Calcutta, April 1 (Monday).

... The flesh-pots of Calcutta are wonderfully pleasant after jungly fare, and there is something rather nice about a big airy bedroom with a bathroom to correspond, hot water at will, and an ayah to look after one’s clothes, after the cramped space of a tent, a zinc bath wiggling on an uneven floor, and Autolycus fumbling vaguely among one’s belongings. I am staying with G. in her sister’s, Mrs. Townley’s, very charming house. Boggley had to go off at once on another short tour, and I was only too pleased to come to this most comfortable habitation. It is nice to be with G. again, and she has lots to tell me about her doings dances, garden-parties, picnics all of which she has enjoyed thoroughly. All the same, I would rather have had my jungle experiences. She and her sister and brother-in-law laugh greatly at my tales. They regard me as an immense joke, I don’t know why. I think myself I am rather a sensible, serious sort of person.

Mrs. Townley is the kindest woman. She has such a delightful way of making you feel that you are doing her the greatest favour by accepting her hospitality. I am not the only guest. A member of a nursing sisterhood Sister Anna Margaret is resting here for a few days. She wears clothes quite like a nun, but she is the cheeriest soul, with such contented eyes. She might be a girl, from the interest she takes in our doings and the way she laughs at our well-meant but not very witty fun.

Calcutta is very hot. The punkahs go all day not the flapping kind of Mofussil punkahs, but things like bits of windmills fastened to poles. I never like to sit or sleep exactly underneath one, they look so insecure; besides, they make one so untidy. At a dinner-party it is really dreadful to have the things flap-flapping above one’s carefully done hair. My hair needs no encouragement to get untidy, and I have quite an Ophelia-like air before we get to the fish. It is too hot to go out much except very early in the morning and again after tea. We read and write and work till luncheon, then go to bed and try to sleep till tea-time. We waken hot and very cross, and it is the horridest thing to get up and get into a dress that seems to fasten with millions of hooks and buttons. My old Bella is back with me, but she has found a mistress whose temper has shortened as the temperature has risen. Yesterday she fumbled so fastening my dress that I jumped round on her, stamped my foot, and said, “Bella, I shall slap you in a minute,” She replied in such a reproving tone, “Oh! Missee Baba.” Tea makes one feel better, and then there is tennis and a drive in the cool of the evening.

Mosquitoes are a great trial. They don’t worry so much through the day, but at night at night, when one with infinite care has examined the inside of the mosquito-curtains to make sure none are lurking, and then, satisfied, has dived into bed and tucked the curtain carefully round, and is just going off to sleep buzz-z-z sounds the hateful thing, and all hope of a quiet night is gone. The other night I woke and found G. springing all over her bed like a kangaroo. At first I thought she had gone mad, dog-like, with the heat, but it turned out she was only stalking a mosquito.

Yesterday we all went Mrs. Townley, Sister Anna Margaret, G., and I to the Calcutta Zoo. We fed the monkeys with buns, watched the loathly little snakes crawl among the grass in their cages, and then G. began gratuitously to insult a large fierce tiger by poking at it with her sunshade.

It wasn’t a kind thing to do, for it is surely bad enough to be caged without having a sunshade poked at one, and evidently the tiger thought so, for it lashed its tail and its roars shook the cage. We went home, and retribution followed swift and sure.

The first floor of the house consists of the drawing-room and two enormous bedrooms, one opening into the other, and both opening by several windows on to the verandah. Sister Anna Margaret is in one, G. and I in the other. We have two beds, but they are drawn close together and covered by a mosquito-curtain. Last night we went to bed in our usual gay spirits and fell asleep. It seemed to me that we were in the Zoo again and the tiger was fiercer than ever. It hit the bars with its great paw, and to my horror I saw that the bars were giving. I ran, but it was too late. The beast was out of the cage and coming after me with great bounds. My legs went round in circles and made no progress, as legs do in dreams; the tiger sprang and I woke. At first I lay quiet, too thankful to find myself in bed to think about anything else; then I sniffed.

