Ajanta

3 September 1909

Ajanta, India

Wilmot my dear

I am delighted to be able to write with the news that I have arrived at Ajanta. Tomorrow I

shall begin the task of copying the ancient cave paintings as we and the Society have planned.

But I get ahead of myself, first I must describe to you the landscape so that you can walk

along with me, even as you sit at home in front of the fire.

After weeks of bumping slowly along in a bullock cart, imagine my delight as we come to a

remote rocky valley, covered with trees and alive with the sound of birdsong and crickets.

The heat of the day shimmers in the air and families of monkeys call to each other from their

resting places in the cool shade of the trees. I glance up at the hillside to see what appears to

be a row of thatched cottages sucked into the rocks. Of course, they are no such thing, for as

you know, these caves were built over a thousand years ago by Buddhist monks, who knew

nothing of Tudor architecture, but what jewels they created within!

Frustratingly we have arrived at our location with only an hour or two left of daylight, so we

must make camp and delay our viewing of the caves until the morn. I doubt I shall sleep; my

fingers are itching to paint. I feel the shadowed entrances pulling me in and am reminded of

Romans Chapter 8, ‘for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who

are called according to his purpose.’

Please give my love to Nicholas and let Ernest know that I have arrived and that I shall write

to the Society directly when I have assessed the scale of the project.

Your loving wife

Christiana

8 October 1909

Ajanta, India

Dearest Wilmot

Every day that I spend in these caves, my respect for the original artists grows. Even with

my modern kerosene lamp, it can be difficult to see, and the detail of the paintings requires a

certain straining of the eyes. The monks would have been working by candlelight and

crafting their own materials from the natural world, whilst the modern artist can rely on

products of a more consistent quality. And that is without even talking about the difference in

our canvasses! The heat of the day is sapping and penetrates even into the caves, whose

musty atmosphere is enlivened by bats and the wild bees that seem fatally attracted to my

European skin.

And yet I do not want to make it sound like my work is a chore, for truly I feel blessed to be

here and undertaking this important enterprise. Many of the frescos have deteriorated to such

an extent that in a few years they may be illegible. This thought spurs me on, as does the

beauty, something so different to the European art one is used to and yet I feel of no less

value. So well-drawn are the faces of the people depicted that one feels these are the portraits

of real individuals. I lose myself for hours in the faces of the past, trying to truthfully record

their expressions and filling in the gaps created by time.

In places the colours are still vivid; topaz-dark, lizard-green and lotus-blue and they depict

such detail and realness that I almost feel I could step into the scene and become absorbed by

it. This is of great help when I am tasked to re-imagine the missing sections and although it

sounds as if I am rather full of myself, I draw on Michelangelo and envision how he must

have felt, painting his famous ceiling.

Since it is impossible to record the wall paintings in full as they appear in front of me, I have

taken the decision to create a book of portraits. This requires my interpretation as to where to

place the beginning and end of a scene and indeed which small details to leave out. I remind

myself, however, that as an artist, I bring part of myself to this project and am unable to

record such as a photographer would.

I trust the members of the India Society will approve of this method; indeed, I do not see any

other way to bring these treasures to the public’s attention.

Your loving wife

Christiana

22 March 1910

Ajanta, India

My dear Wilmot

Thank you for your letter, which I was very grateful to receive. I must admit I feel very far

away in this hidden valley across the other side of the world. Whilst I am sorry not to be able

to assist my fellow suffragettes at present, I comfort myself that as a lone woman leading this

important expedition I am setting a good example to those back in Albion.

My painting goes well, and I am anxious to complete things and be on my way home before

the Monsoon rains come in June. I feel that whilst I shall certainly have enough material for

the promised book by then, I will need to plan a return trip to finish recording more of these

important paintings. Indeed, one could spend years of one’s life here, and it frustrates me that

that is something which I cannot do. Hopefully though, the book will raise interest in this site

and ensure that it is preserved for future generations to visit. Who knows, one day it may be

as revered as Florence!

Could you please raise the subject of a further expedition with the Society? I feel sure that

when they see the exquisite nature of the art which I have done my best to replicate, that it

will speak for itself. It may be worth hiring an Indian guide for future trips. Many of the

stories depicted on the walls are unknown to me, and whilst I can often put things together

with the help of Sanjay, one of the camp men who speaks English, I am aware that there may

be nuances I am unaware of.

