I, at least, didn't find it a
mocking Christmas--but then India isn't my grim stepmother, as
Victor Ormonde pointed out to me the other night, I can afford to be
home-sick, can afford to let myself think of the "black dividing sea
and alien plain," because here I have no continuing city. It is the
real exiles, "shackled in a lifelong tether," who may not think, but
must go doggedly through their day's darg.
I found it an agreeable day, from the morning when I got my presents
and various offerings of flowers, to the evening, when we dined with
some very kind people, and had an amusing time playing childish games.
I have often seen pictures headed "Christmas in the Tropics," and
looked with sentimental eyes at the people grouped among palm-trees on
a verandah, while the girl at the piano sang what was evidently a song
about "the dear homeland," to judge from the far-away look in the eyes
of all present. It seems a pity to disillusion you, but it isn't at
all like that. To begin with, it was quite chilly, and we were very
glad of the big fire burning in the grate, and we did not look pensive
or far-away, but ate our dinner with great content. I think, perhaps,
Christmas fare is even more uninteresting in India than at home;
turkey tastes more like white flannel, and plum-pudding is stodgier,
and there are no white and scarlet berries or robins; but otherwise it
is really a nicer day than in England.
Of course I thought a lot about the home people.
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