Olivia in India - O. Douglas
"_Qui hai_?" bellowed Boggley to the deserted-looking bungalow. Then,
turning to me, "Oh yes, he'll hate it," he said calmly; "but he'll be
pleased afterwards." I could have shaken him. Making me play the part
of a visit to the dentist!
When our host appeared, very dishevelled (it turned out that he was
feeling far from well and had been lying down), and beheld me, dismay
was written large on his countenance. He glared round in a hunted
way, and it looked as if he were going to make a bolt for it; but he
remembered in time his manhood, and faced me. (His name is Ferris, and
he is tall and bald, and about forty, and so shy that when he blushes
his eyes water.) Somehow, we all got inside the house, and Boggley and
I sat in the drawing-room while Mr. Ferris rushed out to summon his
minions and make arrangements. We heard a whispered discussion going
on about sheets, and I longed to tell my distracted host that I had
all my bedding with me in a strap; but the thought that he might
consider me "ondelicate," like Mr. Glegg, deterred me. Presently I was
shown into what, only too evidently, was our host's own room, for a
servant snatched away some last remaining effects of his master--a
spatter-brush and a slipper--as I entered. I sat down on the bed and
pondered over what I would have felt had I been a man, and shy, and
seedy, and a strange female had been suddenly shot into my peaceful
home.
It was rather a difficult week-end. I have met men who were difficult
to talk to, but never one like Mr. Ferris, who, while willing, indeed
anxious, to be agreeable, so absolutely annihilated conversation. It
wasn't till dinner on Sunday night that I discovered a subject that
really interested him--London restaurants. He grew quite animated as
we discussed the relative merits of the Ritz, the Carlton, the Savoy,
the Dieudonne. I think that long, thin, bald, gentle bachelor
spends all his spare moments--and he must have many in lonely
Misanpore--thinking about his next leave and the feasts he will then
enjoy. Yet the odd thing is he isn't greedy about food. I think it
must be more the lights and music and people that attract him.
Mr. Ferris and Boggley were away all Sunday, and I spent the whole day
with a volume of Dana Gibson's drawings, the only book I could find.
I did go for a short walk, but the dust was nearly knee-deep, and,
except the little bungalow and outhouses, there was absolutely nothing
to see.
Yesterday again Boggley had to go and inspect some place, so it was
decided he would bicycle there, and then pick me up at some station we
had to change at on our way to Manpur. I drove to the station in Mr.
Ferris's little dogcart--alone. Mr. Ferris said he was so sorry he had
an engagement, but I think myself it was simply that he couldn't face
the eight miles alone with me.
The groom, instead of sitting behind, ran behind; and as the pony was
fresh he had to run pretty fast. There were two roads--a _pukka_ or
made road, and a _cutcha_ road, on which the natives walked and drove
their _ekkas_.
Autolycus and the _chuprassis_ were waiting at the station, and put
me into a carriage. They went straight on to Manpur with the luggage
instead of waiting at the station where we changed trains. It was ten
o'clock when I got out of the train, and Boggley had said he would be
no later than half-past eleven; then we would have luncheon, and get
the one o'clock train to Manpur. I went into the refreshment-room to
ask what we could have for luncheon,
"Ham and eggs," said the fat babu promptly.
"Nothing else?" I asked.
"Yes," said the babu; "mixed biscuits."
"Oh," I said, surprised.
"Certainlee," said the babu.
Then I went outside to read a book and watch for Boggley. My book was
one of those American novels where every woman is--to judge from the
illustrations--of more than earthly beauty. I got so disheartened
after a little when everyone I met had a complexion of rose and snow
(besides, I didn't believe it) that I shut it up. I found it was
nearly twelve o'clock, and Boggley hadn't arrived. I waited another
quarter of an hour, and then went in and ate some ham and eggs. One
o'clock, and the train came and went, but still no trace of the
laggard. Outside the station the blinding white road lay empty.
Nothing stirred, not even a native was visible; the whole world seemed
asleep in the heat. A pile of trunks lay on the platform addressed to
somewhere in Devonshire and labelled _Not wanted on the Voyage_. Some
happy people were going home. A far cry it seemed from this dusty land
to green Devonshire. I sat on the largest trunk and thought about it.
Two o'clock, three, four--the hours went past. I felt myself becoming
exactly like a native, sitting with my hands folded, looking straight
before me. If I hadn't been so anxious I shouldn't have minded the
waiting at all. Now and again I refreshed myself with a peep at the
babu, just to assure myself that I wasn't the only person left alive
in the world.
About five o'clock Boggley and his bicycle strolled into the station.
I had meant to be frightfully cross with him when he appeared--that is
to say, if he weren't wounded or disabled in any way--but somehow I
never can be very cross when I see him, the way he wrinkles up his
short-sighted eyes is so disarming.
He had absolutely no excuse except that he had run across old friends,
and they had persuaded him to stay to lunch, and then they had got
talking, and so on and so on. He was very repentant, but inclined to
laugh. I expect really he had forgotten for the time he had a sister.