I have not been sleeping well these past few weeks. Whether it is my excitement at the

prospect of returning home, or a nervousness about the journey itself, my dreams have

become rather dark and troubling. Sometimes I see our dear Christopher, God rest his soul

but usually my dreams are filled with the monks. It is as if I myself have gone back in time

and am watching them paint from a secret vantage point, terrified that I will be discovered. I

always wake up at this point, my heart beating at a frightful rate. Perhaps it is just the

constant heat, I look forward to a good dose of cold weather.

Love to you and Nicholas.

Christiana

2 November 1915

Graylingwell Hospital

My dear Wilmot

I already feel like I have been here for months, even though it has only been a few weeks.

Have you had a letter from Nicholas? I hope you will be able to visit me soon as I long for

news. My days here are monotonous and uneventful, it is when I take to my bed to rest that

the dreams spring forth.

Last night the monks visited me again. I know that they are not real, that they are the product

of my imagination. When Dr Jenkins is telling me this in broad daylight, in the safety of his

consultation room, I believe him. Yet alone in my bedroom in the silence of the deep night,

the doubts creep in. Their bare feet slap gently on the tiled floor and their robes swish as they

walk. They do not say anything, but stare at me, their eyes accusing. In their hands, they

hold a copy of the book. What have I done? If only I can work that out, I feel I could get

better.

Please don’t write to Dr Jenkins, as I would dearly like to get out of here and come home, to

you. Perhaps these visions are a sign from God? But no, I cannot presume to such an honor.

I am anyhow sure this is only a temporary disturbance; indeed, I only see the monks

occasionally now, I am eating much better and my hair is starting to grow back.

Your wife

Christiana

1 April 1918

Graylingwell Hospital

Dear Wilmot

I hope you are well. I haven’t heard from you in a while, are you kept busy with work? What

news from the War and our darling boy? I hear nothing in here, it is felt to ‘excite’ us too

much, but please I beg you write or visit soon as sometimes I feel that I am floating away

with only you and Nicholas able to hold me fast.

I should never have set foot in those caves, I know that now. The monks that visit me each

night have stopped meeting my eye. They drop my book to the floor and walk over it before

proceeding to the walls and painting their intricate frescos all the while chanting in a

language I can’t understand. And that is the point, is it not? I had no right to try and

duplicate those paintings, because I did not have the religion or the cultural language to even

attempt such as task. What I produced was a blasphemous revision not a reflection of truth,

will I ever be forgiven?

Dr Jenkins no longer discusses the course of my treatment with me, does he inform you? I

have noticed an increasing number of pills handed out to me each morning. Often, I find it

quite hard to focus my mind, but what terrifies me the most is that I have now started seeing

the monks in daylight too. They came into the day room today and began painting on the

walls! I could not allow that, I tried to tell them to stop, that it was quite one thing to paint

on my walls, but that they should not disturb the other patients. However, Dr Jenkins led me

away, he said I was the creating the disorder! Me? What about the monks with their

incessant chanting!

Perhaps I should not come home after all, I have no doubt the monks would follow, and they

can be quite terrifying if one is not used to them.

Please visit soon.

Christiana

18 September 1928

Graylingwell Hospital

Wilmot

I feel very weak and exhausted, I cannot paint or eat or sleep. My guilt gnaws away at me

like a cancer, taking the flesh from my bones and eating away at my will.

I have been a good wife, have I not, and a good mother? At least when I was one. I have

always tried to live my life as God required, but perhaps my idea of what He expected has

been wrong from the beginning. I certainly would not have wished the last thirteen years on

anyone.

The Monks close around me now, sometimes I feel I cannot breathe for the pressing of their

robes. The smell of incense is a comfort, however, as is the knowledge that they have

accepted my apology. Did I tell you that? I have given myself to them and every day a little

piece more floats away. I have very little left now.

Thank you for agreeing to destroy the book.

Christiana

Extract from Lady Herringham’s Obituary in the Times 28 February 1929

The copying of the Ajanta frescos was a heroic and extremely exacting task. But the result

was the very notable series of full-scale copies which were publicly seen first at the Festival

of Empire Exhibition at Crystal Palace in 1912. Her contribution to the knowledge of

Oriental Art is acknowledged to be her great achievement. Tragically neither of her two sons

survived her. Christopher died of a childhood illness and Nicholas early in World War 1.

Lady Herringham is survived by her husband Sir Wilmot Herringham.