We can't pack, because Mrs. Albert Murray is occupying all the cabin and most of the pa.s.sage. We shall creep down when she is quite done and put our belongings together.

Everyone is flying about writing luggage labels, and getting their boxes up from the hold, and counting things. Curiously enough, I am feeling rather depressed; the end of anything is horrid, even a loathed sea-voyage. After all, it isn't a bad old ship, and the people have been nice. To-night I am filled with kindness to everyone. Even Mrs. Albert Murray seems to swim in a rosy and golden haze, and I am conscious of quite an affection for her, though I expect, when in a little I go down to the cabin and find her fussing and accusing us of losing her things, I shall dislike her again with some intensity. We have all laughed and played and groaned together, and now we part. No, I _shan't_ say "Ships that pa.s.s in the night." Several people--mothers whose babies I have held and others--have given me their cards and a cordial invitation to go and stay with them for as long as I like.

They mean it now, I know, but in a month's time shall we even remember each other's names?

It will be a real grief to part to-morrow from Mrs. Crawley and Mrs. Wilmot. The dear women! I wish they had been going to stay in Calcutta, but they go straight away up country. Are there, I wonder, many such charming women in India? It seems improbable. I shall miss all the people at our table: we have been such a gay company. Major Wilmot says G. and I have kept them all amused and made the voyage pleasant, but that is only his kind way. It is quite true, though, what Mrs. Crawley says of G. She is like a great rosy apple, refreshing and sweet and wholesome.

What is really depressing me is the thought that wherever I am to-morrow night there will be no G. to say:

"Good-night, my dear. Sleep well."

And I shan't be able to drop my head over my bunk and reply:

"Good-night, my dear old G."

It will seem so odd and lonely without her.

The ship has stopped--we are to anchor here till daylight.

FLESHPOTS OF CALCUTTA

_Calcutta, Nov. 18_.

_In India_. I don't think I have quite realized myself or my surroundings yet, but one thing I know. Boggley has been better than his word, for we are not camping in a corner of the Maidan, but have a decent roof to cover us.

But I shall go back to where I left off on Wednesday night.

We spent a hot, breathless night in the river. Towards morning I fell asleep and dreamed that the ship was sinking in a quicksand and that I, in trying to save myself, had stuck fast in the port-hole. I wakened cold with fright, to find it was grey dawn and they were getting up the anchor.

Of course we were up at an unearthly hour, all our belongings carefully packed and labelled, ourselves clad in clean white dresses and topis to face the burning, shining face of India. There was little to see and nothing to do, and we walked about getting hungrier and hungrier, and yet when breakfast-time did come we found we were too excited to eat.

When we got into the dock we saw all the people who had come to meet us penned like sheep into enclosures, and we leaned over the side trying to make out the faces of friends. Presently they were allowed to come on board, and I, eagerly watching, spied Boggley bounding up the ladder, and the next moment we were clutching each other wildly.

But our greeting--what it is to be Scots!--was merely "Hallo! there you are!" I need not have worried about what I would say when I met him--yes, I was silly enough to do that--for he is just the same dear old Boggley, hair as red, eyes as blue and as short-sighted, mouth as wide as ever. I think his legs are even longer. The first thing he did when he came on board was to fall over someone's dressing-bag, and that made us both laugh helplessly like silly children. I introduced him to G. and the others, and by this time G. had found her sister, and soon they were all talking together, so G. and I slipped away to look out for people in whom we were interested. Very specially did we want, to see Mr. Albert Murray, and when we did see him he was almost exactly what we had expected--small, sandy-haired, his topi making his head look out of all proportion, and with a trodden-on look. We noticed the little man wandering aimlessly about, when a voice from the music-room door saying "Albert" made him start visibly, and turning, he sidled up to our cabin companion, who kissed him severely, while he murmured, "Well, m' dear, how are you?" Seeing us standing near she said, "Well, good-bye, girls. I hope you'll have a good time and behave yourselves;" and then, turning to her husband, by way of an introduction, she added, "These are the girls who shared my cabin."

