A.D. 1876
A PALACE FOR A HOME
In December 1876 Charlotte Maria Tucker entered upon the final stage of her earthly career. Final in a sense; for though more than once Batala had to be temporarily deserted, the place was never given up. Thenceforward, Batala became in very truth her home; Batala work was essentially her work; and the remaining years of her life were devoted to Batala.
Having once made up her mind that she was definitely called to this particular post, nothing could withhold her. Difficulties, oppositions, hindrances, prospects of loneliness, imperfect knowledge of Indian languages, increasing age,—all these were as nothing in the way. If she was called, she would go! And Miss Tucker believed that she was called.
Others were not so sure. Mrs. Elmslie wrote on the 8th of December to Mrs. Hamilton: ‘I agree with you that your beloved sister’s power lies in gifts which can be used to perhaps greater influence here than in an out-station. This isolation from European society is not what I should have chosen for one who can exercise so much influence for good among her own countrymen; and whose pen can do more for India than perhaps the lives of many others.’ No doubt this view of the question weighed greatly in the judgment of many. For one who can[240] write books suitable to Indian requirements, there are scores of Missionaries who can with ease learn the Native languages, and who can visit and teach in Zenanas, perhaps far more effectually than A.L.O.E. did.
To lookers-on it may seem that she judged wrongly here; that her eagerness for personal work was a mistake; that she might have done more by following the advice of her friends, and remaining at Amritsar. Advice she had; for Mrs. Elmslie says in the same letter: ‘We have one and all of us tried to dissuade her from going; but she sees the Pillar going straight on before her. And who are we that we should gainsay it?’
Suppose she only fancied that she ‘saw the Pillar,’—in other words, that she was called or led or ordered to Batala? A mistake of this description is not impossible, especially in the case of an ardent and impulsive nature. If so, it was the mistake of burning love and self-devotion; and one can well believe that such a mistake must be dearer to the Heart of our Lord than the correct attitude of those who always decide on the safe and comfortable side.
But why should we imagine it to have been a mistake? The true gist of the matter is not, after all, to be found in the question as to which particular type of work she might be best fitted for intellectually. The main question was rather—to which especial work was she bidden by her Master? One can hardly live many years on Earth, with observant eyes, and believe that people are always or generally given exactly that work to do, for which they are by natural powers best adapted. Things often seem, indeed, just the other way; people being put to work for which they appear to be least well adapted, and simply having to do their best. To us it may seem that A.L.O.E.’s pen was worth more to India than all her heroic struggles to conquer the languages and to teach in[241] Zenanas. But if, as with her whole heart she believed, God had called her to work in Batala,—‘who are we,’ to say that she should have remained away? The Commander-in-Chief of an army has a perfect right to place his soldiers where he will; and so long as the soldier who is ordered to any particular post hears the word of command, it matters very little whether anybody else hears it also.
Suppose A.L.O.E. had not gone to Batala, but had taken the advice of others, and had remained at Amritsar! Possibly she might, by devoting herself to writing alone, have accomplished treble or quadruple the number of little books and tracts for India which she did accomplish. But then a very heroic example of courage and self-devotion would have been lost to the Church. At Amritsar she would have had plenty of loving friends, and would have been altogether more comfortable, altogether in easier circumstances. Easy and comfortable examples, however, are not rare. Even the writing of a good many more little books might not have made up to us for what we should have lost in other respects.
Besides,—she believed that she had her ‘marching orders.’ Even if, by any possibility, she were mistaken in that belief, she could not disobey. A soldier always instantly obeys what he believes to be the order given.
Yet it could have been no light matter,—this going forth alone, with only one young companion, into a very fastness of Muhammadanism and Heathenism. Miss Tucker herself was no longer young. Though marvellously strong and spirited for her time of life, she was now in her fifty-sixth year; hardly an age when, at the best, a woman is commonly willing to undertake great responsibilities in a new and untried direction. It was, however, true, as she said, that if she did not go, the Mission in Batala could not be at once started—as[242] a resident Mission. No two young women could have gone there alone. They must have waited for a married Missionary and his wife to head the effort.
