroad? One of my readers knows the answer, because she tipped me off to this connection. So I will give you a clue. Who else have I written about who wrote about India?

Here is an excerpt from the Selected Letters of E.M. Forster, Volume One. It is dated 12 November 1912, from Lahore, to his mother:

“Plans again altered as a most kind invitation has come from Mrs Cotes (‘Sarah Jeannette Duncan’) to stop with them at Simla; I am going up by the night train…” Then in a letter dated 21 November 1912, he writes:

“Mr Cotes himself was charming – the vigourous athletic type, but not the least alarming. He took me a delightful ride. Mrs Cotes was clever & odd – nice to talk to alone, but at times the Social Manner descended like a pall. Her niece completed the household; they were busy packing up for Delhi, and in great excitement over the change of capital, as are all. Their Simla house is quite English, with a hall, staircase of dark wood, etc.; indeed all the time I was in Simla, I forgot I was in India; there is nothing there but government & scenery.”

The Arena footnote explains that Everard Cotes (1862-1944) was Managing Director, Eastern News Agency, 1910-19, and on the London staff of The Christian Science Monitor. And that Sara Jeanette (Duncan) Cotes was a Canadian-born novelist and journalist.

As someone in the midst of house guests, I can’t stop myself from trying to figure out exactly how many days Forster (younger than Cotes by seven years) stayed with them. He left for Simla on the 12th by train, and wrote about the visit in the past tense on the 21st, having also been on a 20-hour train journey from Simla to Agra. The day before he left Simla, he went on a hike and stayed out overnight – “an eider down of Mrs Cotes’ kept me warm.” I calculate that he was with them for one week.

So, ok, she had servants to help her, I am sure. But Sara did not have the Apostles behind her.

the cast of Posh the play

cast for “Posh”, Tom Mison website

For the past two Monday evenings I have fallen asleep in front of the BBC program “Empire.” During “Making Ourselves at Home,” on March 5, host Jeremy Paxman went to various countries of the empire, including Canada. I perked up for that, to see what the British would have to say about Canada. And how I laughed to see the BBC camera follow the narrator walking through snow, circling a clump of pines (I swear he crossed his own tracks) to show us – yes! – a log cabin in the snow.

Fergus in winter

The colony of Canada, BBC clip

I didn’t really hear much of what Paxman was saying because I was laughing at the predictability of the image, at the pleasure of seeing us through someone else’s eyes. Even if the eyes were then narrowed at us critically, for our treatment of the occupants of this sparsely populated land. When I had dried my eyes of the laughter tears, I asked, Are the other countries laughing too? A small question that put the episode in a new light.

In November 1892, the Popular Science Monthly published an essay by Sara Jeannette Duncan called “Eurasia.” As I started reading this internet find, I made the uncomfortable discovery that for her “Eurasia” was not a place but a people. “Eurasia has no boundaries. It lies, a varying social fact, all over India, thick in the great cities, thickest in Calcutta…. Wherever Europeans have come and gone, these people have sprung up in weedy testimony of them – these people who do not go….” Duncan numbers the offspring of Europeans and Asians (of India) in the tens of thousands and proceeds to write of the “Eurasian problem” and of the people negatively: morally, they “inherit defects more conspicuously than virtues from both the races from which they spring”; “their indolence and unthrift are proverbial”; and “the truth is not in them.” She generalizes shockingly.

No, not my Duncan! Although I’d enjoyed reading her shocking generalizations about the British in Cousin Cinderella and An American Girl in London, I was not enjoying this little taste of racism. My first reaction was rejection. I returned her travel book, A Social Departure, to the library, unread. I didn’t want to have to pick through the book for evidence to weigh up against her. I can’t remember, when I read about the English in India in A Pool in the Desert fifteen years ago, if I’d shrugged and thought, Oh everyone was racist back then and she was fairly enlightened for her time. I do remember that I wanted to read it as a book of its time rather than in the context of studies on post‑colonialism.

Ah, but there is nothing like humour to put things in perspective. On March 6, 2012, M.G. Vassanji talked about his travels in Tanzania and of reading the explorers of East Africa — Burton, Speke and Livingston. He explained that he wanted to view their work from the other side, from the viewpoint not of their English readers but of the very people he was writing about. He asked, “Where do I see myself” in their stories? He mentioned Burton in particular, admiring how Burton sought to know the languages and cultures of those he met while unfortunately retaining his sense of superiority. He also talked about the local men who helped the explorers as the more interesting story, for without the suppliers and organizers their expeditions would have failed.

showing spear scar

Sir Richard Francis Burton

Vassanji then read aloud – was it from Livingston? – some racist descriptions of the Indians settled in Tanzania, the Cutchi Bhatia, and of the Africans the explorers encountered in Tanzania and Zanzibar. He read the passages aloud with relish. The audience in the Khalili Lecture Theatre, of the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) at the University of London, laughed. Vassanji and his audience laughed at the words of the great explorers (except for me and a couple of other mzungus). Hold on, I thought, I recognize that laugh. See paragraph one above.