Mr. Albert shuffled his topi and looked at us with kind, blinking eyes, but attempted no remark. The last we saw of him he was tugging the hat-box in the wake of his managing wife. G. looked at me solemnly. "We had little to complain of," she said; "we weren't married to her."

The husband of the Candle was the greatest surprise. I had imagined--why, I don't know--that that lady's husband would be tall and red-faced, with a large moustache and loud voice and manner, someone who would match well with the Candle. Instead, we beheld a dark, thin-faced man with a stoop, a man who looked like a scholar and spoke with a delightful, quiet voice. He addressed the Candle as Jane.

_Jane!_ If it had been Fluffy, or Trixie, or Chippy, or even Dolly, but, with that hair, that complexion, that voice, that troop of attendant swains, to be called Jane! The thing was out of all reason.

I wonder all the widespread family of Janes, with their meek eyes and smoothly braided hair, don't rise up and call her anything but blessed. Oh, I know there was no thought of pleasing me when she was christened, but still--Jane!

It was rather sweet to watch the little family groups, the mother a.s.suring a bored, indifferent infant that this was its own daddy, and the proud father beaming on both.

The self-conscious bridegrooms sidling up to their blushing brides afforded us much amus.e.m.e.nt. Some had not seen each other for five years. I wonder if one or two didn't rue their bargains! It seems to me a terrible risk!

I could have gone on watching the people for a long time, but Boggley was anxious to be off; so after tearful farewells and many promises to write had been exchanged, we departed.

The special Providence that looks after casual people has guided Boggley to quite a nice house in a nice part of the town. Many Government people who are in Calcutta only for the cold weather--I mean those of them who are burdened not with wealth but women-folk--find it cheaper and more convenient to live in a boarding-house. Does that conjure up to you a vision of Bloomsbury, and tall grey houses, and dirty maid-servants, and the Pa.s.sing of Third Floor Backs? It isn't one bit like that. This boarding-house consists, oddly enough, of four big houses all standing a little distance apart in a compound. They are let out in suites of rooms, and the occupants can either all feed together in the public dining-room or in lonely splendour in their own apartments. We have five rooms on the ground floor. Of the two sitting-rooms one is almost quite dark, and is inhabited by a suite of furniture, three marble-topped tables on which Boggley had set out the few photographs and trifles which he hasn't yet lost, and a sad-looking cabinet; the other opens into the garden, and is a nice cheerful room. The dark room we have made Boggley's study; as he only uses it at night, it doesn't matter about the want of light, and there is a fine large writing-table which holds stacks of papers. We got the marble-topped tables carried into the cheery room and covered them with tablecloths from a shop in Park Street, bought rugs for the floor and hangings for the doors, and with a few cushions and palms and flowers the room is quite pretty and home-like. I like the chairs, enormous cane things with long wooden arms which Boggley says are meant for putting one's feet on, and most comfortable.

Boggley's bedroom is next his study, but I have to take a walk before I come to mine, out of the window,--or door, I'm never sure which it is,--down some steps, then along a garden-walk, round a corner, and up some more steps, where I reach first a small ante-room and then my bedroom. Like the other rooms, it is whitewashed and has a very high ceiling. Some confiding sparrows have built a nest in a hole in the wall, and--and this is really upsetting--there are _ten_ different ways of entering the room, doors and windows, and half of them I can't lock or bar or fasten up in any way. What I should do if a Mutiny occurred I can't think! My bed with its mosquito-curtains stands like a little island in a vast sea of matting, and there are two large wardrobes, what they call _almirahs_, a dressing-table, and two chairs. It is empty and airy, and that is all that is required of a bedroom.

The four houses, as I told you, stand in a compound. It isn't exactly a garden, for there are lots of things in it that we would consider quite superfluous in a self-respecting garden. There is a good tennis lawn, plots of flowers, trimly-kept walks bordered with poinsettias, and trees with white, heavily-scented flowers, and opposite my bedroom is a little stone-paved enclosure where two cows and two calves lead a calm and meditative existence! And further, there are funny little huts scattered about where one catches glimpses of natives at their devotions or slumbering peacefully. Imagine in the middle of a garden at home coming on a cowhouse or a shanty! But this is India.

