Isn't it fine?
Boggley actually hesitated about accepting, because he thought I
should so hate to leave Calcutta and its gaieties to wander in the
jungle. It isn't that I don't enjoy Calcutta; I do, and I am most
grateful to the people who have given me such a good time; but I pine
to see something of the real India. Calcutta might be a suburb of
London. I want to see the native of India, not the fat babu; I want to
live in tents and be a gipsy; I want to have Boggley all to myself. We
have hardly time at present to pass the time of day with each other.
Boggley tries to frighten me with tales of dak-bungalows and jungly
cooking, but I won't be frightened; I am looking forward to it all too
much.
We don't go till the beginning of January, so I shall be able to
attend the Drawing-Room and a few other _tamashas_ before we depart.
This will have to do for a letter this week. I must clean some gloves
now. That is the only useful thing I do, clean G.'s gloves and my own.
We dirty so many pairs of long white gloves, and it is cheaper to
clean them at home. You do it with petrol and a small piece of
flannel, and the result isn't bad, though somewhat streaky. G's part
is to sit on my bed and watch me do it, assisted by Bella on the
floor. It reminds me of the inhabitants of the Scilly Islands, who,
it is said, earn a precarious livelihood by taking in each other's
washings!
_Calcutta, Dec. 26_.
When Kipling wrote his _Christmas in India_ I think he must have been
in a dak-bungalow down with fever, otherwise he would hardly have
painted such a very gloomy picture.
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