Olivia in India Part 12

Here is one. The Government sent round making inquiries about some Scandinavians. (Please don't ask why Scandinavians, because I can't answer.) The Sub-Divisional Officer forwarded the reference to the different police-stations for report. The babus in charge of these stations hadn't an idea what Scandinavians were, but would have scorned to ask. Three of the reports ran thus:

1. "Honoured Sir, I have the honour to report that the Scandinavian has been concluded in this district and has been removed to Lahserai."

(Survey and Settlement operations.)

2. "Sir, I have the honour to report that there has been no Scandinavians in the district this year, but it is raging furiously at Rika." (Plague.)

3. "Sir, I have the honour to report two Scandinavians were seen at Gopalbung. One was shot by Billie Burke Sahib, the other has not since returned." (Tigers.)

That is a good, but somewhat involved, story. Another was about a missionary who had been eaten by a tiger. The police wired, "A tiger has man-eaten the Pope of Ramnugger."

Yesterday the Listers had a duck-shoot. About twenty men came from all round, and Mrs. Lister and I went with them. We drove two and two to a very large lake and then set sail in queer native boats punted by natives. Of course I wanted to go with Boggley, but was sent off with a strange man, one Major Griffiths, who eyed me with great dislike because he said my light dress would frighten the birds. It got frightfully hot with the sun beating on the water, and I simply dared not put up a sunshade in case of scaring the birds more than I was already doing, and thereby increasing the wrath of my companion. He shot a lot of ducks, but evidently not so many as he thought he ought to shoot, and when he saw the birds all congregated at one corner of the lake a thought struck him, and he told the natives to take us to sh.o.r.e. He got out and beckoned me to follow, which I obediently did, and together we crawled through the jungle, with the _bandar-log_ chattering above us and--for all I know to the contrary--snakes hissing beneath our feet. If I stepped, which I could hardly avoid doing sometimes, on a fallen branch, making it crackle, the man turned on me a glance so malignant I positively quailed. Breathlessly we crept to the water-side and the unsuspecting ducks, and then Major Griffiths fired into the brown,--is that the proper expression?--killing I don't know how many. I don't think it was at all a nice thing to do, but my opinion was neither asked nor desired.

Even then my friend was not satisfied, and he voyaged about until I knew luncheon was long since a thing of the past, and I hated so the shape of his face I could have screamed. When at last we did return, I found my surmise as to luncheon had been only too correct, and we had to content ourselves with sc.r.a.ps. The next duck-shoot I attend I shall choose as companion a less earnest sportsman.

The weather is beginning to stoke-up, as Boggley calls it, and during the day the tent is insufferable. I can sit outside it in the early morning, but as the sun gets up Autolycus summons the _chupra.s.sis_, and they carry my table and writing-materials to the verandah of the Guest House, which has a cool, not to say clammy and tomb-like, atmosphere. My chief trials are the insects. There is a land of large black beetle with wings that has a strange habit of poising itself just above my head and remaining there. Someone told me--who I forget; anyway, Boggley says it isn't true, but it seems quite likely--that if these beetles drop on you they _explode_. Did you ever hear of anything quite so horrible? I keep a wary eye on them and s.h.i.+ft my seat at their approach.

Not a hundred yards away a heathen temple stands, with its gilded roof s.h.i.+ning in the sun. We tried to go inside it the other day, but an angel with a flaming sword, in the shape of a _fakir_, kept us out. It didn't look very attractive. We saw enough when we beheld the post the poor kids and goats are tied to, all messy and horrid from the last sacrifice. The priest who forbade us to enter, just to show there was no ill-feeling, hung wreaths of marigolds round our necks. Boggley, once we were out of sight, hid his in the ditch, but I, afraid they might find out and be offended, went about for the rest of the day decked like any sacrificial goat.

That we are leading the Simple Life I think you would admit if you saw us at our meals. I find that food really matters very little. Our cook is of the jungle jungly. Autolycus is disgusted with him, and does his best to reform him. _Chota-hazri_ I have alone, as Boggley is away inspecting before seven o'clock. I emerge from my tent and find a table before Boggley's tent with a cloth on it,--not particularly clean,--a loaf of bread (our bread is made in jail: a _chupra.s.si_ goes to fetch it every second day), a tin of b.u.t.ter, and a tin of jam.

Autolycus appears accompanied by the jungly cook, bearing a plate of what under happier circ.u.mstances might have been porridge. A spoonful or two is more than enough. "No good?" demands Autolycus. "No," and disdainfully handing the plate back to the entirely indifferent cook, he proceeds to produce from somewhere about his person a teapot and two tiny eggs. Luncheon is much worse, for the food that appears is so incalculably greasy that it argues a more than bowing acquaintance with native _ghee_. Dinner is luncheon intensified, so tea is really the only thing we can enjoy. The fact is, if we thought about it we would never eat at all. I happened to walk round the tent to-day, and found the dish-washer was.h.i.+ng our dishes in water that was positively thick, and drying them with a cloth that had begun life polis.h.i.+ng our brown boots. I stormed at him in English, and later Boggley stormed at him in Hindustani, and he vowed it would never happen again; but I dare say if I were to look round at this minute, I should find him doing exactly the same thing; and I don't really care so long as neither of us perishes with cholera as a result.

