Robert Lutyens in his mid-30s, around the time he travelled to India. Courtesy of Candia Lutyens
A Sample of Letters by Edwin Lutyens’s Son, Robert, to his Wife, Eva
Describing his Epic Journey by Air from Britain to India
Edwin’s vivid account of his first flight and witty quips shared with Emily were paralleled by Robert’s detailed letters to Eva – the latter are a selection of these in abridged form. It seemed a perfect opportunity to publish them in tandem. A portrait of Eva is featured in the article on Glyn Philpot, page 13.
Aboard Imperial Airways’ aeroplane IA Centurion
October 28, 1937. 10.30am
Three hours out. Sun and sea; sun and cloud; cloud over France, and climbing. Unbelievably comfortable, secure, serene.
It seemed so funny, the arrival at Southampton. So much preparation, such anxiety to get through the work, hesitation, departure. Then two hours in the train with a real railway dinner. Southampton station, and over the way the foyer of a very English hotel, complete with orchestra.
Slept soundly, the tea causing no interruptions. Breakfast at 7.15am.
A fresh, gusty morning. We were delayed half an hour by an adverse wind, which made it impossible to bring the launch up to the flying boat, which looked superb riding at anchor. The launch, doing about 10 knots, gave the only impression of speed we are likely to have.
So here I am in the after-cabin, where you can smoke. It got cold as we climbed; but now we are through the cloud and lower, although it is getting bumpy to write… It seems we have got an 80mph gale against us, which has meant turning off the course. We are likely to be late all round.
12.30
Quieter and sunny. The fine ribbons of moisture crossing the window pane are unbelievably lovely. I don’t know where we are. There are mountains ahead. I believe we have got to come down somewhere to refuel. It seems rash crossing France without wheels!
All the passengers are gradually turning out to be human beings with separate identities. Everything is gaining in reality, except the purpose of this voyage. That isn’t real at all: merely aimless and highly enjoyable.
River in sight: and I’m going deaf, so we must be coming down…
It’s Chalon-sur-Saône, would you believe it! And we are not yet down. Round and round the town we go, trying to find a stretch of river that fits the wind. Much too exciting! Nearer, nearer – almost touching the bridge – smack! We are on the Saône – whew!
…I can’t keep this newsreel up. I can’t concentrate enough to write when all this is going on.
Marseille. 6pm
We couldn’t make Rome, and are therefore here for the night. We left Chalon at about 2 after a pleasant trip with the captain up the river in a launch for a bit of air, while the ship was refuelling. A mild autumn day, breeze and sun.
Then up again, and a goodish lunch on board. Along the Rhône valley and slap into a head-wind storm. The captain gave up any hope of getting to Rome, as the night landing on the lake is dangerous. So will only stop there for fuel and then make for Athens, where I gather we will sleep tomorrow night.
We got to Marseille at 4pm and were hanging about at the customs for 70 minutes. That’s the bore of air travel – an hour from the sea where we landed to the city, and up something before 5am tomorrow morning in order to get in air by 6am. I could almost have made this part of the trip as soon by train! But in the air is lovely.
We are at the Hôtel de Noailles. Now I must wire to you and post this now so that you get something soon.
Robert
Marseille. The same evening
I am afraid that if I do not write at every odd moment I shall never catch up. At 7pm I set out for a walk. How extraordinarily vital the French are. I can’t judge what the town looks like; but it’s thronged and animated.
I still cannot think of myself as going to India – not by air. Because the picture I have always had of India comes at the end of a sea journey. I imagine the sea journey as something between a Tissot painting and Edward Elgar’s “Enigma Variations”: I see an outbound steamer rolling to a gentle swell. A lady with veil and bonnet and a waistband is sitting in the leeside sun, her eyes following the wake of the ship, spreading out beyond the white awning of the afterdeck – thinking of the parsonage gardens of Victorian England. After that, India means for me Kipling, and I have never understood its point or purpose or destiny. But I am going there; and now I must go to bed, as we are called tomorrow at 3.45am.
29 October. In the air, making for Naples
We left Marseille punctually at 6am in a grey dawn. The wind had moderated but was still against us. By 7am the sun was out although it was rough in patches. We ran between Corsica and Elba while we ate a scrumptious breakfast; then with cloud. It was raining over Rome, but I could make out the dome of St Peter’s Basilica – no bigger than a large knot on a patchwork quilt. Then a sharp descent on to a lake. We went ashore for a breather.
Owing to weather we are making for Naples. Very grey. We are up and down all the time – rising above cloud or dropping under it. The bumps, quite pleasant in themselves, make it difficult to write and impossible to play patience. But I hope you will be able to read.
Brindisi. 6pm (5pm GMT)
We never touched Naples after all, but went down the coast and crossed the narrow neck of Cetraro and over the Gulf of Taranto. Sitting down now I am only just beginning to feel the movement of the plane. The paper is going up and down and I am feeling a bit sick. But it will pass. I will go early to bed as we have to be up at 4am tomorrow. I hope we will make Alexandria in the day.
I won’t write anymore now and ask of you to forgive these scrappy letters. To relieve the monotony of descriptions of altitudes and so on, I will try tomorrow to tell you more about the passengers, although they are not very interesting. From overheard scraps of conversation across the foyer of the hotel I gather that the blonde – going to Delhi – is German, which is rather odd. She has clicked with the sick airman whose seat is next to mine. And so Good Night.