M.G. Vassanji is a Canadian writer who was born in Nairobi, Kenya, and who grew up in the Asian community of Dar es Salaam in Tanzania. See his biography here. His first novel, The Gunny Sack, was published in 1989. His fourth book, The Book of Secrets, won the Scotiabank Giller Prize in 1993. Ten years later he won the prize a second time for The In-Between World of Vikram Lall.

During the SOAS talk, Vassanji referred to his travels in Africa and India as going home. For this reason I foolishly did not ask him if I could interview him for Canadian Writers Abroad, for if he was going home then he was hardly going abroad. As soon as I left, on the tube going to my new home in London, I realized my mistake. This is exactly what would make him an interesting subject.

Perhaps in this multicultural era home can be in more than one country? Perhaps the word “abroad” is a tad old‑fashioned, laden with its own colonial history? Mark Twain’s Innocents Abroad of 1869, the musical “At Home Abroad” of 1935, and the grand tour of the rich that became the gap year abroad of the middle class. The Canadian Oxford Dictionary defines “abroad” simply as “in or to a foreign country or countries.” Its older meaning is more “at large” or out and about. A quick online check shows the word still very much in use – teach English abroad, missing persons abroad, the TV show “Idiots Abroad.”

At the beginning of The Gunny Sack, the narrator speaks from “this small overseas community” in Canada. Later, he talks of the situation of the Asians in Tanzania compared to the persecution of the Asians in Uganda. It is a passage that highlights the complexity of identity, nationality and home: “In Dar, at Amina’s house, we said Tanzania is different, its Asians more truly African. Indians have been on the coast for centuries, and they speak English – Amina attested, having come from abroad – quite differently from Indian Indians. There is a distinct Swahili-ness to their English.” (p. 245).

At the end of her essay, Sara Jeannette Duncan identifies prejudice as unreasonable and concludes her essay with a wish that this corner of the empire will contribute to English literature: “In the heart of Eurasia – a heart which has yet to be bared to us by the scalpel of modern fiction — surely may be found much that is worth adding to the grand total that makes humanity interesting.” I wonder why Jeremy Paxman chose to look at commerce and sport in his series “Empire,” when really he should be looking at literature, the most splendid survivor of empire.

Vassanji receives GG

Vassanji receives Governor General's Literary Award for his memoir in 2009, CBC

Karyn Huenemann is the first contributor (other than me) to Canadian Writers Abroad – and her article makes clear why she should be. She has lived in England, India, California, Paris and Boston. While in England and India, she was on the trail of Duncan. Having returned to Canada, she is the project manager of Canada’s Early Women Writers (CEWW) at Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, BC (ceww.wordpress.com).

CEWW is an ongoing project, run by Dr. Carole Gerson, to create an online database of all Canadian women who published—in any genre, in any forum—before 1950. CEWW is one of the seed projects for the larger database project, the Canadian Writing Research Collaboratory (CWRC), run out of the University of Alberta, and headed by Dr. Susan Brown.

—DM

Being a Victorianist, studying in Ottawa in 1988, nothing seemed more natural than to take a course in Early Canadian Female Novelists offered at the University of Ottawa by the late Professor Lorraine McMullen. Imagine my surprise when one of the novels offered had seemingly nothing to do with Canada: The Simple Adventures of a Memsahib was a novel of British India, published in London in 1893. It turned out that this novel was written by one of those myriad of authors who—for whatever reason, although most often the inability of the Canadian publishing industry to support its authors—had left Canada for warmer or more lucrative places.

My Master’s degree achieved, I eventually followed Sara Jeannette Duncan to London, and then to India itself…. While complications in pregnancy made me cancel my trips to Calcutta and Simla from our home in Bangalore, in England I was more lucky. I dutifully read through Marian Fowler’s almost painfully familiar biography of Sara Jeannette Duncan, Redney(1983), gleaning from her research and other supporting documents what I could about Duncan’s travels and residences.

2 photos Iverna Court

Karyn Huenemann slideshow

Living in Windsor and studying at the University of London gave me ample opportunity to traipse the streets of London and its suburbs, A-to-Z in hand, trying to photograph the homes Duncan lived in, imagining her writing Cousin Cinderella (1908) or Two in a Flat (1908) as the sounds of London streets wafted through her windows. Unfortunately, many years, two children, and three jobs later, when I returned to academia and Sara Jeannette Duncan, I discovered that on only some of the photos had I written addresses. What sort of researcher makes such a mistake? I was appalled at my oversight, and can offer no excuses.

country house

Karyn Huenemann slideshow

I do remember walking for what seemed like miles, up through winding streets in the north to get a photo of what I later thought was Newington Rectory… but the truth is lost in the mists of time, at least for a person now living on the West coast of Canada!

