We are more cheerful now. In the first place we are less cold. The
wind has dropped and we have devised various schemes for mitigating
the excessive ventilation. I have hung two gaudy Arab rugs over my
window, with a layer of _Times_ between them and the bars. Some genius
had an inspiration, acting on which we have pitched an E.P. tent in
the mess room. It just fits and is the greatest success. Finally, I
sent my bearer to speculate in a charcoal brazier. This also is a
great success. Three penn'orth of charcoal burns for ages and gives
out any amount of heat; and there is no smell or smoke: far superior
to any stove I've ever struck. So we live largely like troglodytes in
darkness but comparative warmth. Between breakfast and tea one can sit
on the sunny side of the verandah round the inner court, though all
sunshine has still to be shared with the flies; but they're not the
flies they were, more like English October flies.
Secondly, as far as we can see, the main troubles up stream are over.
My account to Papa last mail was not very accurate, but I will write
him the facts again, in the light of fuller information. Anyway
they're back at Kut now, and ought to be able to look after themselves
till our reinforcements come up. The first two boat-loads have arrived
here this morning, and are pushing on. But it was a serious reverse
and may have very bad effects here and in India and Persia unless it
is promptly revenged.
Owing to the Salsette's grounding, there will be no mail this week.
My leg remains much the same. I can walk quite well with a slight limp
but the doctor won't let me walk more than fifty yards. I am very
thankful I was stopped from going up to Kut. "A" Coy. has been working
at top pressure there, entrenching and putting up wire entanglements.
And now they will have to stand a siege, on forty days' rations, till
Younghusband and Gorringe can relieve them. So I should be very much
_de trop_ there. I always felt that my _entreé_ into the football
world should be pregnant with fate, and so it is proving.
I have been reading some Swinburne. He disappoints me as a
mind-perverse, fantastic and involved. Obscure when he means
something, he is worse when he means nothing. As an imagination he is
wonderful. His poetry is really a series of vivid and crowding
pictures only held together by a few general and loose, though big
ideas. His style is marvellously musical but overweighted by his
classical long-windedness and difficult syntax. Such a contrast to
Tennyson where the idea shines out of the language which is so simple
as to seem inevitable, and yet wonderfully subtle as well as musical.
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