Robert
30 October. In the air, approaching Athens, 7.30am
An easy start, light wind and sun. My first sight of the Isles of Greece. We crossed the Strait of Otranto and then dropped to 500ft over Corfu to report passage. Across the mainland of Greece, over Corinth and now the Gulf of Aegina.
I don’t know why it should be so moving, this flight over an ancient land. A rugged coast, without much colour: sage and saffron and ochre, bounded by an azure sea.
1.30pm (11.30pm GMT)
We left Athens at 10.10 – or 11.10 as clocks went on an hour. We landed for half an hour, in heavenly sun since when it has been sunny all the way. We are flying at 9,000ft and should reach Alexandria in about 40 minutes.
It was marvellous passing over Crete. A red-brown barren island, so it seemed. We have just lunched.
There are great cloud banks ahead.
This airship is amazingly comfortable. There are three saloon cabins, stepped one behind the other towards the tail. The lavatories and kitchen are amidships. The cockpit is reached from an upper deck where the mail is stowed. The individual seats are adjustable, and can be put out pretty well at full length. Each seat has its table, rug, light and air-inlet.
The captain is nice, typical, I should think under 40, ex-Air Force. A lot of them have a special look, as it were, of rather gallant, dissipated schoolboys.
Alexandria. 4.15pm
Just settled in at the Hotel Cecil. I must see the sights as we are off tomorrow at 4am in one of the old “Hannibal” class landplanes (I can’t think why Imperial Airways insist on these early starts, and then land up for the night early in the afternoon). Howbeit, I affirm with the most positive conviction that I prefer to get up at 4 o’clock than go to bed at that hour. And so until tomorrow.
Robert
Aboard the plane Helene. 31 October, 1937
Just after Gaza. 9.45am
It will be hard to write in this old plane – so much vibration. Just had breakfast at Gaza. Fishcakes; eggs and bacon; Turkish coffee with Nestles! I have seen my first camel – ploughing: for that matter my first camel outside the zoo!
There it is! 7,000ft below. Jerusalem, the Dead Sea – there are the potash works! Jordan, Jericho – through openings in the clouds. How odd it seems! The whole country is the colour of pink alabaster… Our nice little pilot, the flying boat captain, broke his wrist falling through a hatchway over Corfu. A relief pilot had to take over.
Baghdad. 6pm
We are in the Tigris Palace Hotel – the second and worst of the two, the Maud Hotel being full. It is perfectly dreadful.
We were flying all day over the Arabian Desert, coming down for lunch at a filthy desert station. Flying mile after mile over uninterrupted wastes, the desert looked like the world’s scorched skin. Baghdad is exactly as I imagined it, and I am positive India will be too. But at any rate there one can enjoy a privileged comfort – that is I can…
Robert
1 November. After breakfast at Basra. 9.55am
Crossing the Persian Gulf. Very hot. At 12.30 we are creeping down its west coast. It is very hot indeed: our height not more than 1,000ft. The plane’s officers and knowledgeable passengers have changed into shorts and topees [hats]. I am positive the information given me about clothes will be wrong.
We came down for lunch at Koweït – a fortified desert station, like a cinema set! I suppose photography generally has destroyed any element of surprise in seeing these places for the first time: nobody in their senses would want to see ’em a second!
We stop for lunch at Bahrein, the big Standard Oil Co’s centre. Our oil men got off there.
Later. 3.30
We have just left Bahrein, and have a long sea hop against a head wind to Sharjah. We won’t get in till late as these planes are so slow – and bumpy. It is very hot. India, I imagine, will be a good deal cooler. Flying over the sea at a few hundred feet I have seen my first shark!
Sharjah, 10 pm.
Tomorrow we make the earliest start yet at 3.20am. But we lunch in British India, at Gwadar, are at Karachi by teatime, and, with luck, I will sleep tomorrow night in Jodhpur. All this afternoon we flew across the southern bay of the Gulf. This is a desert station on the eastern part of the bay. We are in huts – incomparably more comfortable than those in Baghdad.
Robert
Karachi. 2 November, 1937
On board Atalanta. Last lap!
We ought to do the 300 miles by 7pm. Jodhpur. The distance must have been greater than I supposed as we didn’t get in until 8.30pm.
I am at the State Hotel. I was met by somebody who arranges for me to go to Jaipur by car tomorrow. This place is comparatively luxurious.
I will write tomorrow night from Jaipur but it may be difficult to post regularly.
I feel as if I were in a sort of nightmare without any hope of waking up. I have never felt so lonely since my first night as a soldier – years ago.
Robert
Guest House, Jaipur. 3 November, 1937
Now that I have seen India, can’t I come home again? This northern part of the country – mostly scrub desert, particularly in Jodhpur, the roads lined with tamarisk and pampas and banian trees, and others that look like laburnum, until you discover they are dripping in golden beans. The villages are more pictorially beautiful and alien than anything I had ever imagined. The country people – I have been motoring for 200 miles – are of extraordinary personal beauty.
In Europe we have dominated nature, unless her vengeance is still to come. Here nature is completely dominant and ruthless. The beauty, charm, chatter, friendliness of the people are so many symbols of capitulation. In its human element it is wholly inconsequent – trivial, lovely, resigned, and cruel in an impersonal way.
Robert