 

—Karyn Huenemann

 

It’s time to talk about writers who lived abroad. I want to start with a Canadian writer who left home to write and never moved back. She was given the name Sarah Janet Duncan, but she didn’t write under it, choosing instead Sara Jeannette Duncan, at times using her married name Mrs Everard Cotes, and the pen names Garth Grafton or Jane Wintergreen or V. Cecil Cotes.

Sara Jeanette Duncan

Sara Jeanette Duncan, Library and Archives Canada (no. 3531454)

Best known in Canada for her novel The Imperialist, she began her career by writing about the World’s Industrial and Cotton Centennial exposition in New Orleans for a Canadian newspaper. She went on from there to write a newspaper series about a trip around the world, which she later rewrote as a novel. During that trip she met Everard Cotes, who worked in India. After they married, she settled there and continued to write both journalism and fiction. She also retreated to her house in London from 1915 onward. She and her husband retired to Ashtead, Surrey, in 1921, where she died a year later. Her death has been attributed to her chronic lung problems (tuberculosis, emphysema) and was possibly from pneumonia.

I read her collection A Pool in the Desert while I was in India (for three years, long enough to exacerbate my own lung problems), so it seems fitting that in London I should read her fiction set here. I went to my local library and requested Cousin Cinderella; or, a Canadian girl in London (1908) and the earlier A Social Departure: how Orthodocia and I went around the world by ourselves (1890). I didn’t really expect the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea library to find them for me; I expected to be directed to the British Library or the London Library. But the books have arrived, as reprints, Cousin Cinderella by General Publishing and A Social Departure by Nabu Public Domain reprints.

Although Duncan’s house in London was in Chelsea, she is not listed in the index of London’s blue plaques (mounted on buildings to identify which important personage once lived there). Because one purpose of this website is to create a record, I want to find where she lived and put up a photo of it. The question now is: how do I go about finding her address?

Not that she would approve of such a quest. In An American Girl in London, she lets the American narrator make mockery of this desire to record a life by identifying it with an abode. A friend shows her Dr. Johnson’s house: “I took one long and thoughtful look a the yellowish house at the end, and tried to imagine the compilation of lexicons inside its walls about the year 1748, and turned away feeling that I had done all within my personal ability for the memory of Dr. Johnson.” (An American Girl in London, A.L. Burt Company, N.Y. p. 181.)

I start making comparisons as soon as we arrive at our flat in London. “Oh, look, the furniture is the same as in our place in Vienna.” And New Delhi and Nairobi. We live in assigned furnished accommodation, paying rent to the Canadian government, or to the Crown. Most of the furniture comes from Canada, proudly made in Belleville or Napanee, or somewhere in Canada. It is the sort of furniture that comes with skirts and includes dining room suites that wish they were mahogany.

On learning that the water in our bathroom is not potable because it comes from a cistern in the building rather than a tap, I mentally exclaim, “Just like our house in New Delhi!” There we had bottles of boiled filtered water placed by the sink for our use. Occasionally the cistern at that house would be cleaned, and they would find “dead things, Madame,” and when I pressed for an answer to what things, I was met with a solemn shake of the head, telling me I didn’t really want to know if they were toads or rats. Why not rats, since we had those in our bathroom in New Delhi? I look carefully at the London bathroom walls, at the joints of floor and window and under the sink at the pipes in the wall. I hope there the similarity ends.

At times I feel like a student doing a class writing exercise. Compare and contrast your life in London to your life in Canada or elsewhere. I can’t stop myself from doing it. What I find interesting is that first I seek the similarities. I pore over newspapers, content that here too they are discussing global warming, the economy, the decline of independent bookstores, the decline of the printed word. Then, later, comes the noting of difference. Is it a survival instinct, this adapting to the unfamiliar by first finding the familiar?

During a nature walk in the park near our apartment one Saturday morning, the guide points out the green parakeets. Parakeets! I remember the gang that lived in the tree near the house in New Delhi, remember lying in the hammock with the baby late in the day and watching them flock home. Hearing them first thing in the morning, and loving the racket. The guide explains that they escaped from an aviary, and the climate suits them fine, now that winters are milder. He adds, in his soft voice, “Some people think of them as invaders pushing out the native species, and others think of them as a spot of colour in our dreary winters.”

There was a spot of colour in the paper today, a review of a book by a Mr. Black. The Guardian seems not entirely sympathetic about the woes of Conrad and Barbara.

Conrad Black and Barbara Amiel in costume

A spot of colour

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/lostinshowbiz/2011/dec/08/poor-conrad-black-tale-poverty