“Olivia?” said G. “Do you notice it?”

“What?” I asked.

“That awful smell of Zoo.”

Of course that was it. I had been wondering what was the curious smell. My first thought an awful one was that the tiger had actually broken loose, tracked us home, and was now under the bed waiting to devour us. There was nothing to hinder it but a mosquito-curtain! How I accomplished it, paralysed as I was with terror, I know not, but I took a flying leap and landed on G., hitting her nose with my head and clutching wildly at her brawny arms, much developed with tennis, as my only refuge.

She was too terrified to resent my intrusion.

“What do you think it is?” she whispered. “Hu-s-h, speak low. Perhaps it doesn’t know there’s anyone in the room.”

“It’s the tiger from the Zoo,” I hissed with conviction.

G. started visibly. “Rubbish,” she said. “A tiger wouldn’t get into a house. Ah oh, listen!”

Distinctly we heard the fud of four feet going round the bed.

“Cry for help,” said G.

“Sister!” we yelled together.

“Sister Anna!”

“Sister Anna Margaret!”

No answer. Sister Anna Margaret slept well.

“Sister!” said G, bitterly. “She’s no sister in adversity.”

“Get up, G.,” I said encouragingly. “Get up and turn on the light. Perhaps it isn’t a tiger, perhaps it’s only a musk rat.”

G. refused with some curtness. “Get up yourself,” she added.

Again we shouted for Sister, with no result.

You have no idea how horrible it was to lie there in the darkness and listen to movements made by we knew not what. We felt bitterly towards Sister Anna, never thinking of what her feelings would be if she came confidingly to our help and was confronted by some fearsome animal.

“If only,” said G., “we knew what time it was and when it will be light. I can’t live like this long. Let go my arm, can’t you?”

“I daren’t,” I said. “You’re all I’ve got to hold on to.”

We lay and listened, and we lay and listened, but the padding footsteps didn’t come back; and then I suppose we must have fallen asleep, for the next thing we knew was that the ayahs were standing beside us with tea, and the miserable night was past.

G. and I looked at each other rather shamefacedly.

“Did we dream it?” I asked,

G. was rubbing her arm where I had gripped it.

“I didn’t dream this, anyway,” she said; “it’s black and blue.”

At breakfast we knew the bitterness of having our word doubted; no one believed our report. They laughed at us and said we had dreamt it, or that we had heard a mouse, and became so offensive in their unbelief that G. and I rose from the table in a dignified way, and went out to walk in the compound.

We are very busy collecting things to take home with us. (Did I tell you G.’s berth had been booked in the ship I sail in the Socotra it sails about the 23rd?) The chicon-wallah came this morning and spread his wares on the verandah floor white rugs from Kashmir, embroidered gaily in red and green and blue; tinsel mats and table centres; pieces of soft bright silk; dainty white sewed work. We could hardly be dragged from the absorbing sight to the luncheon-table.

The Townleys never change their servants, and now three generations serve together. The old kitmutgar is the grandfather and trains his grandsons in the way which they should go. To-day at luncheon (fortunately we were alone), one of them made a mistake in handing a dish, whereupon his grandfather gave him a resounding box on the ears, knocking off his turban. Instead of going out of the room, the boy went on handing me pudding, sobbing loudly the while, and with tears running down his face. It was very embarrassing, and none of us had enough Hindustani to rebuke the too-stern grandparent.

Later.

This afternoon, when we were having tea in the garden and enjoying Peliti’s chocolate-cake, a great outcry arose from the house, and we saw the servants running and looking up to the verandah. Mr. Townley called out to know what was the matter, and received such a confused jumble of Hindustani in reply that he went to investigate. He came back shrugging his shoulders. “It’s some nonsense about a ‘spirit,’ They say it’s been appearing suddenly, then disappearing for some time. Now the chokra swears he saw it go up the verandah into a bedroom. To satisfy them, I have sent for my gun, and I’ll wait below while they drive the ‘spirit’ down.”

