and all other living things to deepest regions, I decided
to push on five more weary miles on a dreary, scorching,
blistering road, though the Kashmiri villagers, who
have a fine independent courtesy, were for my
staying and resting under their trees, offering me
milk and mulberries in a plaited grass basket, and
bringing water and salt to refresh my tired feet. I
thanked them, but departed, my heart being hot against
all natives by reason of the faithlessness of my own
followers, so I, in familiar parlance,, cut off my nose to
spite my face, and starting out once more on my lonely
way, nearly fell by the wayside, for the sun was powerful,
and almost succeeded in bowling me over!
Marching and a free life in the wild were altogether
at a discount when I at last reached the friendly dak
bungalow at Magam, having been lured on by no
vision of snow-crowned heights and noble forests to be
viewed in the near future, but rather tempted forward
by a sordid will o’ the wispish flavour of iced hock. The
idea of obtaining this ambrosial liquid had strengthened
my tottering footsteps, and it was with an echo of
“ cooling rills of sparkling hocks,” combined with an
after-thought of peaches and grapes in my mind, that
I marched into the verandah and called loudly for
“ Khansama.” The Khansama was polite and willing,
as is natural to his class of wayside hosts all the world
over, but hock—no; that had been an absurdity bred
in my feverish brain, the “ Sahib could have whatever
she desired”—if, if—she were able to provide it! As
it seemed uncertain whether it would be hours or days
before my straggling cortege came in, I left my refreshment
to my host, knowing it useless to order when only
the names of things writ large, clear, and inviting,
were to be noted in the tariff, the substance of them
remaining among the things unseen. As iced hock and
peaches were not to be procured, the Memsahib made
shift with stewed tea and bath Olivers, and as a sun head
was anxious to claim her, turned into an invitingly
shady room, where flies tormented and mosquitoes
devoured, and spent the rest of the day in that condition
of super-self-realisation, induced by having all the most
sensitive portions marked out for the sport of a variety
of pain devils.
My belongings arrived towards dusk, and it was
impossible to blame them for having rested during the
heat of the day while I was stupidly pushing on, and for
arriving fresh and cool, especially when it was pointed
out in sympathetic tones that the immediate cause of
the first lagging had been the belief that the Memsahib
was still behind and might require assistance.
I had become used to a cheerful statement of what
should be rather than what was, and so ought not to
have been led away when my men promised many
ponies, quantities of the best riding ponies for me to
choose from on the morrow. Dawn flushed the sky with
a flood of rosy light, and the dawn was transformed to
broadest daylight, but neither ponies nor owners of
ponies were to be seen. My men continued to chatter
cheerfully of “what was to be,” but, as there seemed
no reason to consider a miraculous intervention on my
behalf likely, I decided to consider the riding pony one
of those charming “ might have beens,” and make use of
that which I had, namely, two walking legs. I could
not, without hard-heartedness, make use of the riding
pony brought from Srinagar, for the aged cook had
developed fever and rheumatism from the bare thought
of camping, and it had been given up to him.
I was not good to talk to that morning, and my