He confessed he hadn't mentioned my existence till he was leaving, and
then, he said, "They did seem rather surprised." I should think so
indeed!
Our home mail was waiting us at Manpur and another "Calcutta" dinner.
Your letter, my faithful friend, was more than usually charming and
kind--a balm to my lacerated feelings! If you don't get a letter next
mail after this it will mean either that we are entirely out of the
reach of post offices, or that a tiger has eaten the dak-runner.
_Chota Haganpore, March 25_.
... a whole fortnight since I wrote last, and our tour is almost over.
On Wednesday we go back to Calcutta, and in April I sail for home. The
time has simply rushed past. This last fortnight has been a time of
pure delight; I have been too absorbed in enjoying myself to write.
First, we stayed two days in a town where Boggley had to open some
sort of building. The natives met us with a band, and there were
decorations and mottoes and crowds. In the evening a dramatic
entertainment took place for our amusement--_Julius Caesar_ acted
by schoolboys. Mark Anthony wore a _dhoti_, a Norfolk jacket, and a
bowler hat. In the middle of "Friends, Romans, Countrymen," the bowler
fell off. Still declaiming, he picked it up with his toes, caught it
with his hand, and gravely put it on again--very much on one side. I
envied the "mob" their serene calm of countenance. Boggley and I made
horrible faces in our efforts to preserve our gravity.
The next day Boggley played in a football match with these same boys.
One got a kick on the shin, and limping up to Boggley said, "Sir, I am
wounded; I cannot play," whereupon another ran up to the wounded
one, crying, "Courage, brother. Tis a Nelson's death." Great dears I
thought they were.
Since then we have been through dry places, and camped in desolate
places, hardly ever seeing a European, and enjoying ourselves
extremely. One day, a red-letter day, Boggley shot two crocodiles.
One was a fish-eater, but the other was a great old _mugger_, most
loathsome to look at. Autolycus hoped for _human limbs_ inside it, and
I believe they did actually find relics of his gruesome meals in the
shape of anklets and rings and bangles. Boggley is going to have the
skins made up into things for me, but it will take about six months to
cure them. It is good to think there is one _mugger_ the less. I hate
the nasty treacherous beasts. Pretending they are logs, and then
eating the poor natives!
One night we had a delightful camping-ground on the edge of a lochan
well stocked with duck, which Boggley set out to shoot and ended by
missing gloriously. We were much embarrassed by a fat old landowner
heaping presents on us. He nearly wept when we refused to accept a
goat!
All the fortnight we have only met two Europeans--a couple called
Martin. I don't know quite what they were, or why they were holding up
the flag of empire in this lonely outpost, but they were the greyest
people I ever saw.
Finding ourselves in the neighbourhood of Europeans, we called, as in
duty bound. The compound round the bungalow had a dreary look, and
when we were shown into the drawing-room I could see at a glance it
was a room that no one took any interest in. The rugs on the floor
were rumpled, the cushions soiled; photographs stood about in broken
frames, and the flowers were dying in their glasses. When Mrs. Martin
came in, I wasn't surprised at her room. A long grey face, lack-lustre
eyes, greyish hair rolled up anyhow, and greyish clothes with a hiatus
between the bodice and skirt. "This," said I to myself, "is a woman
who has lost interest in herself and her surroundings," Her husband
was small and bleached-looking and, given encouragement, inclined to
be jokesome; sometimes (by accident) he was funny. Mrs. Martin paid
very little attention to us, and none whatever to her husband's jokes.
I laughed loudly. I thought it was so persevering of him to go on
trying to be funny when he was married to such a depressing woman. As
we got up to go I noticed in a corner a child's chair with a little
chintz cover, and seated in it a smiling china doll lacking one arm
and a leg.
I could hardly wait till I was outside to tell Boggley what I thought
of Mrs. Martin and her house. "The hopeless, untidy creature!" I
raved. "She doesn't deserve to have such a little cheery husband or
children."
The only thing I don't like about Boggley is that he never will help
me to abuse people.
"Poor woman," he said; "she's pretty bad." Then he told me her story
as he had heard it.
Ten years ago, it seems, she was quite a cheery managing woman, with
two little girls whom she worshipped; she and her husband lived
for the children. They were just going to take them home when they
sickened with some ailment. Mr. Martin at the time was prostrate after
a bad attack of fever. There was no doctor within thirty miles. One
child died, and the mother started with the other on the long drive to
the nearest doctor. The last ten miles it was a dead child she held in
her arms.
When Boggley finished I was silent, remembering the little
chintz-covered chair--empty but for a broken doll.
Now that I have tasted the joys of solitude I don't see how I am to
enjoy living in a crowd again. I am practically alone all day, for
Boggley has long distances to ride and bicycle--and I never was so
happy in my life, I write, and I read, and I fold my hands in newly
acquired Oriental calm (which my bustling, busy little mother most
certainly won't admire), and sit looking before me for hours.
The books lent me by various people are all read long ago, and I have
gone back to those that are always with me.