“It’s our midnight visitor,” G. and I cried together.

We waited, breathless. The servants rushed on to the verandah with sticks a dark streak slid down the verandah pillar Mr. Townley fired. It wasn’t a tiger, it was a civet cat a thing rather like a fox, with a long pointed nose and an uncommonly nasty smell.

“Think,” said G., as we looked at it lying stretched out stiff, “think of having that thing under our bed! A mouse indeed!”

We didn’t say “I told you so,” but we looked it.

Boggley comes back to-morrow, and I am going with him to the Grand
Hotel, so that we shall be together for the last little while.

Agra, April 11.

... from a chapter in the Arabian Nights; from the middle of the most gorgeous fairy-tale the mind of man could invent, I write to you to-night.

Often I have heard of the Taj Mahal, read of its beauty, dreamed of its magic, but never in my dreams did I imagine anything so exquisite, so perfect.

Boggley thought I should not leave India without seeing this “miracle of miracles the final wonder of the world,” so we left Calcutta on Monday night by the Punjab mail and came to Agra, and we have done it all in proper order. Yesterday, in the morning, we motored to the deserted city, the capital of Akbar, the greatest of the Mogul emperors, about twenty miles off. It has battlemented walls and great gates like a fairy-tale city. The bazaar part of it is mostly in ruins, but the royal part is perfectly preserved and could be lived in comfortably now. There is Akbar’s Council Chamber, the houses of his wives, the courtyard where they played living chess, the stables, waterworks, the palaces of his chief ministers, the mosque and cloisters, the Gate of Victory. The carving in marble and red sandstone is wonderful. Akbar must have been a broad-minded man, for we found paintings of the Annunciation side by side with pictures of the Hindu god Ganesh. It is intensely interesting to see the place just as it was hundreds of years ago. In the great Mosque Quadrangle there is a marble mausoleum, delicately carved, a priceless piece of work in mother-of-pearl, erected to Akbar’s high priest; and our guide was his lineal descendant, glad to get five rupees for his trouble!

We lunched in the Government bungalow, a comfortable place, not glaringly out of keeping with the surroundings, and then motored to Akbar’s tomb another piece of colossal magnificence. I was awed by it. Out of the glaring sunshine we went down a long dark passage to a great vault, where the air was cold with the coldness of death. It was completely dark except for one ray of light falling on the plain marble tomb. An old Mohammedan crooned eerily, impressively, a lament which echoed round and round the vault. The Mohammedans and the Scots have a similar passion for deaths and funerals!

Lastly, in its fitting order, we drove to the Taj Mahal.

You know the story? I have just been reading about it in Steevens’s book. You know how Shah Jehan, grandson of Akbar, first Mogul Emperor of Hindustan, loved and married the beautiful Persian Arjmand Banu, called Mumtaz-i-Mahal, and when she died he, in his grief, swore that she should have the loveliest tomb the world ever beheld, and for seventeen years he built the Taj Mahal? You know how after thirty years his son rose up and dethroned him, and kept him a close prisoner for seven years in the Gem Mosque, where his daughter Jehanara attended him and would not leave him. When grown very feeble, he begged to be laid where he could see the Taj Mahal; and, the request being granted, you know how he died with his face towards the tomb of the beautiful Persian, “whose palankeen followed all his campaigns in the days when Empire was still a-winning, whose children called him father Arjmand Banu, silent and unseen now for four-and-thirty years, the wife of his youth.”

Such a passionate old story! Such a marvellous love-memorial! Shah Jehan Mumtaz-i-Mahal Grape Garden Golden Pavilion Jasmine Tower. As G.W. Steevens says, there is dizzy-magic in the very names. I am no more capable of describing it than I would have been capable of building it; you must see it for yourself. It alone is worth coming to India to see.