Such funny things live behind my tent! What should I find the other day but a little native baby--about two or three years old. It seems his mother is dead, and his father, who is our _chokidar_, has to take him with him wherever he goes. He is the oddest little figure, clothed in a most inadequate s.h.i.+rt, and a string round his neck with a sh.e.l.l attached to keep away evil spirits. His hair is closely shaved except for one upstanding tuft which is left to pull him up to heaven with; and his face looks nothing but two great twinkling eyes. He squats beside me nearly all day, and eagerly eats anything I give him, like a little puppy dog. Toffee and fancy biscuits, both of which I possess in abundance, are his favourites. An old servant of Boggley's is with a sahib near here, and he arrived dressed in spotless white from head to foot, bearing in one hand a large seed cake wreathed with marigolds, and in the other a plate of toffee coloured pink, green, and yellow, an offering to the Miss Sahib which he presented with many salaams, and of which my little Hindoo gets the benefit. Autolycus and the _chupra.s.sis_ take a great interest in teaching him manners. When I hold out a biscuit Autolycus says sternly, "Say salaam to the Miss Sahib," and the baby puts his small hand gravely to his forehead, bowing low with a "Talaam, Mees Tahib," then snaps up the prize.

I shall miss my little companion. I wonder what will become of him--little brown heir of the ages. Already he can lisp to idols, but he has never even heard of the Christ who said, "Suffer the children."

_March 3_.

I shall finish this and post it to-morrow before we leave. We have been to church to-night, the most unusual occurrence with us nowadays.

Of course it was only an English church (I remember the time when I thought it very exciting and more than a little wicked to be present at a Church of England service) and the padre was a very little young padre, and rather depressing. He insisted so that we were but a pa.s.sing vapour that I began to feel it was only too horribly true, and Boggley, who had partaken largely of tinned cheese at luncheon and was feeling far from well, grew every moment more yellow and green.

The Listers asked us to go back with them to dinner, but we thought it better (Boggley especially) to seek the seclusion of our tents.

_Manpur, March 9_.

Now we are in a different place. At least it has a different name and is a day's journey from Bantale, but it looks exactly the same. We left Baratah yesterday morning and got in and out of trains all day until about seven in the evening we got out finally at Manpur. I had a dreadful cold, and was sniffy and inclined to be cross; so when Boggley suggested we should dine in the waiting-room while Autolycus and the _chupra.s.sis_ went on with the luggage to acquaint the dak-bungalow people of our arrival, I upbraided him for not making proper arrangements, and reviled the meagre repast, and was altogether very unpleasant. When we reached our destination we found Autolycus prancing distractedly. "This," he said to Boggley, "is what comes of making no bundabust." Some other people were already occupying the bungalow, and we could only get the back rooms, small, mouldy, and inconvenient. Poor Boggley looked so crushed I had to laugh, and we calmed the worried Autolycus, who hates to see his Sahib shoved into corners, and, there being no inducement to remain up--went to bed.

Manpur is a fairly big station--the sort of place you read about in Anglo-Indian novels. There are six households and a club. Boggley and I called on all the six this evening, and then went to the club.

Everyone meets there in the evening to see the picture-papers and to play tennis and bridge.

It is rather a bored little community, Manpur. I think they are all pretty sick of each other, and one can't wonder. Even an Archangel would pall if one met him at tea, played tennis with him, and sat next him at dinner almost every day of the year; how much more poor human beings--and Anglo-Indian human beings at that. Taken separately they are delightful, but each a.s.sures us that the others are quite impossible. They unite in being shocked at our living in such discomfort, and have all invited us to stay; but it isn't worth while to change our quarters. Besides, we are going away for the week-end to some friend of Boggley's who lives about thirty miles from here.

A nice little young civilian is at present calling on us. He came to pay his duty call, and he and Boggley became so deep in Oxford talk, and found so many mutual friends, that we asked him to stay to dinner.

Autolycus told me in a stage whisper that the Sahib could easily stay as the dak-bungalow cook was very good, and that we would get quite a Calcutta dinner. His pride, as he bore in the dishes, was beautiful to see; and it was a good dinner, though rather tinny.

_Manpur, Thursday 12th_.

This delayed letter must be posted before we leave by the night train for our next trek. We came back late last night from Misanpore after a nice but very queer time. On Sat.u.r.day, when, after a long dusty drive of eight miles from the station, we arrived at the bungalow of Boggley's friend, there was every evidence that no visitors were expected. Just think! Boggley had never let him know we were coming; the poor man was ignorant of the fearful joy in store for him.

I gripped Boggley by the arm. "Wretch," I hissed in his ear. "Why didn't you write? What sort of man is he? Will he hate having me?"

"_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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 _chupra.s.sis_ 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 ill.u.s.trations--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 Devons.h.i.+re and labelled _Not wanted on the Voyage_. Some happy people were going home. A far cry it seemed from this dusty land to green Devons.h.i.+re. 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 a.s.sure 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 amus.e.m.e.nt--_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.