In this step of Miss Tucker’s a clue may perhaps be found for some lives, here or there, where a vocation is earnestly sought and not yet found. Why should not other middle-aged ladies go out, as she went out?—not necessarily always to attempt full Zenana work; but to be protectors, housekeepers, nurses, to younger and more active ladies? Whether it would be right to use any portion of Mission-funds for such a purpose may be doubted; and in many a case Mission rooms could not be spared; but there are exceptions as to the latter. And as to the money part of the question, doubtless many a warm-hearted lady, over fifty years of age, free from home-ties, with a spirit full of love and self-devotion, could afford to spend ￡150 or ￡200 a year on such an object. Much might be done by her to cheer up the workers, to leave them more free for all that needed most to be done,—and indirectly she might help forward the work of evangelisation by the mere force of a fair Christian example in a dark land. There can be no question that Miss Tucker’s life worked far more effectually than her words. What she said may have been long ago forgotten. What she was will never be forgotten. Her spoken words doubtless had at the time some power; her written words perhaps had much more; her life had by far the most of all.
For any such line of life as is above suggested, however, only that type of woman is fit which has been already described in some of A.L.O.E.’s letters. Thin-skinned, anxious, feeble-spirited ladies, easily worried and easily vexed, will not do; and angular, managing, argumentative ladies would be quite as unsuitable. Those alone may venture who are not only fairly strong in health, vigorous in spirit, fearless as to difficulties, and careless as[243] to discomforts, but who are also gentle, kind-hearted, sympathetic, willing to yield to the judgment of others, ready to please and not to rule. Almost above everything else, there should be a freedom from grumbling tendencies. If such elderly ladies of England are willing to tread in A.L.O.E.’s footsteps, and to give the Evenings of their lives to Mission-work, openings enough for them might be found.
The closing words of Mrs. Elmslie’s letter to Mrs. Hamilton on December 8, show what Miss Tucker’s presence in the Amritsar bungalow had been: ‘I shall miss my darling Charlotte much. She has been sunshine to me ever since she came; and I am accustomed to think of her as a very precious gift from a loving Father Who knows our need. I hope to have her again at Christmas. Please feel assured that we shall tenderly watch over your dear one, even though not so closely together as formerly.’ Miss Wauton also, speaking of that time, says: ‘Her general presence was a great cheer to her fellow-workers there.’
Mention has been made of the Mission-tree,—a large banyan, in front of the Amritsar bungalow, where Miss Tucker had now spent so many months. The central trunk had received the name of Amritsar, and other slender trunks around, already rooted, had received the names of various out-stations, where occasional work had been begun, but where no Missionaries yet resided. One slender shoot was called after Batala. It had then just reached the ground, but was not firmly rooted. Now, in 1895, it is ‘a thick, substantial trunk.’
Batala, a walled town, about a mile across, has a population of some 25,000 people, and is twenty-four miles to the east of Amritsar. The Dalhousie range of the mighty Himalayas lies about fifty miles off; but the mountains, when snow-capped, look very much nearer.[244] In those days there was not, as there is now, a line of rail connecting Amritsar with Batala. The journey from one to the other had commonly to be accomplished, either by tum-tum, a light cart, with two or three changes of horses; or else by ekka, a country cart, which last mode of conveyance was very often used by Miss Tucker in coming years. It was a peculiarly rough and wearisome mode of travelling, the ekka having no springs; but very early she took to doing as far as possible what the Indians do in such cases. Anything that would tend to make her one with them was eagerly attempted. For instance, she began speedily to sit upon the floor as Natives do; and at Indian gatherings or feasts she would not only sit as they sat, but would share their food. She must have been singularly supple-jointed for her years, to be able to adopt this position without any serious inconvenience. The Rev. Robert Clark writes, with reference to her Batala mode of life:—
‘No conveyance was kept. Miss Tucker always travelled in her little dhoolie (or bird’s-nest carriage), or in an ekka, a native conveyance without springs, where a seat about a yard square was perched on wooden wheels. On this she spread her bedding, which is always carried about by Missionaries. She was so well accustomed to sit on the ground, that her legs in this conveyance never were in the way. She gracefully folded them before or under her—we never could tell how—in a position which was very painful to most English people, but which seemed quite natural to her. She often used to trot over in this way, in an ekka, to Amritsar, on a road which caused many bumps and aches to most people’s heads and arms and bodies; but she would never allow that the shaking of twenty-four miles of such travelling as this ever did her any harm. I think she wished to be an example to us all. We used to travel then in tum-tums or buggies, or other vehicles with springs. But ekkas have much more become the fashion in our Missionary circles.’