Leaving the Taj Mahal dazed and dizzy with beauty, I was hailed by a voice that sounded familiar, and turning round I saw an incongruous figure in that Arabian Nights garden our old friend of the Scotia, the Rocking Horse Fly. She had another female with her, and Mr. Brand, the funny man who asked conundrums. I’m afraid my eyes had asked what he was doing in this galley, for he hastily said that he had only arrived in Agra that morning, and found our Scotia acquaintance at the hotel. I introduced Boggley, and we stood uncomfortably about, while the Rocking Horse Fly waxed sentimental over our meeting.

“Isn’t it odd,” she said, “that we should all meet and just part again?”

I thought it would have been much odder (and how infinitely horrible!) if we had all met and never parted. As it happened, we weren’t allowed to part with her as soon as we could have wished. She discovered we were staying at the same hotel, so we had to dine together, and she talked the Taj all through dinner, spattering it with adjectives, while Boggley grunted at intervals. It was refreshing to see Mr. Brand again. He seems to be enjoying India vastly, and had three quite new stories, though if he didn’t laugh so much telling them it would be easier to see the point. Boggley and he loved each other at once. After dinner, when the men were smoking, the Rocking Horse Fly began to get arch don’t you hate people when they are arch? and said surely I was never going home without capturing some heart. I replied stoutly and truthfully that I was.

“Naughty girl!” said the R.H.F. “You haven’t made the most of your opportunities. Don’t you know what they call girls who come out for the cold weather?”

I said I didn’t.

“They are called ‘The Fishing Fleet,’” she said sweetly.

I said “Oh,” because I didn’t know what else to say, feeling as I did so remiss.

I have heard Mr. Townley told me that long ago when a ship from England arrived in the Hoogly a cannon was fired, and all the gay bachelors left their offices and went to the docks to appraise the new arrivals. A ball was given on board on the night of arrival, and many of the girls were engaged before they left the ship. I don’t object to that. It was a fine, sincere way of doing things; but why the subject of marriage should be made an occasion for archness, for sly looks, for in extreme cases nudgings, passes my comprehension.

The R.H.F. has a way of making common any subject she touches even the Taj and marriage so I thought I would go to bed. As I said goodnight I regarded attentively the friend, wondering much how anyone could, of choice, accompany the R.H.F. in her journeyings. She is a very silent person, large and fat and about forty, and her eyes are small out of all proportion to her face, but they twinkled at me in such an understanding way that I, generally so chary of offering embraces, went up to kiss her. She is kind, but so large that being kissed by her is almost as destroying as being in a railway accident!

Do I ignore what you say in your letter? You see, it is rather difficult. Writing to a friend in a far country is like shouting through a speaking-tube to the moon, and one can’t shout very intimate things, can one?

Let us be sensible. Don’t be angry, but are you quite sure you really care, and is it wise to care? We are so very different. You are so very English, and I, in spite of a pink and fluffy exterior, am at heart as bitter and dour and prejudiced as any Covenanter that ever whined a psalm. My mind could never have anything but a Scots accent. You are reserved, and rather cold; I am expansive to a fault. You are terrifyingly clever; my intelligence is of the feeblest. You have a refined sense of humour; the poorest, most obvious joke is good enough for me. But this is only talk. I don’t know that I am “in love,” I don’t like the expression anyway, but this I know, that if you were not in the world it would be an unpeopled waste to me. The place you happen to be in is where all interest centres. Every minute of the time as I go through my days, laughing, talking, enjoying myself vastly, away at the back of my mind the thought of you lies “hidden yet bright,” making for me a new heaven and a new earth. Is this caring? Is this what you want to hear me say? I can’t write what I would like, I can’t weave pretty things, I can only speak straight on, but oh, my dear, I am so glad that in this big, confusing world we have found each other. Poor Rocking Horse Fly! poor fat friend! how dull for them, how dull for all the rest of the people in the world not to have a you!

