MY UNCLE IN INDIA

Not that it is my uncle, let me explain. It is Polly's uncle, as I

very well know, from the many times she has thrown him up to me, and

is liable so to do at any moment. Having small expectations myself,

and having wedded Polly when they were smaller, I have come to feel

the full force, the crushing weight, of her lightest remark about "My

Uncle in India." The words as I write them convey no idea of the

tone in which they fall upon my ears. I think it is the only fault

of that estimable woman, that she has an "uncle in India" and does

not let him quietly remain there. I feel quite sure that if I had an

uncle in Botany Bay, I should never, never throw him up to Polly in

the way mentioned. If there is any jar in our quiet life, he is the

cause of it; all along of possible "expectations" on the one side

calculated to overawe the other side not having expectations. And

yet I know that if her uncle in India were this night to roll a

barrel of "India's golden sands," as I feel that he any moment may

do, into our sitting-room, at Polly's feet, that charming wife, who

is more generous than the month of May, and who has no thought but

for my comfort in two worlds, would straightway make it over to me,

to have and to hold, if I could lift it, forever and forever. And

that makes it more inexplicable that she, being a woman, will

continue to mention him in the way she does.

In a large and general way I regard uncles as not out of place in

this transitory state of existence. They stand for a great many

possible advantages. They are liable to "tip" you at school, they

are resources in vacation, they come grandly in play about the

holidays, at which season mv heart always did warm towards them with

lively expectations, which were often turned into golden solidities;

and then there is always the prospect, sad to a sensitive mind, that

uncles are mortal, and, in their timely taking off, may prove as

generous in the will as they were in the deed. And there is always

this redeeming possibility in a niggardly uncle. Still there must be

something wrong in the character of the uncle per se, or all history

would not agree that nepotism is such a dreadful thing.

But, to return from this unnecessary digression, I am reminded that

the charioteer of the patient year has brought round the holiday

time. It has been a growing year, as most years are. It is very

pleasant to see how the shrubs in our little patch of ground widen

and thicken and bloom at the right time, and to know that the great

trees have added a laver to their trunks. To be sure, our garden,--

which I planted under Polly's directions, with seeds that must have

been patented, and I forgot to buy the right of, for they are mostly

still waiting the final resurrection,--gave evidence that it shared

in the misfortune of the Fall, and was never an Eden from which one

would have required to have been driven. It was the easiest garden

to keep the neighbor's pigs and hens out of I ever saw. If its

increase was small its temptations were smaller, and that is no

little recommendation in this world of temptations. But, as a

general thing, everything has grown, except our house. That little

cottage, over which Polly presides with grace enough to adorn a

palace, is still small outside and smaller inside; and if it has an

air of comfort and of neatness, and its rooms are cozy and sunny by

day and cheerful by night, and it is bursting with books, and not

unattractive with modest pictures on the walls, which we think do

well enough until my uncle--(but never mind my uncle, now),--and if,

in the long winter evenings, when the largest lamp is lit, and the

chestnuts glow in embers, and the kid turns on the spit, and the

house-plants are green and flowering, and the ivy glistens in the

firelight, and Polly sits with that contented, far-away look in her

eyes that I like to see, her fingers busy upon one of those cruel

mysteries which have delighted the sex since Penelope, and I read in

one of my fascinating law-books, or perhaps regale ourselves with a

taste of Montaigne,--if all this is true, there are times when the

cottage seems small; though I can never find that Polly thinks so,

except when she sometimes says that she does not know where she

should bestow her uncle in it, if he should suddenly come back from

India.

There it is, again. I sometimes think that my wife believes her

uncle in India to be as large as two ordinary men; and if her ideas

of him are any gauge of the reality, there is no place in the town

large enough for him except the Town Hall. She probably expects him

to come with his bungalow, and his sedan, and his palanquin, and his

elephants, and his retinue of servants, and his principalities, and

his powers, and his ha--(no, not that), and his chowchow, and his--I

scarcely know what besides.