One idea Miss Tucker had, on first going to Batala, which the other Missionaries dissuaded her with great[245] difficulty from putting into execution. This was to dress as the Indians do! It was not considered a wise or desirable plan, from any point of view; but Charlotte Tucker had gone so far, in her enthusiasm, as to provide herself with a Native dress, and her heart was very much set upon wearing it. To make her give up this favourite idea was no easy matter.
Batala is a picturesque old town, with fine banyan-trees, and many old mango-tree gardens towards the north, enclosed either by walls or by aloe hedges, curiously appropriate for A. L. O. E. It is said that in her younger days a review of some of her books spoke of them as being ‘bitter, like the name of their Author.’ Did Miss Tucker ever recall this little notice when she looked upon the aloe hedges of Batala?
There is also a large lake-like tank close to the house in which Miss Tucker lived, and other tanks lie further off. This nearer tank has an ornamental pleasure-house in the middle; and the tomb of the man who dug the tank is on its bank. Many handsome old tombs are to be seen in the place. The town itself is old, with exceedingly crooked and narrow streets; so narrow, that a duli when carried through often touches the walls on both sides. The Batala people have the character of being particularly bigoted, hard-natured, quarrelsome, and difficult to deal with.
Early in 1876 Miss Wauton had written in the Society’s Report: ‘I think we may consider the Batala Mission now thoroughly established.’ This meant that about five Girls’ Schools had been opened for Hindu, Sikh, and Muhammadan scholars, under the superintendence of the Catechist’s wife, being from time to time visited by the Amritsar Missionary ladies. The children were taught elementary Christian truths; they learned to sing simple hymns; and books were given to them. The work,[246] however, was hardly more than begun, when A. L. O. E. decided to make Batala her home. One Native Catechist and his wife were there; one Batala man had been baptized; and a certain number of children had begun to learn a few simple truths. For the rest, Batala was ‘a stronghold of bigoted Muhammadanism.’
And the first thing which had to be done was not to reap a harvest, not to begin looking for results, but simply to plough the hard ground, and thus to make seed-sowing a matter of possibility. When the ground was broken and softened, then the seed might be sown; after that, the sown seed could be watered, and the harvest patiently waited for.
Almost every letter at this time contains something of interest. To quote half of what might be quoted is impossible, for lack of space. It seems, however, worth while to give fuller records of these early days, when all was fresh, and when Miss Tucker’s interests were keenly awake to her novel surroundings, even though more fulness here means some curtailing later.
A certain change in the style of her letters is observable after she reached India, especially in the long series to Mrs. Hamilton. Personal matters are pushed very much into the background; while tendencies to introspection or to moralisings are almost non-existent. The letters fall naturally into a simple record of the work being done. She is far too fully occupied with things and people around to have any leisure to bestow upon her own feelings. Moreover, the mode of expression gains a terseness and vigour, not always characteristic of the earlier correspondence.
To write the life of A. L. O. E. at this period is hardly possible, without at the same time writing the life of the Infant Church at Batala. The one is almost identical with the other.
[247]
The house in which their first start was to be made is described by Miss Tucker, as will be seen, in somewhat glowing terms. She was resolutely bent upon making the best of everything, and upon seeing all around through her rose-coloured spectacles. There were, however, two sides to the question. The ‘house,’ so called, was in reality an old Sikh palace, ‘used by Sher Singh, son of Maharajah Singh, as a hunting-box.’ Sher Singh is said to have spent no more than one night in it. The building was very substantial, and two-storied. A central room below was over thirty feet in length, and another exactly over it was of the same size. Other smaller rooms lay around, and of these one was chosen for Miss Tucker’s bedroom. The great, ponderous, creaking doors were difficult to close; and the wind would sweep through them in a manner suggestive of chill and rheumatism. In the winter months they were very cold and comfortless apartments. The name of the old palace was ‘Anarkalli.’[55]
‘When we first used these rooms, during occasional visits to Batala,’ writes Miss Wauton, ‘they were largely haunted by owls, bats, and rats; and it was a long time before these occupants understood that they had notice to quit the premises. Then it seemed impossible ever to make those huge, weird, gloomy-looking rooms at all cosy and home-like. However, we did our best with matting, screens, and furniture, to make it look habitable. And in Miss Tucker’s eyes the very strangeness and romance of the place made up for its deficiency in warmth and comfort.’ Mr. Clark also, referring to this large and somewhat dreary palace, says of it: ‘The winds blew through many chinks in the uncurtained doors; and the house was once likened to Eden, because four streams flowed through it.’