I am not going to write any more, not because I haven’t lots to say, but because writing much or talking much about a thing being queer and Scots, it is hard for me to say love seems somehow to cheapen it, profane it.

I have opened this just to say again, My dear, my dear!

Calcutta, April 21.

... only three more days in India, and I don’t know whether I am horribly sorry to go or profoundly relieved to get away. There is no doubt it is a sudden and dangerous country. Three people we knew have died suddenly of cholera, and two others have had bombs thrown at them. I shall be thankful to find myself safely on board the steamer, but even if I escape I am leaving Boggley in the midst of these perils. Not that he lets the thought of them vex his soul. You learn, he says, to look upon death in a different way in India, but I am sure I never could learn to regard with equanimity the thought of being quite well one day and being hurried away to the Circular Road Cemetery early the next. It is sad to die in a foreign land, and it is somehow specially sad, at least I think so, for a home-loving Scot to lie away from home.

“Tell me not the good and wise
Care not where their dust reposes.
That to him who sleeping lies
Desert rocks shall seem as roses.
I’ve been happy above ground,
I could ne’er be happy under,
Out of Teviot’s gentle sound.
Part us, then, not far asunder.”

Yesterday I saw a pathetic sight. A couple in a tikka-gharry; the man a soldier, a Gordon Highlander, and on the front seat a tiny coffin. The man’s arm was round the woman’s shoulder, and she was crying bitterly. A bit of shabby crape was tied round her hat, and she carried a sad little wreath.

Since coming back from Agra we have stayed at the Grand Hotel. It is a comfortable, airy place, wonderfully pleasant in the morning when we sit at a little table in the verandah looking out on the Maidan, and flat-faced hill-waiters bring us an excellent breakfast. Our own servants are with us Autolycus and Bella. When we arrived very early in the morning and the coolies were carrying up our luggage, a servant sleeping outside his master’s door held up his hand for quietness, saying something quite gently about not waking his master, “Beat him,” said Autolycus to the coolies quite without heat, as he hurried on.

The air gets hotter, and everything looks more and more tired every day. Even proud-pied April dressed in all its trim can’t put a spirit of youth into anything.

But these last days in Calcutta, in spite of fears and heat, are very pleasant. I don’t know how I could have said the Calcutta women were horrid! Now that I am going to leave them they seem so kind and attractive. Every minute of my time is filled up with river-picnics, garden-parties, tennis tournaments, dinners and theatre parties; and my mornings are spent with G. raking in queer shops for curiosities. I am insatiable for things to take home, and Autolycus has packed and roped three large wooden boxes containing my treasures.

I wish life weren’t such a mixed thing. Just when I am tiptoeing on the heights of joy because I am going home, I am brought to common earth with a thud by the miserable thought that I must leave Boggley. (How pleasant it would be to have a sort of spiritual whipping-boy to bear the nasty things in life for one the disappointments, the worries, the times of illness and sorrow, the partings.) Boggley says it will be all right once I am away. As a rule he only feels pleasantly home-sick. Now, with the preparations for departure constantly before him, helping to address boxes to the familiar old places, going with me in imagination from port to port till we reach cool Western lands, I’m afraid he has many a pang.