Christmas eve was a shiny cold night, a creaking cold night, a

placid, calm, swingeing cold night.

Out-doors had gone into a general state of crystallization. The

snow-fields were like the vast Arctic ice-fields that Kane looked on,

and lay sparkling under the moonlight, crisp and Christmasy, and all

the crystals on the trees and bushes hung glistening, as if ready, at

a breath of air, to break out into metallic ringing, like a million

silver joy-bells. I mentioned the conceit to Polly, as we stood at

the window, and she said it reminded her of Jean Paul. She is a

woman of most remarkable discernment.

Christmas is a great festival at our house in a small way. Among the

many delightful customs we did not inherit from our Pilgrim Fathers,

there is none so pleasant as that of giving presents at this season.

It is the most exciting time of the year. No one is too rich to

receive something, and no one too poor to give a trifle. And in the

act of giving and receiving these tokens of regard, all the world is

kin for once, and brighter for this transient glow of generosity.

Delightful custom! Hard is the lot of childhood that knows nothing

of the visits of Kriss Kringle, or the stockings hung by the chimney

at night; and cheerless is any age that is not brightened by some

Christmas gift, however humble. What a mystery of preparation there

is in the preceding days, what planning and plottings of surprises!

Polly and I keep up the custom in our simple way, and great is the

perplexity to express the greatest amount of affection with a limited

outlay. For the excellence of a gift lies in its appropriateness

rather than in its value. As we stood by the window that night, we

wondered what we should receive this year, and indulged in I know not

what little hypocrisies and deceptions.

I wish, said Polly, "that my uncle in India would send me a

camel's-hair shawl, or a string of pearls, each as big as the end of

my thumb."

"Or a white cow, which would give golden milk, that would make butter

worth seventy-five cents a pound," I added, as we drew the curtains,

and turned to our chairs before the open fire.

It is our custom on every Christmas eve--as I believe I have

somewhere said, or if I have not, I say it again, as the member from

Erin might remark--to read one of Dickens's Christmas stories. And

this night, after punching the fire until it sent showers of sparks

up the chimney, I read the opening chapter of "Mrs. Lirriper's

Lodgings," in my best manner, and handed the book to Polly to

continue; for I do not so much relish reading aloud the succeeding

stories of Mr. Dickens's annual budget, since he wrote them, as men

go to war in these days, by substitute. And Polly read on, in her

melodious voice, which is almost as pleasant to me as the Wasser-

fluth of Schubert, which she often plays at twilight; and I looked

into the fire, unconsciously constructing stories of my own out of

the embers. And her voice still went on, in a sort of running

accompaniment to my airy or fiery fancies.

"Sleep?" said Polly, stopping, with what seemed to me a sort of

crash, in which all the castles tumbled into ashes.

"Not in the least," I answered brightly never heard anything more

agreeable." And the reading flowed on and on and on, and I looked

steadily into the fire, the fire, fire, fi....

Suddenly the door opened, and into our cozy parlor walked the most

venerable personage I ever laid eyes on, who saluted me with great

dignity. Summer seemed to have burst into the room, and I was

conscious of a puff of Oriental airs, and a delightful, languid

tranquillity. I was not surprised that the figure before me was clad

in full turban, baggy drawers, and a long loose robe, girt about the

middle with a rich shawl. Followed him a swart attendant, who

hastened to spread a rug upon which my visitor sat down, with great

gravity, as I am informed they do in farthest Ind. The slave then

filled the bowl of a long-stemmed chibouk, and, handing it to his

master, retired behind him and began to fan him with the most

prodigious palm-leaf I ever saw. Soon the fumes of the delicate

tobacco of Persia pervaded the room, like some costly aroma which you

cannot buy, now the entertainment of the Arabian Nights is

discontinued.

Looking through the window I saw, if I saw anything, a palanquin at

our door, and attendant on it four dusky, half-naked bearers, who did

not seem to fancy the splendor of the night, for they jumped about on

the snow crust, and I could see them shiver and shake in the keen

air. Oho! thought!, this, then, is my uncle from India!

