Letter from George to Ruth Mallory, from Anchor Line, T.M.S. California [Letterhead], March
Full Transcript
My Dearest Ruth,
It is Saturday and early on Wednesday morning we shall be in Bombay, so the voyage is nearing its end. I had a scheme of writing you a little each day, but though I have thought of you often I have written little [struck through] nothing. The fact is that the days after all turn out to be too short. As you may imagine my first idea has been to keep fit. It is never very easy in the hot weather, and though it was cool enough until we were in the Canal it has been hot since then – not remarkably hot, but limp-hot. For two days going down the Red Sea we had a following wind; there was no air on the ship and our cabin with the afternoon soon became insufferable. One night I tried to sleep on deck, with two pillows and two deck chairs to help me, but though it was pleasant enough lying under the stars, too exciting perhaps I got no sleep and in the early morning retired to the cabin. But the nights have been bearable except for that one and the great way to be fit is to perspire freely both before breakfast and again in the evening before dinner. With Beetham and Irvine I do a good deal of throwing and catching the medicine ball and that proves the best way of all. Occasionally I run, ten times round the deck, which is about a mile. Anyway activities of this sort cut into the time between tea and dinner; after dinner when I don’t play Bridge (ie. about every other night) I don’t find I get much done of anything serious and one is hot and stuffy and after dinnerish. However I have a done a good whack at Hindustani at which I hope to be very much more efficient this time. I have read a little history; I have written the article for Blackie and Son and I have studied the oxygen apparatus and gone through lists of stores and invoices so as to get to know exactly what we have that we shall want from the Base Camp on and have my own list in a notebook. The one serious omission is crampons – nothing but the old-fashioned heavy kind; it is very disappointing; I made a great point of that with the equipment people. It means we shall have to cut steps up the final slope I suppose. The oxygen apparatus is going to be awkward to carry and particularly to cut steps when wearing it will be difficult. I have spent some time too going into the question of organising high camps; but it is difficult to come to any conclusions at present and I think very likely our plan should be to have a stray reconnaissance using oxygen from the North Col to decide the heights of different places suggested and also how many people could sleep there. The point of using oxygen would be to preserve the strength of those making the reconnaissance. However this plan would be rather expensive of organisation, and I doubt whether we shall carry it out.
The ship has been much more agreeable since we unshipped our cargo of Scotch tourists at Port Said. There is room now on board and one can find a corner and get away and be quiet if one wants to. We sit eight at a table of whom one is Irvine and it is quite an agreeable little crowd. I am always down and have finished breakfast before anyone else arrives unless it is Irvine and then seek solitude, so I hardly see anything of anybody before lunch. If people see one busy – and they have grown accustomed to see me busy – they don’t mercifully, disturb one. Even so it isn’t easy to get much done; if one sits in a wind papers blow about and if one sits out of it one is too hot. They are a nice lot of people quiet and dullish and unobjectionable. I fear I’m not seeming very sociable, but they have asked me to give a talk about our expedition and I have agreed to do that tomorrow night.
I’ve a sort of feeling that I’ve left all the difficult things to you. I do wonder how you’ll get on about selling the Holt and letting Herschel House, and building our new wall and dealing with the garden. I came to no agreement with you about paying bills while I am away – I think the best plan will be for you to pay none unless it seems urgently necessary; I think there can hardly be any to pay, unless it is the Army and Navy stores for port wine and any Everest things, e.g. Bodger’s and Beales can wait.
Don’t forget the wine cellar must be locked up if you let the house; and in the cellar is the over mantle for Mrs Lock.
I wonder where you will be when you get this. As your plans were vague I shall post to Herschel House; and it should get there about April 5 and may catch you. Your first letter to me should reach Bombay 2 days after us and so I should only have 2 days in Darjeeling to wait for it.
I haven’t said a word to you about my hip which was bothering me – you will have gathered that it is better, and it is indeed perfectly well and strong, so that I never think of it or notice it; in fact I am pretty fit altogether; my ankle and its behaviour in new boots are the only anxiety; but I have a comfortable old pair for marching and shoes besides so I should be all right.
I feel this to be a very dull letter. I hope you got my communications from Port Said all right, particularly 2 boxes of Turkish Delight addressed to all three children. I want to know about that because I had to get them despatched from a shop. And did I ask you to send photos of yourself and them? I do like to have them.
Monday – The end of the voyage begins to loom near. Thoughts of the journey across India and various details obtrude themselves. I shall begin packing today, because I don’t see exactly how I am to dispose of the heavy suit in which I came on board – you’ll remember that I haven’t much room left in the suitcases.
I find myself wanting to see India again and looking forward to the journey in spite of heat and dust. How dirty we shall be by the time we reach Calcutta!
The Indian Ocean has been remarkably smooth and lifeless, and rather grey as it always is – until today when it is all alive with a delicious breeze, and blue like the Mediterranean. We’ve seen nothing of interest but a school of dolphins which performed with a truly amazing joie de vivre.
It is curious that now I am in warm sunshine I must think of you in a summer frock – March 17 – perhaps it is snowing in Cambridge. England does look a little grim from the tropics at this time of year. But you’ll have an English spring and sunshine. I wonder if you will go to see Mill give them my love if you do – I do like the way they have settled down – they’ve done it very nicely, and they are nice happy people.
How I wish I had you with me; with so much leisure we should have enjoyed this time together; and I would have been able to give you so much more than I can give you in our daily life at home. Supposing that you instead of Hazard had been sharing my cabin and I could have peeped over in the morning from my perch and seen you lying below and we would have gone up into the bows together in our silk dressing gowns to breathe the fresh morning air and sat together here where now I am alone – dear girl we give up and miss a terrible lot by trying to do what is right; but we must see we don’t miss too much.
I shall write again before we leave Darjeeling, one day early next week so as to catch the next mail after this one, which will go out on Friday the 21st.
Great love to you, dearest one, and many, many kisses for the children.
Ever you loving
George
P.S. I’m sending a few stamps I bought off a man in the street in Port Said. If you know any small boy of our acquaintance, Bobby, or John, or Franz, will you send them on to one of them. Aunt Jessie will probably have them and anyway is old enough to know better.
G.
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