1857: Bombay
Rose Fitzartur
The sun here has all the tact of a drunk debutante: it enters every room uninvited and talks far too loudly. By ten o’clock each morning, one feels half-extracted, as if nature herself were conducting a mining operation upon one’s nerves. Still, it does splendid things for jewellery. The rubies acquire a sort of interior scandal—one can almost hear them whispering about one another.
You asked in your last letter whether “the gentlemen of the East” are as romantic as travellers’ tales would have us believe. My answer, seasoned with experience, is yes, but only in proportion to their income. Every romance requires production values. The maharaja with a hydraulic fountain beneath his bed may afford the full illusion; the humbler merchant must make do with sentiment. In both cases I play the same role: high priestess of the temporary miracle.
I sometimes think my profession—were we to name it professionally—ought to come under the Ministry of Illusion, rather than the taxing authorities. It is, after all, a kind of diplomatic post. Men arrive to me exhausted by their dominions; they wish to be astonished without being contradicted. Magic is the word the poets use, but what I provide is a more artisanal affair. It is the continuous maintenance of wonder in a confined space—rather like keeping tropical fish alive on a voyage to Marseilles.
The opium importers call this arrangement “rejuvenation.” The older generals prefer “spiritual consolation.” A young sahib lately styled it “strategic repose.” My favourite among them, the industrialist from Liverpool, refers to it bluntly as “time out of time,” which I consider almost metaphysical. He wears a miracle serum on his temples—advertised in The Calcutta Spectator as containing powdered pearls and a dash of moral fortitude. The mixture makes him smell like a Catholic relic, but I never discourage faith if it pays its fees.
I am told that certain missionaries object to women like me on the ground that we mimic the sacred. They are quite right. Illusion is merely religion with better lighting. The temples here are full of men praying for wealth; the drawing-rooms are full of men praying for youth; the difference lies only in the draperies. In both establishments, someone like me interprets the mystery and collects the donations.
Do not imagine this cynically. I am very fond of these miracles while they last. One of my admirers—the Persian envoy with the unfortunate ears—believes me to possess actual powers. After an evening’s conversation, he presented me with an emerald said to turn pale in the presence of deceit. It has not dimmed once, though it turns a suspicious shade of spring green whenever he mentions his wife. Another gentleman (a terribly moral Scotsman) asked permission to send home a lock of my hair as proof that refinement exists “beyond Christendom.” I refused—there are limits to tourism.
The truth, my dear, is that illusion serves everyone involved. The gentlemen feel immortal; I feel necessary; Bombay is entertained. Even my maid benefits, as she sells my discarded cosmetic jars to a visiting count who believes my powders contain ground moonlight. (They are in fact nothing but rice flour and self-respect.) Miracle has become an export commodity.
Yesterday I attended a soiree at the palace to witness the unveiling of the Maharaja’s newest automaton: a peacock that unfolds mechanical feathers studded with sapphires and recites a verse from Hafiz whenever touched by sunlight. The guests applauded politely until it jammed mid‑stanza, whereupon a British colonel—one of those sleek men who perspire only in principle—leaned over and whispered, “See, even in Asia the miracles rust.” I told him that ours merely prefer lubrication. He blushed so heroically that the courtiers took it for reverence.
I sometimes think of England with a sort of affectionate disgust. There, a gentleman hides his appetite in sermons; here, he proclaims it in silk. The illusion is the same, merely rearranged. You will remember Cousin Alaric’s definition of decency: “That which may be discussed freely on horseback.” Out here, everything is discussed freely everywhere, which has its own peril; conversation so unrestrained can occasionally lead to understanding. That is the one hazard I fear—sincerity.
My rooms overlook the harbour, and each morning a new world arrives on the tide: spices, rumours, missionaries, clerks, jewels. There are so many miracles afloat that faith becomes merely a matter of catalogue. And yet, I cannot quite despise it. Even the most fraudulent emerald shines more pleasantly than the cold truth. Perhaps that is what civilisation means—to substitute polished surface for original stone.
I read last week a curious little tract by a Dr. Pellier, On the Therapeutic Value of Glamour. He maintains that illusion is “the highest oxygen of the heart,” without which the soul suffocates in scenery. I find it perfectly accurate. Were every man compelled to view himself unadorned, the Empire would collapse from embarrassment. The courtesan’s task—like the poet’s—is to apply a little metaphysical rouge.
Do send me news from Sussex. Does the Bishop still sermonise against “the Eastern corruption”? I am flattered to be his metaphor. Tell him that corruption here smells faintly of sandalwood and smokes discreetly in diamond holders. Tell him we call our sins “decorations,” and they are far more becoming than his virtues.
Yours, with all the practiced affection of the stage magician who knows exactly where the pigeon hides.
You are here: States of Grace > Philosophy