"Yes, it is," now spoke my visitor extraordinary, in a gruff, harsh

voice.

"I think I have heard Polly speak of you," I rejoined, in an attempt

to be civil, for I did n't like his face any better than I did his

voice,--a red, fiery, irascible kind of face.

"Yes I've come over to O Lord,--quick, Jamsetzee, lift up that foot,-

-take care. There, Mr. Trimings, if that's your name, get me a

glass of brandy, stiff."

I got him our little apothecary-labeled bottle and poured out enough

to preserve a whole can of peaches. My uncle took it down without a

wink, as if it had been water, and seemed relieved. It was a very

pleasant uncle to have at our fireside on Christmas eve, I felt.

At a motion from my uncle, Jamsetzee handed me a parcel which I saw

was directed to Polly, which I untied, and lo! the most wonderful

camel's-hair shawl that ever was, so fine that I immediately drew it

through my finger-ring, and so large that I saw it would entirely

cover our little room if I spread it out; a dingy red color, but

splendid in appearance from the little white hieroglyphic worked in

one corner, which is always worn outside, to show that it cost nobody

knows how many thousands of dollars.

"A Christmas trifle for Polly. I have come home--as I was saying

when that confounded twinge took me--to settle down; and I intend to

make Polly my heir, and live at my ease and enjoy life. Move that

leg a little, Jamsetzee."

I meekly replied that I had no doubt Polly would be delighted to see

her dear uncle, and as for inheriting, if it came to that, I did n't

know any one with a greater capacity for that than she.

"That depends," said the gruff old smoker, "how I like ye. A

fortune, scraped up in forty years in Ingy, ain't to be thrown away

in a minute. But what a house this is to live in!"; the

uncomfortable old relative went on, throwing a contemptuous glance

round the humble cottage. "Is this all of it?"

"In the winter it is all of it," I said, flushing up; but in the

summer, when the doors and windows are open, it is as large as

anybody's house. And," I went on, with some warmth, "it was large

enough just before you came in, and pleasant enough. And besides, I

said, rising into indignation, "you can not get anything much better

in this city short of eight hundred dollars a year, payable first

days of January, April, July, and October, in advance, and my

salary...."

"Hang your salary, and confound your impudence and your seven-by-nine

hovel! Do you think you have anything to say about the use of my

money, scraped up in forty years in Ingy? THINGS HAVE GOT TO BE

CHANGED!" he burst out, in a voice that rattled the glasses on the

sideboard.

I should think they were. Even as I looked into the little fireplace

it enlarged, and there was an enormous grate, level with the floor,

glowing with seacoal; and a magnificent mantel carved in oak, old and

brown; and over it hung a landscape, wide, deep, summer in the

foreground with all the gorgeous coloring of the tropics, and beyond

hills of blue and far mountains lying in rosy light. I held my

breath as I looked down the marvelous perspective. Looking round for

a second, I caught a glimpse of a Hindoo at each window, who vanished

as if they had been whisked off by enchantment; and the close walls

that shut us in fled away. Had cohesion and gravitation given out?

Was it the "Great Consummation" of the year 18-? It was all like the

swift transformation of a dream, and I pinched my arm to make sure

that I was not the subject of some diablerie.

The little house was gone; but that I scarcely minded, for I had

suddenly come into possession of my wife's castle in Spain. I sat in

a spacious, lofty apartment, furnished with a princely magnificence.