[248]
Two days after her arrival she wrote to her favourite sister:—
‘Batala, Dec. 8, 1876.
‘Do not connect Batala with any idea of self-sacrifice. I am astonished to find myself in such a beautiful home. It is more suited for an Earl and Countess than for two lowly Missionaries; and yet our rent is only a little more than ￡20 a year! Certainly, we have had to make that very necessary article, a fireplace, and to build servants’ huts; but the house is grand! It seems unnatural to be the lady of it.
‘We do not intend to furnish the room in which I am now sitting,—till the fireplace is finished in our smaller room we use this fine apartment,—but its length is about thirty-six feet. Poor Shere Singh! little he guessed, when he built the fair mansion, that he was but to sleep in it for one night, and then be murdered at Lahore! He never dreamed of Mission-books, Bibles, etc., being stored up in those most convenient presses in the walls, which add exceedingly to one’s comfort. For really the native house is not only stately, but wondrously comfortable. It seems to me to be decidedly warmer than Amritsar bungalow—a matter of real importance to me. It is a great deal lighter, and I suspect that in summer it will be cooler also, at least in this room, which is splendidly protected from the sun.
‘Another advantage as regards both health and cheerfulness is that we live on the first floor, and this first floor is a good height from the ground. One first ascends five steps to the substantial platform on which the house is built, and then twenty-nine steps to our apartments. Florrie and I have each a nice, light, airy bedroom, with bathroom attached. We shall soon have a pleasant sitting-room, to which this splendid unfurnished apartment will serve as a vestibule.’
‘Dec. 9.—I have just come from the City,—we live more than half-a-mile out of it. O, my Laura, a wide door is open before us. I was told that Batala is a place where we could not read the Bible: but I have copied a great deal into my Bible picture-book; and there is no let or hindrance that I can see in showing the pictures, and reading the descriptions, which are God’s own Word.... I find that a good way to begin, when I enter a house, is by showing off my Zouave.[56] ... Every one is delighted with it. A good large group of women and children assemble.... It is harder for me to understand the women,[249] than it is for them to understand me,—they sometimes jabber so; and if they mix Panjabi, I am all at sea. In the evenings I intend to do a little Panjabi with Florrie; and in return I teach her to play the guitar. I have begun to learn the alphabet, which has thirty-five letters. We hope next week to have an Urdu Munshi; but I only intend to have one hour and a half with him [i.e. daily]....
‘In nine days we hope to make a day’s itinerating tour to two villages. There are little schools in them,—not of course Christian. The poor women here seem inclined to like me, for which I am thankful. Florrie told me to-day that she thought she would have gone into fits of laughter at what was said of me. My being elderly and unmarried seemed to be giving an impression that I was a kind of saint or faqir,—perhaps my being thin and wearing my faithful old green dress added to the impression. One woman asked me whether I had eaten anything that day. Florrie thinks that it was from a courteous wish to feed me, if I had not.
‘I arrived here on Thursday,—-this is Saturday. Yesterday I saw poor, dear B—n at the house of the Catechist. He looked sad; not as he looked in the Amritsar church. I suspect that his Cross is still very heavy....
‘I am in excellent health, thank God, and Florrie seems to be getting all right again. She and I “pull well together, when yoked twain and twain.” I have not seen a single white face but hers—not even in travelling here—since I left the dear Amritsar bungalow. I think that I shall improve more rapidly in the language here than if I had remained at my first station.
‘What an extraordinary and somewhat romantic position I am in, for an elderly lady, who in her youth hardly ever stirred from a London home! How amazed we should have been when we were girls, if we could have known that I was to find my home in an Oriental palace—afar from all Europeans—and itinerate a little in heathen villages! How good God has been to your loving sister!’
TO MRS. J. BOSWELL.
‘Dec. 11, 1876.
‘I have not been many days in this my new home, but I could fill pages and pages with Batala. My time, however, is precious, and I must not waste too much even in writing to dear ones.... I was much struck by an incident which occurred to-day. Four workmen are still engaged in making a fireplace for us. This morning, as I sat reading, waiting for my Munshi, one of the men stood near, as[250] if silently watching me. I thought this strange; but, as he was not rude, I made no remark but read on. Presently the man said to me, “Is that the Gospel?” I said, “Would you like to hear the Gospel?” He assented. I read part of Matthew v.; and the three other men came and listened. Afterwards at morning prayer I sat very near the open door leading to the room where two of these men were working at the fireplace. Two of our Muhammadan servants come now regularly to family prayers. The men at the fireplace were so perfectly still that I am sure they were listening to God’s Word.... Of course, it is quite optional with the servants to attend or not; and the workmen could easily have drowned my voice, if they had chosen to do so....