Boggley conducted me round, both of us talking hard all the time. He had so many questions to ask and I had so much to tell: all the home news and silly little home jokes--Peter's latest sayings--things that are so amusing to tell and to hear but lose all their flavour written.

You remember Boggley's wild bursts of laughter? He laughs just the same now, throws his head back and shouts in the most whole-hearted way. We talked from 11 a.m. till tea-time without a break--talked ourselves hoa.r.s.e and thirsty. After tea we drove on the Maidan, up and down the Red Road in an unending stream of carriages and motors, shabby _tikka-gharries_ and smart little dogcarts (called here tum-tums)--all Calcutta taking the air. One might almost have imagined oneself in the Park, if it had not been that now and again a strange equipage would pa.s.s filled with natives, men and boys gorgeous in purple and scarlet and gold, or closed carriages like boxes on wheels, in which sat dark-skinned women demurely veiled. From the Red Road we drove to the Strand, a carriage-way by the river where the great ships lie, and watched the sun set and the spars and masts become silhouetted against the red sky. Then darkness fell almost at once.

My mind was a chaos when I went to bed after my first day in India, and I slept so soundly that when I woke I had no idea where I was. All re-collections of the voyage and arrival were wiped from my memory and I was filled first with vague astonishment and then with horror to find myself surrounded by filmy white stuff through which peered a black face. It was only my _ayah_, a quaint, small person, wrapped in a white _sari_, with demure, sly eyes and teeth stained red with chewing betel-nut, looking through the mosquito-curtains to see if the Miss Sahib was awake and would like _chota-hazri_. She embarra.s.ses me greatly slipping about with her bare feet, appearing when I least expect her or squatting on the floor staring at me fixedly. I know no Hindustani and she knows perhaps three English words, so our conversation is limited. The silence gets so on my nerves that I drop hairbrushes and things to make a little disturbance, and it gives her something to do to pick them up. I must at once learn some Hindustani words such as pink, blue, and green, and then I shall be able to tell Bella what dress to lay out, and her place won't be such a sinecure. I call her Bella because it is the nearest I can get to her name and it has a homely sound.

The rest of my impressions I shall keep for my next letter. I have written this much to give you an idea of my surroundings, and you see I have taken your interest for granted. Are you bored? Of course you will say you are not, but if I could see your face I should know.

The home mail arrives here on Sunday, when people are having what they call a "Europe morning," and have time to read and enjoy their letters. When you wrote you had just had my mail from Ma.r.s.eilles.

How far behind you are! It was too bad of me to write such pitiful letters, but I think I was too miserable to pretend. Now I am very well off, and no one could be more utterly thoughtful and kind than old Boggley. I am sure I shall never regret coming to India, and it will be something to dream about when I am a douce Olivia-sit-by-the-fire.

You speak of rain and mud and fog, and it all seems very far away from this afternoon land. The winter will soon pa.s.s, and, as you nicely put it, I shall return with the spring.

_Calcutta, Nov. 21_.

It is the witching hour of 10 a.m. and I am sitting in my little ante-room--boudoir, call it what you will--immersed in correspondence, Boggley, hard-worked man that he is, has departed for his office followed by a _kitmutgar_ carrying some sandwiches and a bottle of soda-water, which is his modest lunch. Really a Government servant's life is no easy one. He is up every morning by six o'clock, and gets a couple of hours' work done before breakfast. His office receives him at ten and keeps him till four, when he comes home and has tea, after which we ride or drive or play tennis somewhere. A look in at the Club for a game of billiards, more work, dinner, and, if we are not going to a dance or any frivolity, a quiet talk, a smoke, a few more papers gone through, bed, and the long Indian day is over. All day _chupra.s.sis_, like attendant angels, flit in and out bearing piles of doc.u.ments marked Urgent, which they heap on his writing-table. I begin greatly to dislike the sight of them.