I am so sorry you are so worried. You will almost have got my letter by this time, but I wish I had cabled as you asked, only, somehow, I didn’t like the idea. I thought you knew I cared; but, after all, how could you? I didn’t know myself when I left England. Looking back I seem always to have cared immensely. How could I help it? What I can’t understand is how every woman of your acquaintance doesn’t care as I do; you seem to me so lovable. I am so glad (though it seems an odd thing to be glad about!) that you have no mother and no sister. I don’t feel such a marauder as I would have done if, by taking you, I had robbed some other woman. And I am glad of your lonely life. I shall be able to show you what a nice thing a home is. A quiet, safe place we shall make it, where worldly cares may not enter. Boggley says I can make an hotel room look home-like, and, indeed, it is almost my only accomplishment, this talent for home-making. There is one thing I want to say to you. You know what Robert Louis says about married men? that there is no wandering in pleasant bypaths for them, that the road lies long and straight and dusty to the grave. It dulls me to think of it. Don’t feel that. Don’t let it be true. We mustn’t let our lives get dusty and straight and narrow. We shall love whimsies and we shall laugh. So long as laughter isn’t heartless and doesn’t hurt anyone it is good to laugh. Life will see to it that there are tears at least I’m told so. But suppose in years to come, after we have grown used to each other (though it does amaze me that people should talk about things losing their charm because one gets used to them. Does a child tire of its mother because it is used to her? Is Spring any the less wonderful because we are used to her coming? God grant we have many years to get used to each other!) suppose one fine morning you find that life has lost its savour, you are tired of the accustomed round, you are tired of the house, you are tired of the look of the furniture, you want to get away for a time in a word, to be free. Well, remember, you are not to feel that the road isn’t clear before you. I promise you not to feel aggrieved. I shan’t wonder how my infinite variety could have palled. I know that all men men who are men at times hear the Red Gods call them (women hear them too, you know, only they have more self-control; they find their peace in fearful innocence and household laws), and I shall be waiting on the doorstep when you return from climbing Kangchenjunga, or exploring the Bramahputra Gorges, ready to say, “Come away in, for I’m sure you must be tired.”

Arthur, dear, am I a disappointing person, do you find? Ought I to be able to write you different sorts of letters, tenderer, more loving letters? But, you see, it wouldn’t be me if I could. My heart may be, indeed, I think it is, full of the warmest instincts, but they have been unwinged from birth so they can’t fly to you. One of the most talkative people living, in some ways I am strangely speechless. Why! I haven’t even told Boggley, though if he had eyes to see instead of being the blindest of dear old bats, my shining face would betray me. I keep on smiling in a perfectly imbecile manner, so that people exclaim, “Well, you are indecently glad to get away,” and when they ask Why? I point them to the scene in the Old Testament where Hadad said unto Pharaoh, “Let me depart, that I may go to mine own country.” Then Pharaoh said unto him, “But what hast thou lacked with me, that, behold, thou seekest to go to thine own country?” And he answered, “Nothing: howbeit let me go in any wise.” So it is with me. India has given me the best of good times. I have lacked for nothing “howbeit let me go in any wise.” You needn’t think I am changed. I’m not. I’m afraid I’m not. One would think that a new environment would make a difference, but it really does not. A person with a suburban mind would be as suburban in the wilds of Népal as in the wilds of Tooting. The illuminating thought has come to me that it isn’t a man’s environment that matters, it’s his mind. Haven’t you often noticed in an evening in London all the City men hurrying home like rabbits to their burrows (not the prosperous City men, but the lesser ones, whose frock-coats are rather shiny and their silk hats rather dull), and haven’t you often thought how narrow their lives are, how cramping their environment? But suppose one of those clerks loves books and is something of a poet. What does it matter to him though his rooms in Clapham or Brixton are grimy, almost squalid, and filled with the worst kind of Victorian furniture? “Minds innocent and quiet take such for an hermitage.” Once inside, the long day at the office over, and the door shut on the world, an arm-chair drawn up to the fire and his books around him he is as happy as a king, for his mind to him is a Kingdom. He may be a puny little man, in bodily presence contemptible, but he will feel no physical disabilities as he clambers on the wall of Jerusalem with Count Raymond, or thrills as he sets forth with Drake to fight Spaniards one against ten. Instead of the raucous cries of the milk or the coal man, he hears the horns of Elfland faintly blowing, and instead of a window which can show him nothing but a sodden plot planted with wearied-looking shrubs, he has the key of that magic casement which opens on perilous seas in fairylands forlorn. He will never do anything great in the world, he will never lead a forlorn hope, or marry the Princess, or see far lands; he will never be anything but a poor, shabby clerk, but he is of such stuff as dreams are made of, and God has given to him His fairyland.

