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 Nepal 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
