Olivia in India | Page 5

on the great
water--far behind.
It is the utter loneliness of it that makes me cry!
_S.S. Scotia, Oct. 29_.
... This won't be a tidy letter, for I am sitting close beside the rail--has it
a nautical name? I don't know--and every few minutes the spray comes
over and wets the paper and incidentally myself. And the fountain-pen!
I greatly fear it leaks, for my middle finger is blackened beyond hope
of cleansing, and though not ten minutes ago Mr. Brand inked himself
very comprehensively filling it for me, already it requires frequent
shakings to make it write at all. I thought it would be a blessing, it

threatens to become a curse. I foresee that very shortly I shall descend
again to a pencil, or write my letters with the aid of scratchy pens and
fat, respectable ink-pots in the stuffy music-room.
You will have two letters from Port Said. The one I wrote you two days
ago finished in deep melancholy, but to-day it is so good to be alive I
could shout with joy. I woke this morning with a jump of delight, and
even Mrs. Albert Murray--she of the hat-box and the many teeth--could
not irritate me, and you can't think how many irritating ways the
woman has. It is 10 a.m. and we have just come up from breakfast, and
have got our deck-chairs placed where they will catch every breeze
(and some salt water), and, with a pile of books and two boxes of
chocolate, are comfortably settled for the day.
You ask about the passengers.
We have all sorts and conditions. Quiet people who read and work all
day; rowdy people who never seem happy unless they are throwing
cushions or pulling one another downstairs by the feet; painfully
enterprising people who get up sports, sweeps, concerts, and dances,
and are full of a tiresome, misplaced energy; bridge-loving people who
play from morning till night; flirtatious people who frequent dark
corners; happy people who laugh; sad people who sniff; and one man
who can't be classed with anyone else, a sad gentleman, his hair
standing fiercely on end, a Greek Testament his constant and only
companion. We pine to know who and what he is and where he is
going. Yesterday I found myself beside him at tea. I might not have
existed for all the notice he took of me. "Speak to him," said G. in my
ear. "You don't dare!"
Of course after that I had to, so pinching G's arm to give myself
courage, I said in a small voice, "Are you enjoying the voyage?"
He turned, regarded me with his sad prominent eyes. "Do I look as if I
enjoyed it?" asked this Monsieur Melancholy, and went back to his
bread-and-butter. G. choked, and I finished my tea hurriedly and in
silence.

Nearly everyone on board seems nice and willing to be pleasant. I am
on smiling terms with most and speaking terms with many, but one
really sees very little of the people outside one's own little set. It is odd
how people drift together and make cliques. There are eight in our
particular set. Colonel and Mrs. Crawley, Major and Mrs. Wilmot;
Captain Gordon, Mr. Brand, G., and myself. The Crawleys, the
Wilmots, and Captain Gordon are going back after furlough; Mr. Brand
and G. and I are going only for pleasure and the cold weather. Our table
is much the merriest in the saloon. Mrs. Crawley is a fascinating
woman; I never tire watching her. Very pretty, very smart with a pretty
wit, she has the most delightfully gay, infectious laugh, which contrasts
oddly with her curiously sad, unsmiling eyes, Mrs. Wilmot has a
Madonna face. I don't mean one of those silly, fat-faced Madonnas one
sees in the Louvre and elsewhere, but one's own idea of the Madonna;
the kind of face, as someone puts it, that God must love.
She isn't pretty and she isn't in the least smart, but she is just a kind,
sweet, wise woman. Her husband is a cheery soul, very big and boyish
and always in uproarious spirits. Captain Gordon makes a good listener.
Mr. Brand, although he must have left school quite ten years ago, is
still very reminiscent of Eton and has a school-boyish taste in silly
rhymes and riddles. Colonel Crawley, a stern and somewhat
awe-inspiring man, a distinguished soldier, I am told, hates
passionately being asked riddles, and we make him frantic at table
repeating Mr. Brand's witticisms. He sits with a patient, disgusted face
while we repeat,
"Owen More had run away Owin' more than he could pay; Owen More
came back one day Owin' more";
and when he can bear it no longer leaves the table remarking Titbits. He
had his revenge the other