So you see I have of necessity many hours alone, at least I have some, and I would have more if G. didn't live within a few minutes' walk, and every morning, armed with a large green-lined parasol and protected by her faithful topi, come round to pa.s.s the time of day with me. Her sister, Mrs. Townley, is a very nice woman and kindness itself to me. I can say, like the Psalmist, that goodness and mercy follow me. I started from London knowing no one, yet in twenty-four hours I was fast friends with G. and afterwards with quite a lot of people on board. I thought when I landed in Calcutta I would be a stranger in a strange land and have no one but Boggley, "instead of which" I have G. quite near, and Mrs. Townley says I must come to them any minute of the day I want to; and there are others equally kind.

You don't want me to give you a detailed account of Calcutta, do you? It wouldn't interest you to read it, and it certainly wouldn't interest me to write it. When my friends go wandering and write me home long descriptions of the places of interest (falsely so called) which they visit, I read them--oh! I read them faithfully--but I am sadly bored. Somehow people interest me more than places. That being so, I shall only inflict on you a little of Calcutta. I like it immensely. They laugh at me for saying it is pretty, but I do think it is quite beautiful. It is so much greener than I expected, and I like the broad streets of pillared houses standing in their palm-shaded compounds. The princ.i.p.al street is called Chowringhee, and it has some fine buildings and really excellent shops, where one can buy quite as pretty things as in London, only, of course, they are of necessity more expensive; it costs a lot to bring them out. The Clubs are in this street, the Bengal Club, and the United Service where my brother would even now be leading a comfortable bachelor existence if he hadn't had a bothering sister to provide a habitation for.

Chowringhee faces the Maidan, a very large park containing among other things a race-course, and cricket and football grounds. The word Maidan is Arabic and Persian and Hindustani for an open s.p.a.ce, and I hope you like the superior way I explain things to you. You, who can be silent in so many languages, will probably know what Maidan means--but no matter.

This, then, is the European Calcutta, clean and s.p.a.cious and pleasant, but not nearly so interesting as the native part. Turn down a side street, walk a little way and you are in a nest of mean streets, unpaved, dirty, smelling vilely, lined with open booths, where squat half-naked men selling lumps of sticky sweetmeats and piles of things that look like unbaked scones and other strange eatables; and little naked babies tumble in the dust with goats and puppies. It seems to me that I go about asking "Why?" all day and no one gives me a satisfactory answer to anything. Why, for example, should we require a troop of servants living, as we do, in a kind of hotel? And yet there they are--Boggley's bearer and my _ayah_--I can see some reason for their presence--a _kitmutgar_ to wait on us at table and bring tea in the afternoon, another young a.s.sistant _kitmutgar_ who scurries like a frightened rabbit at my approach, a delightful small boy who rejoices in the name of _pani-wallah_, whose sole duty is to carry water for the baths, the _dhobi_ who washes our clothes by beating them between two large--and I should say, judging by the state of the clothes, sharp--stones, losing most of them in the process, and a _syce_ or groom for each pony. Seated, as one sometimes sees them, in rows on the steps, augmented by a _chupra.s.si_ or two, brilliant in uniform they make a sufficiently imposing spectacle. I have few words, but I look at them in as pleasant a way as I know how, partly because I like to be friends with servants, and partly because I'm rather afraid of them and don't want to rouse them to Mutiny or do anything desperate, but Boggley discouraged me at the outset. "You needn't grin at them so affably," he remarked, "they will only think you are weak in the head." They quite evidently regard me as a poor creature, even Bella, though she humours me and condescends to say "pretty pretty," or "nicey nicey" when I am dressed in the evening. I think she must once have nursed children, for the words she knows are baby words; she always calls me "poor Missy baba" and strokes me! The _pani-wallah_ finds amus.e.m.e.nt in practising his English on me. When he sees G. come through the compound, he bounds to my room, holds up the _chick_ and announcing "Mees come," retires, stiff with pride at his knowledge of the language.

