Groves of palms were passed and pyramidal hills, bringing the same suggestion of Egypt we had had before, on the way to Chitorgarh. There was no doubt about getting further south as the temperature was much higher, the thermometer registering 75° to 80° and this was February 4, whereas only two days before we had been shivering over a fire at Darjeeling! In the burning sun we could see the dark figures in white turbans and waist cloths, coolies on the railway line, and ploughmen in the fields toiling in the heat. We stopped for breakfast at Berhampore. In the district from here to Vizianagram there was formerly a flourishing silk weaving industry among the natives. “All gone now,” said a bright-looking European official in white drill and topi who entered our compartment. From what he told us further, it seems that this industry declined for very obvious causes—because the raw silk, the very material upon which it subsisted, was exported and consequently the occupation of the native hand-loom weavers was gone.
At Waltair, one passenger left, but our compartment was kept full as another immediately succeeded him and all four berths were occupied on the second night. One got more or less broken sleep, but perhaps more than might be expected.
At Bapatia next morning there was chota hazri, or early tea, ready, and it was very welcome. At Bitragunta there was a halt for breakfast. As we approached Madras, late in the afternoon, we came by lovely groves of palms, quite dark thick forests of them, with pools of water among them in which water lilies bloomed. Green parroquets decorated the telegraph wires, sitting in rows much as the swallows do in England in the autumn. The telegraph wires all over India are however a favourite resting perch with a variety of birds, and quick an observer may get a good notion of the variety of species in Indian Ornithology by noticing the many kinds of birds which may be seen in such positions, clearly silhouetted against the sky.
We arrived at the Beach Station, Madras, about five o’clock on February 4, relieved to have reached the end of our long journey. Hotel touts here may be described as active and strong on the wing. We eventually squeezed ourselves into a tickagary with our light baggage, and in spite of the presence of Moonsawmy—or perhaps in colusion with him—an officious native guide mounted the box and offered us information as to the public buildings we passed on the way to the hotel. The Prince of Wales’s was full, but the proprietor advised us of another not far off, known as the Castle, which had formerly been the pavilion or palace of a native prince, and was a large two-storied yellow washed building with colonnades on the ground floor, and extensive terraces on to which the rooms opened out, on the first floor. These terraces were protected by a parapet which took the form of low battlements, whence possibly the hotel derived its name. There was a pleasant garden shaded by trees around the building, walled in from the road, and having entrance gates. Here we found agreeable rooms and plenty of space, without oppressive luxury or comfort, and as cool as might be expected, if it is ever cool anywhere in Madras? The hotel was under English management, and photographs of familiar places at Torquay and on the Cornish coast hung in our salon. Mosquito curtains told their usual tale, being generally a necessity in India, but are more particularly so at Madras.
On the drive from the station we passed Fort St George which dates from 1680, and is the only building of any historic interest. There were big Law Courts in a pretentious Italian Gothic style after the manner of modern Bombay architecture. The British traders and their stores and posters were in evidence, and “summer sales” going strong at the drapers, attracting smartly dressed English ladies in their motors and dog-carts. The streets were broad, and there was plenty of space everywhere. The hotels and bungalows were surrounded by large gardens, and abundant trees—palms being very plentiful.
It was pleasant to hear the clear notes of birds in the early morning, and of course we had the usual kite and crow chorus. In the evening there was a children’s party going on at a pavilion in the garden, and popular European waltz tunes came from a piano.
The temperature in our rooms ranged from 75° to 80° and we felt anything but energetic. We had, moreover, in the afternoon an interesting drive out to the Adyar Library, the headquarters of the Theosophical Society built by Colonel Alcott who was now lying ill there. Having had a telegram from Mrs Annie Besant in the morning, a visit was arranged. She could not leave the Colonel, as he was then in a dying state. Our road lay between beautiful groves of palms of various kinds, mostly cocoa palms, and native villages, the huts of one story, long and low, and roofed with ridge tiles of a delightful bronze colour, the tiles, probably sun-baked, being doubled and trebled over and under alternately. The roads were covered with a fine dust of a rich reddish-brown tint, almost coffee colour, and this tint varied with the full red and bright white of the dresses of the natives, and their dark skins, and relieved by the clear light green of the paddy fields, and the gold and green of the palms, in the warm evening sunlight, made a fine harmony.
We passed a Hindu temple and a tank, and crossed a bridge over the broad river (Adyar) and on the other side presently drove under an ancient fragment of a stone carved gateway, and so through the wooded grounds to the Adyar Library, a new building of red brick and red sandstone of semi-Hindu type.
A lady clad in white conducted me to a large upper chamber very lofty and long in proportion to its width, furnished more or less like a European drawing-room, with chairs and couches, but high on the wall at intervals were various religious symbols, in white plaster relief, among which I noticed the Gammadion and the Serpent and the Tree. There was a pretty view over the river from the windows, on the side.
Presently Mrs Besant entered. She was robed in white. It was the sari dress of the native women in some fine soft material, with embroidered borders also white. Her hair too had whitened since I knew her in London many years before. We spoke of the old days—of Cunninghame Graham, G. Bernard Shaw, and Sidney Webb. Mrs Besant, once an active and ardent socialist, seemed to have quite removed herself into another world, strikingly different from the one of strife and protest in which she with her wonderful eloquence had been a potent influence, and was now devoting her life to inculcating the principles of Theosophy and educational work among the young Hindus. Her idea was to gather the best elements out of all religions, and to unite them in one comprehensive creed, the keynote of which, as I understood, is universal brotherhood. In her schools she desired to cultivate the higher side of the native Hindu religion, refining and spiritualising, though by no means Europeanizing, but preserving all native characteristics in dress and courteous manners, and as far as possible preventing any Western contamination.