We played Sweethearts. Yes, we did, with two characters cut out. We played A Happy Pair, and we gave two scenes from Macbeth, a scene from Hamlet, and a scene from Romeo and Juliet.
The worst of it was they liked it—they really did, and the next morning a deputation asked us to stay another night and do it again; but I refused, on the ground that there was not room in the Dâk Bungalow for myself and the khansamah. My husband says that the heat and some of the cholera regulations, notably that which forbade us ice and soda-water, had made me ugly. He is mistaken—as he so often is. I was never ugly in my life. I was indignant.
The journey to Karachi was wonderfully interesting. We succeeded in getting ice, and life seemed brighter.
Karachi I liked less than any other important place in the East. And yet we spent long happy days out fishing, and the nights surpassed all the nights of my memory. The moon was matchless. I don’t know where it went to at dawn; there didn’t seem room for it in the sky. When the moon shone on the sands and the ocean at Karachi, it was a marvel in white, silver, and gold that I have never seen equalled.
Perhaps I saw Karachi unfortunately. I was not pleased with the Dâk Bungalow. If I expressed myself frankly and freely re that Dâk Bungalow I might, I fear, find myself involved in a suit for libel. And the cholera was raging. Two of our dhobies died from it, and wherever we went, every few yards we came upon a fire—a bonfire built by the natives to burn up the poison fumes.
Everything comes to those who wait, and a great deal more comes to those who don’t. The day came when we left India; I, at least, was deeply sorry. Whatever home and the future might give me—I was leaving much in India. Much that was sacred and precious. I had buried hopes in the East and lost ambitions; but I had found much that was helpful and soothing. India, I cry you “Salaam,” and I throw mogree flowers at your feet!
We looked toward England with longing eyes. Yet we left the Orient with reluctant feet.
It rained viciously when we reached Liverpool. We did not care. We were home—home at last! We looked into each other’s eyes and were glad. We had come, hand in hand, out of the storied East. We were going, hand in hand, into London,—the actor’s Mecca.
As I glance back through my pages, I fear that I have written too personally; but it was the only way I could write.
I was born with a talent. Perhaps I will be forgiven for boasting of it, because I freely confess that it is the only talent I have ever had. I inherited it from my father, who had it to a very great degree. It is a talent that sometimes brings sorrow; but certainly no other talent brings half so much joy. And I venture to think that if a woman can have but one talent, it is the very best talent that she can have: the talent of loving. I have loved the East dearly. Unless I had written of the East as I saw it—unless I had written of my daily life there, I must have been silent. And I wanted to speak; I had something to say. I do so hope that I have said it. It is this, “Go East—go East!”