I have learned a few useful Hindustani words. _Qui hai_ means roughly, "Is anyone there?" and you cry that instead of ringing a bell, and it brings the instant response "_Huzoor_," and a servant springs from nowhere to do your bidding. _Lao_ means "bring" and _jao_ "go." You never say "please," and you learn the words in a cross tone--that is, if you want to be really Anglo-Indian. Radical M.P.s of course will learn "please" at once, if there is such a word in the language, which I doubt. One nice globe-trotting old lady, anxious, like me, to conciliate the natives, was having a cup of chocolate at Peliti's, and she insisted on sending out to see if the _tikka-gharry wallah_ would like a cup!

A _tikka-gharry_ is a thing like a victoria, hired by the hour. There are first, second, and third cla.s.s _tikka-gharries_. The first cla.s.s have two horses, the second one horse, and the third is closed, and, having no springs, is a terrible vehicle indeed. The drivers of these carriages have, as a rule, long whiskers, and are dressed in khaki.

They have bags of provender for the horses tied behind the conveyance, where also precariously hangs another man who might be the twin-brother of the driver. I don't know why he is there, but there he is.

G. and I love to set out in a _tikka-gharry_ and practise our Hindustani. Starting early when it is fairly cool--Indian cold weather mornings are the most wonderful things, so fresh and so bright and so blue--G. starts us off at a mad gallop by shouting _Juldi jao_, which I have to calm down with _Asti asti_ (slower). When we reach Peliti's we cry _Roko_ (stop), and get out to buy caramels, chocolates, and cakes for tea. Peliti has a peculiarly delicious kind of chocolate cake, the recipe for which I wish he would confide to Fuller or Buszard. But it isn't the European shops, good as they are, that occupy our mornings. Much more fascinating haunts await us, the New Market and the China Bazaar. The former is a kind of arcade which contains everything that any reasonable person could require; fragrant fruit and flowers, fresh-smelling vegetables, and the wares of butcher and baker and candlestick-maker, all laid out on booths and stalls for the world to choose from.

There, very early in the morning, come the _khansamahs_ of the various Mem-sahibs and buy all that is needed for the day, while the Mem-sahibs are cosy in bed, needing not to worry about house, visitors, or forthcoming dinner-parties. Housekeeping is easy in India. Boggley thought we had better ask some people to dinner, so we did, though I pointed out that we had no silver or anything to make the table decent; and the boarding-house things are none too dainty.

"It'll be all right," said Boggley, "leave it to the servants;" so I engaged the private dining-room--and left it. I rather trembled when the evening came and our party walked in, but I needn't have. The servants were worthy of their trust. The table looked charming, and, as I had never seen any of the things before, I had a more interesting time than usually falls to the hostess. What I sincerely hoped was that none of the guests had seen any of the things before either, but if they had they possessed great control of their countenances.

Eatables, however, are by no means the only things to be found in the New Market. Silks, muslins, chicon-work, silver ornaments, and jewellery keep us breathless, while the pleasant shopman in a frock-coat and turban offers them at what he calls "killin'" prices.

The China Bazaar is much farther into the city, quite in the native quarter. It is a real adventure to make an expedition there, and the owners allow us to poke in back rooms from which we unearth wondrous treasures in the way of old bra.s.s vases; queer, slender-necked scent-bottles still faintly smelling of roses; old lacquer boxes, and bits of rich embroidery. I am becoming a Shylock in the way I beat down prices. I shouldn't wonder a bit when I go home and am ruffling it once more in Bond Street if, when told the price of a thing is a guinea, I laugh in a jocular way and say, "Oh! come now, I'll give you ten shillings."

But to return to Hindustani. I haven't told you all I know. I can ask for _tunda_ beef, which is cold beef, just as _tunda pani_ is cold water, _gurrum pani_ being hot! I can order what I want at meals. At first when I wanted boiled eggs and heard Boggley order _unda bile_, I remonstrated, "Not under-boiled, hard-boiled," until it was explained to me that _unda_ meant egg. The native can't say any word beginning with s without putting a _y_ before it, thus--y-spice beef, y-street.

When men come to see us I cry, "_Qui hai?_" and, when the servant appears, order "_Peg lao--cheroot lao_," and feel intensely Anglo-Indian and rather fast. One trait the language has which appeals greatly to me is that one can spell it almost any way one likes, but that is enough about Hindustani for one letter.

_23rd_.