Dearest May—
I made it. You didn’t think I would, did you? It is a wondrous sight here. When I arrived, I called on my aunt Clara’s friend Mr. Rockhill at our embassy. He gave me lunch, put a horse at my disposal—a villainous little pony with a painfully punitive saddle—and told me the best things to see in town. Then he invited me to supper on Sunday. I’ve been taking photographs every which way and feel my eye improving daily. I found no word from you here and admit this makes me feel low. Please let me find a letter from you in Singapore. You know I most fervently wish you were here.
Ambrose
*
Singapore
Ethan—
I am stalled up in my room without any clothes, waiting for the washing. Dicky has decided to be unencumbered and has gone off into the city wearing a man’s kimono and Japanese trousers, the same things he’s been walking around in for the last week since we left Tokio. You should see how the locals react.
We hiked the side of a volcano the day before we sailed. Mount Asama, which is still active, sends out clouds of sulfurous smoke and ashes. For a moment, it seemed I was back home in the steel yards.
I am chomping at the bit to get to the shooting. I hear it’s good, though all assure me that the jungles are thorny and thick as well as swampy and unhealthy. Never fear, I have citronella to ward off the ticks and carbolic acid and gaiters for the leeches. Loulou made me pack it all, of course, along with the snake venom antidotes.
Do write me and tell me news of home.
Ambrose
*
Mandalay
Darling May—
My last night here before I head into the jungle, and still no word from you. The Van Alstynes are here and convinced me to go to the hotel ball. We left for the riverfront after only two songs and sat under the full moon and drank champagne and spun yarns. The Van Alstynes are most pleasant company, but through no fault of their own they make me feel wistful and melancholy and missing you. They’re very much in love, and sitting with them out under that pale moon and hearing her weave tales for him full of hidden meanings and places special to the two of them fills me with longing for you. She’s his Scheherazade. Sitting with their example, I started to think that maybe I was a fool for not having proposed to you, married you, and started out on this adventure with you at my side. Loulou said as much before I left—out of the mouths of babes. I fear I’ve made a mistake, darling. Could I come back to you now and take you off with me? Or perhaps you’ll finally agree to come and meet me. I have this dream that you might turn up somewhere along the way. I’ve been sticking very close to my itinerary. Perhaps you will materialize somewhere.
Ambrose
*
Rangoon
Dear Father—
I’m just back from shooting in the jungles, and I’m going to take up some matters from your letters that awaited me.
Firstly, as to my observance of Sundays—maybe I haven’t been as careful as I should have been. This is because I have not been able to arrange it without considerable machinations involving train schedules, boat leavings. I suppose I will have more options when I move on to Delhi.
Secondly, as to the matter of splitting with Dicky. There has never been the least bad feeling about it because we understood all along that it was something that would inevitably occur and would enhance our differing interests. I’ve found I like walking and riding in the mountains and jungles more than I like the cities. Though I’ve immersed myself in the culture and squeezed out every drop of experience, not to worry. Dicky, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, jumps right in the swim of things in any port where we call, but he lags and complains so much when we’re in the field that it dampens my enjoyment.
You needn’t worry about me. This trip has been everything I’ve ever wanted.
Your loving son,
Ambrose
*
Jeypore
Dear Darling May—
Despite your paltry letters, I’ll continue to write to you. Did your mother never tell you it’s rude to ignore a suitor? I am still a suitor, aren’t I? A suitor in absentia? I am counting on absentia to make the heart grow fonder. Perhaps when I return you will be very fond indeed.
While you have not come to find me, I have found Dicky in a Rajput city. Found is not the right word. He cabled me to come north to Jeypore, and so I have. You would laugh, as he is ensconced in a small palace fit for a prince, with walls inlaid with mirrors and a dancing girl who visits him at night. It’s true. Tell no one. He told me about her yesterday at tea and I had a glimpse of her as I was leaving at dusk—a true beauty. Dicky claims she speaks French—can you imagine? But I suppose you can, as that’s so typically Dicky. I suspect they have not one word in common, but maybe they don’t need words.
As I walked back to my hotel through the streets, all I could think was how I wish you were with me to see it. Grim fortresses crown the hills, and the deserted capital of Amber with its temples and courts and halls spun me back to a very different vision of the medieval period, filled with the glories of Akbar the Great and Shah Jahan. I was tempted to run back and get my camera kit, but the light faded.
I leave in three days to shoot in Cooch Behar with the maharaja’s son. The prince extended the invitation at Lord and Lady Minto’s, who live here near the palace. We struck up a friendship as we stood on the sidelines during the after-dinner dance. I’ve found I’ve completely lost interest in dancing anymore if it’s not with you. For something to say, I mentioned I found the shooting hard. He insisted I come with him to a distant relation’s palace in Cooch Behar, and I thought only a fool would refuse such an invitation. Dicky promises to come meet me in Delhi after I’m done, and we will carry on together from there. I half expect to find he’s deserted me and decided to stay with his maharani forever. I can’t say I blame him. If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this trip, it’s that only a fool turns his back on passion.
Please write to me. Yet again you have reduced me to begging. Do you ever think of me? Do you miss me? It’s the gem capital here and every bauble I see makes me think of you—your hands, your ears, your neck . . .
Ambrose
*
Cooch Behar
Ethan—