“No, mem-sahib—no ’nuf. Sahib plenty ’ungry—chicken grill, peechy ramble-tamble egg!”
“Have it your own way. I daresay the major sahib would like scrambled eggs, and we’ll have coffee—not tea.”
“No, mem-sahib. No coffee—coffee finish!”
“Send the shikari down to the bazaar, then, for a tin of coffee from Nusserwanjee.”
“Shikari saaf kuro lakri ke major sahib” (cleaning the golf-clubs). “Tea breakfast, coffee kal” (to-morrow).
And, utterly routed on every point, Jane gives in gracefully, and makes an excellent breakfast as prearranged by Sabz Ali!
The news is spread that there will be an exhibition of pictures held in Srinagar in September. Every second person is a—more or less—heaven-born artist out here, so there promises to be no lack of exhibits. I dreamed a dream last night, and in my dream I was walking along the bund and came upon an elderly gentleman laying Naples yellow on a canvas with a trowel. The river was smooth and golden, and reflected the sensuous golden tones of the sky. Trees arose from golden puddles, half screening a ziarat which, upon the glowing canvas, appeared remarkably like a village church. “How beautiful!” I cried, “how gloriously oleographic!” and the painter, removing a brush from his mouth, smiled, well pleased, and said, “I am a Leader among Victorian artists and the public adores me!” and I left him vigorously painting pot-boilers. Then in a damp dell among the willows of the Dal I found a foreigner in spectacles, and the light upon his pictures was the light that never was on sea or land; but through a silvery mist the willows showed ghostly grey, and a shadowy group of classic nymphs were ringed in the dance, and I cried “O Corot! lend me your spectacles. I fain, like you, would see crude nature dimmed to a silvery perpetual twilight.” And Corot replied: “Mon ami moi je ne vois jamais le soleil, je me plonge toujours, dans les ombres bleuâtres et les rayons pâles de l’aube.”
Then upward I fared till, treading the clear heights, I found one frantically painting the peaks and pinnacles of the mountains in weird stipples of alternate red and blue.
“Great heavens!” I exclaimed, “what disordered manner is this!”
The artist glanced swiftly at me, and said disdainfully: “I am a modern of the moderns, and if you cannot see that mountains are like that, it is your fault—not mine. Go back, you stand too close.”