No, I don’t think a new environment changes people, and it is foolish to think it makes them forget. Sometimes in the Eden Gardens at sunset, when we draw up to listen to the band, I watch the faces of the youths Scots boys come out from Glasgow and Dundee dreaming there in the Indian twilight while the pipers play the tunes familiar to them since childhood. They are sahibs out here, they have a horse to ride and a servant to look after them, things they never would have had had they stayed in Dundee or Glasgow, but though they are proud they are lonely. What does grandeur matter if “the Quothquan folk” can’t see it? The peepul trees rustle softly overhead, the languorous soft air laps them round, the scent of the East is in their nostrils, but their eyes are with their hearts, and is this what they see? A night of drizzling rain, a street of tall, dingy, grey houses, and a boy, his day’s work done, bounding upstairs three steps at a time to a cosy kitchen where the tea is spread, where work-roughened hands at his coming lift the brown teapot from the hob, and a kind mother’s voice welcomes him home at the end of the day....

Autolycus has knocked at the door to say “Master’s come” (he likes to be very European with me so doesn’t call him Sahib), and I must go to tea. To-morrow Boggley is taking the whole day off and we have got it all planned out, every minute of it. In the morning we shall drive in a tikka-gharry to the Stores to buy some final necessaries (such as soap and tooth-powder), then to Peliti’s to eat ices, then to the shop in Park Street so that Boggley may get me a delayed birthday present, then round and round the Maidan. Then we shall go to luncheon at the Townleys and go on with them to Tollygunge for golf. Then we are going to tea with some people who are taking us a motor run. Then we go to a farewell dinner at the Ormondes’. Then we shall go to bed.

Bless you, my dear.

S.S. Socotra, Homeward Bound, Somewhere in the Hoogly, April 24.

... This day seems to have been going on for weeks and it is only tea-time now. Was it only this morning that we left? I can’t think it was this morning that Boggley and I took our last chota-hazri together, and Boggley as he gloomily sugared his tea, said, “Now I know what a condemned man feels like on the morning of his execution.” Then we laughed and it wasn’t so bad. Autolycus, very important because the Miss Sahib was going to cross the Black Water, bustled about with my few packages (all the heavy baggage went away two days ago) and, finally, bustled us into a tikka-gharry in such good time that we had to drive twice round the Maidan before we went to the landing-stage. Dear, funny Autolycus! I shall miss his ugly, honest face. He has added greatly to the gaiety of nations as represented by Boggley and me. The last we saw of him was standing before the hotel door along with Bella and the two chuprassis bowing low and murmuring, “Salaam, Miss Sahib, salaam,” while I, undignified to the last, knelt on the seat and wildly waved a handkerchief.

The landing was crowded with people. I wondered how we were all to get on board one ship, but found as we got on to the launch that most of the people remained behind; they were only see-ers off. Mr. Townley had by some means managed to get permission for himself, his wife, and Boggley to go down the river with us in the launch to where the Socotra lay; which was a great comfort to us all. When we found our party, poor G.’s face was much less pink than usual. The Ormondes were there, having ridden down to see us off, and quite a lot of other people had come for the same reason. We (the passengers) had to be medically examined before we were allowed to leave in case of plague, I suppose. G. and I were rather scared at the thought how were we to know that we hadn’t plague lurking about us? However, after a very cursory glance we were passed on, got our good-byes said, and embarked on the launch. At any other time I would have hated saying good-bye to the Ormondes and the other dear people, but with the parting from Boggley looming so near, I was absent-minded and callous, though I hope I didn’t appear so. The Socotra is quite a tiny ship compared to the Scotia. G. and I clambered on board, in great haste to find our cabin. We found it already occupied by our cabin companion (she is Scotch and has artificial teeth and a fine, rich Glasgow accent, and (I think) is of a gentle and yielding disposition) and an enormous hat-box.