They are all before me as I write. The little fat green one at the end
of the row is Lamb's _Essays of Elia_: he so well fits some moods, and
certain minutes of the day, that gentle writer. Next is my _Pilgrim's
Progress_, the one I have had since my tenth birthday. Father gave
each of us a copy when we reached the mature age of ten. It was only
on high days and holy-days that we were allowed to look at his
own treasured copy, which stayed behind glass doors in the corner
book-case. The illustrations, I know now, were very fine, and even
then we found them wonderful. Then comes my little old Bible. I
coveted it for years before I got it because it had pages like
five-pound notes; I value it now for other reasons. Next the Bible
is Q's _Anthology of English Verse_, its brave leather cover rather
impaired by the fact that for two mornings Boggley, having mislaid his
strop, has stropped his razor on it. Lastly comes my Shakespeare.
Sometimes in a night-marish moment I wonder what the world would have
been like had there been no Shakespeare. Suppose we had never known
Falstaff, never heard the Clown sing "O Mistress Mine," never laughed
with Beatrice nor masqueraded with Rosalind, never thrilled when
Cleopatra "again for Cydnos to meet Mark Antony" cries "Give me my
robe, put on my crown; I have immortal longings in me."
What would we do when surfeited with the company of those around us if
we couldn't creep away and pass for a little while into the company
of those immortals? What does it matter how tiresome and complacent
people are when I am Orsino inviting the Clown to sing words the utter
beauty of which bring the tears to my eyes:
"O fellow, come, the song we had last night:
Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain:
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it; it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age."
One never comes to the end of the beauty. Only to-day, while I was
browsing for a few minutes in a comedy I have not much acquaintance
with, I happened on these lines, which I am going to write down merely
for the pleasure of writing them:
"I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a great fire, and the
master I speak of ever keeps a good fire. I am for the house with the
narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter: some
that humble themselves may, but the many will be too chill and tender,
and they'll be for the flowery way that leads to the broad gate and
the great fire."
A very pleasant thing about our present solitude is that one can read
aloud or speak to oneself without risk of being thought demented. The
fact is, the inhabitants of the little village on the outskirts of
which we are camping regard us as so hopelessly and utterly mad
already that no further display of eccentricity on our part could make
any difference.
Even in the jungle there are servant troubles. Our cook, finding, I
expect, this life too uneventful, intimated that his father was dying,
and left last night. We thought we should have to go without dinner,
but Autolycus, stepping gallantly into the breach said No, he would
cook it; he had often cooked while with Colonel-M'Greegor-Sahib. The
next we saw was a hen flying wildly, pursued by Autolycus, and in
about half an hour it appeared on the table, its legs--still rather
feathery--sticking protestingly from the dish. That was all there was
for dinner except two breakfast-cups of muddy coffee.
... The dak came in a little while ago with the. English mail. I have
just finished reading your letter. I think I know what you must feel
about your book. It is sad to come to the end of a long and pleasant
task--something finished you won't do again; a page of life closed.
I know. It scares me, too, how quickly things come to an end. We are
hurrying on so, the years pass so quickly, that even a long life is a
terribly short darg. Life is such a happy thing, one would like it to
last. I was twenty-six yesterday, and if my soul were to say to me
now, "_Finish, good lady, the bright day is over_," I would be most
dreadfully sorry (and I would expect everyone else to be dreadfully
sorry too; I'm afraid I would insist on a great moaning at the bar
when I put out to sea); but I would have to admit that I have had a
good time--a good, good time.
But I don't agree with you about the darkness of what comes after. How
can it be dark when the Sun of Righteousness has arisen? I suppose
it must be very difficult for clever people to believe, the wise and
prudent who demand a reason for everything; but Christ said that in
this the foolish things of the world would confound the wise. I am
glad He said that. I am glad that sometimes the battle is to the weak.
At the crossing, "I sink," cried Christian, the strong man, "I sink in
deep waters," but Much-Afraid went through the river singing, though
none could understand what she said. I don't know that I could give
you a reason for the hope that is in me (I speak as one of the
"foolish things"), but this I know, that if we hold fast to the
substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen,
looking to Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, then, when
the end comes, we shall be able to lay our heads down like children
saying, _This night when I lie down to sleep_, in the sure and certain
hope that when, having done with houses made with hands, we wake up
in the House of Many Mansions, it will be what John Bunyan calls a
"sunshine morning."
I shall have to stop writing, though lecturing you is a fascinating
pastime, for the day is almost done, and Boggley will soon be home.
Autolycus, looking very worried, is busied with the task of preparing
the evening meal. One of the _chuprassis_, his gaudy uniform laid
aside, and clad in a fragment of cotton, is sluicing himself with
water and praying audibly. The _dhobi_ is beating our clothes white on
stones in the tank. In the village the women are grinding corn; the
oxen are drawing water from the well. The wood-smoke hangs in wisps on
the hot air, and the song of the boys bringing home the cattle comes
to me distinctly in the stillness. The sunset colours are fading into
the deep blue of the Indian night, and the faithful are being called
to prayer.
At home they are burning the whins on the hillsides, and the Loch o'
the Lowes lies steel-grey under the March sky.
THE LAND OF REGRETS
_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.