‘I find my walking Zouave so very useful in opening a way, that I much wish for five or six clever clockwork toys, such as would take the fancy of natives.... The toys should be rather small, and such as I could easily show off. The floors are so rough, that I am obliged to make my Zouave walk on the top of his own tin box, short as it is. I feel the toys, if really clever, so important....’
TO MRS. E——.
‘Dec. 14, 1876.
‘I dare say that you will be rather curious to know how I like my new home. I like it very much indeed. I cannot tell you what the city is like; for though I have been into it every day but to-day, I cannot say that I know anything of its general appearance, except that the streets are extremely narrow, and that the houses appear to be made of brick. The fact is that I never go into the city, except shut up in a duli, a kind of box with no window. Unless I push the curtain a little back, I see nothing, and nobody can see me. I am rather careful about the proprieties; and to be carried in a box is the correct thing. My duli is red; Florrie’s moderately white.
‘Now fancy yourself at my side, dearest Aunt. I will give you a kind of rough idea of what is said and done, after my duli has stopped at the door of one of the four Zenanas now open to us at Batala. I will suppose C. M. T. alone, as she sometimes is.
‘C. M. T. gets out of her box, and enters,—perhaps mounting a small, rather dark staircase. Presently she finds herself in a place where there are perhaps a dozen or twenty women and children.
‘C. M. T. smiles, says, “Salaam,” and informs her who seems the chief woman that she is happy to see her. A bed or perhaps an arm-chair[251] is politely put for C. M. T. to sit down on.... C. M. T. begins by showing off a clockwork figure that can walk. Women and children look on with curiosity and pleasure. Says C. M. T., “The doll is cleverer than the idols; it can walk.” The house being Muhammadan, the observation is approved of; and C. M. T. amuses the good folk by a few lively remarks as to the doll being weak or tired, etc.
‘Then C. M. T. says, “I have made a very long journey from Europe by sea. I have come thousands of miles. Why have I come?” Silence amongst my auditors. “I have come to give good news.” They listen with interest. “Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners. This is good news. We are all sinners. He died for us,” etc. None look angry; some look pleased; some look tenderly at me, as if they thought me very kind to come such a long way to give them good news.
‘Then a Bible picture-book is opened; perhaps the story of the Fall read. Muhammadans believe a great deal of the Old Testament; one can talk to them of “Father Adam,” and “Mother Eve,” without shocking them in the least. I cannot talk much,—very little indeed,—but I can say such things as I have written above, and tell the dear women that I am happy, that I do not fear death at all, because I believe that the Lord bore the punishment of my sins on the Cross.
‘I have not met with any discourtesy. There are three things in my favour—my age; my family being of the Sarkar-log;[57] and my receiving no salary.... Another thing which seems to awaken a sort of interest is the fact of my being unmarried. I have met with the idea that there is some merit in celibacy. I repudiated it, and said that in our Book marriage is spoken of as an honourable thing.’
TO MRS. HAMILTON.
‘Dec. 16, 1876.
‘We never drive in Batala, but on the roads outside. Of course we often meet Natives. Some of them salaam to us, and I make a point of bowing with marked courtesy when they do so. One feels the salaam a breaking of the ice. Those who have exchanged greetings on the road with us are less likely to shut their doors against the polite strangers. Florrie has been admitted into a fifth Zenana to-day. The Catechist thinks that after a while there will be more work than we can overtake.’
[252]
TO MRS. J. BOSWELL.
‘Christmas Day, 1876.
‘Is not this a curious life for me? What a contrast Batala is to Marylebone! But I stand up for Batala. This is a capital house, in spite of rats. You should see Florrie and me in our tam-tam driving along kachcha roads,[58] the odd-looking conveyance plunging up and down or from side to side, like a boat on a rough sea. Or fancy me seated in my red duli starting for the city. I remember how I looked on the picture of such a red duli, painted on talc, and pitied native ladies for having to travel in a box. It really, however, is not bad, and it is the only practicable conveyance for the narrow streets of Batala.’