Boggley was with us, but when he saw we were going to be firm he fled,

“This,” said G., waving her hand towards the offending box, “must go into the baggage-room.”

“Certainly,” said the Glasgow woman. “I’m sure I don’t know what it’s doing here. Ma husband wrote the labels.” And she actually began to drag it into the passage.

Seeing her so amenable to reason, we smiled kindly and begged her to desist. But she said, “Not at all,” and smiled back in such a delightfully Glasgow “weel-pleased” way that my heart warmed to her. I can see she will be a constant entertainment.

Mr. Townley introduced us to the captain, who looks kind, and who asked us to sit at his table, and then we all went in to breakfast. In spite of our low spirits we enjoyed the meal. G. created something of a fracas about a kidney which she ate and then said was bad, but she calmed down, and we enjoyed looking at the other passengers, speculating as to who and what they were.

Almost directly after breakfast our people had to go, and G. and I, very stricken, watched the launch as it steamed up the river till lost to sight behind a big vessel. Since then, except for an interval in the cabin to get our eyes bathed into decency, we have sat on deck with aching heads, trying to read and write. At first the heat was terrible. We drooped like candles in the sun, we wilted like flowers, and G. gasped, “If all the voyage is going to be as hot as this, I’m done.” Limp and wretched, I agreed with her. Then we found we had put our chairs against the kitchen, which is up on deck in this ship.

No wonder we were warm! We quickly found a cooler spot, and I have been writing a long letter to Boggley to send off with the pilot. Isn’t he pure gold, my Boggley? I know that you too “think nobly of the soul.” He will be home in a year, and I am trying to tell myself that a year isn’t long. Well, the Indian trip is over, and I have a lot, learned a few things, and made some friends best of them my faithful G. It is rather astonishing that I should have the joy of her company home again. Many people, I am sure, expected she would remain in India, but I think she took the precaution to leave her heart at home, wise G. One thing you should be thankful for, there will be no more letters. What a blessing people are nicer than their letters! How good you have been about mine, how willing to take an interest in the people I met, in the places I saw, in everything I told you about; and when I was jocose, you pretended to be amused. Ah, well! Be cheerful, sir, our revels now are ended!

And so I am going home, home to my own bleak kindly land, “place of all weathers that end in rain.” I am going home to my own people (I think I see Peter jigging up and down in expectation before my trunks); and I am going to you. And the queer thing is, I can’t feel glad, I am so home-sick for India. All my horror of bombs and sudden death has gone, and memory (as someone says) is making magic carpets under my feet, so that I am back again in the white, hot sunlight, under the dusty palm-trees, hearing the creak of the wagons, as the patient oxen toil on the long straight roads, and the songs of the coolies returning home at even, I see the country lying vague in the clammy morning mist, and the great broad Ganges glimmering wanly; and again it is a wonderful clear night of stars. I know that my own land is the best land, that the fat babu with his carefully oiled and parted hair and his too-apparent sock-suspenders can’t be mentioned in the same breath as the Britisher; that our daffodils and primroses are sweeter far than the heavy-scented blossoms of the East; that the “brain-fever” bird of India is a wretched substitute for the lark and the thrush and others of “God’s jocund little fowls”; that Abana and Pharpar and other rivers of Damascus are better than this Jordan all this, I say, I know; but to-night I don’t believe it.

India has thrown golden dust in my eyes, and I am seeing things all wrong. We have anchored for the night.... I am watching the misty green blur, which is all that is left to me of India, grow more and more indistinct as darkness falls. Soon it will be night.

G., who has been absolutely silent for more than an hour, sat up suddenly just now, and took my hand.

“Olivia,” she said. “It’s a nice place, England.” Her tone was the tone of one seeking reassurance.

“It is,” I said dolefully. “Very.”

“And it really doesn’t rain such a great deal,”

“No.”

“Anyway, it’s home, and India isn’t, though India has been jolly.” She sighed.

Then, “I shall enjoy a slice of good roast beef,” said G.