Rare pictures adorned the walls, statues looked down from deep

niches, and over both the dark ivy of England ran and drooped in

graceful luxuriance. Upon the heavy tables were costly, illuminated

volumes; luxurious chairs and ottomans invited to easy rest; and upon

the ceiling Aurora led forth all the flower-strewing daughters of the

dawn in brilliant frescoes. Through the open doors my eyes wandered

into magnificent apartment after apartment. There to the south,

through folding-doors, was the splendid library, with groined roof,

colored light streaming in through painted windows, high shelves

stowed with books, old armor hanging on the walls, great carved oaken

chairs about a solid oaken table, and beyond a conservatory of

flowers and plants with a fountain springing in the center, the

splashing of whose waters I could hear. Through the open windows I

looked upon a lawn, green with close-shaven turf, set with ancient

trees, and variegated with parterres of summer plants in bloom. It

was the month of June, and the smell of roses was in the air.

I might have thought it only a freak of my fancy, but there by the

fireplace sat a stout, red-faced, puffy-looking man, in the ordinary

dress of an English gentleman, whom I had no difficulty in

recognizing as my uncle from India.

"One wants a fire every day in the year in this confounded climate,"

remarked that amiable old person, addressing no one in particular.

I had it on my lips to suggest that I trusted the day would come when

he would have heat enough to satisfy him, in permanent supply. I

wish now that I had.

I think things had changed. For now into this apartment, full of the

morning sunshine, came sweeping with the air of a countess born, and

a maid of honor bred, and a queen in expectancy, my Polly, stepping

with that lofty grace which I always knew she possessed, but which

she never had space to exhibit in our little cottage, dressed with

that elegance and richness that I should not have deemed possible to

the most Dutch duchess that ever lived, and, giving me a complacent

nod of recognition, approached her uncle, and said in her smiling,

cheery way, "How is the dear uncle this morning?" And, as she spoke,

she actually bent down and kissed his horrid old cheek, red-hot with

currie and brandy and all the biting pickles I can neither eat nor

name, kissed him, and I did not turn into stone.

"Comfortable as the weather will permit, my darling!"--and again I

did not turn into stone.

"Wouldn't uncle like to take a drive this charming morning?" Polly

asked.

Uncle finally grunted out his willingness, and Polly swept away again

to prepare for the drive, taking no more notice of me than if I had

been a poor assistant office lawyer on a salary. And soon the

carriage was at the door, and my uncle, bundled up like a mummy, and

the charming Polly drove gayly away.

How pleasant it is to be married rich, I thought, as I arose and

strolled into the library, where everything was elegant and prim and

neat, with no scraps of paper and piles of newspapers or evidences of

literary slovenness on the table, and no books in attractive

disorder, and where I seemed to see the legend staring at me from all

the walls, "No smoking." So I uneasily lounged out of the house.

And a magnificent house it was, a palace, rather, that seemed to

frown upon and bully insignificant me with its splendor, as I walked

away from it towards town.

And why town? There was no use of doing anything at the dingy

office. Eight hundred dollars a year! It wouldn't keep Polly in

gloves, let alone dressing her for one of those fashionable

entertainments to which we went night after night. And so, after a

weary day with nothing in it, I went home to dinner, to find my uncle

quite chirruped up with his drive, and Polly regnant, sublimely

engrossed in her new world of splendor, a dazzling object of

admiration to me, but attentive and even tender to that

hypochondriacal, gouty old subject from India.

Yes, a magnificent dinner, with no end of servants, who seemed to

know that I couldn't have paid the wages of one of them, and plate

and courses endless. I say, a miserable dinner, on the edge of which

seemed to sit by permission of somebody, like an invited poor

relation, who wishes he had sent a regret, and longing for some of

those nice little dishes that Polly used to set before me with

beaming face, in the dear old days.

And after dinner, and proper attention to the comfort for the night

of our benefactor, there was the Blibgims's party. No long,

confidential interviews, as heretofore, as to what she should wear

and what I should wear, and whether it would do to wear it again.

And Polly went in one coach, and I in another. No crowding into the

hired hack, with all the delightful care about tumbling dresses, and

getting there in good order; and no coming home together to our

little cozy cottage, in a pleasant, excited state of "flutteration,"

and sitting down to talk it all over, and "Was n't it nice?" and "Did

I look as well as anybody?" and "Of course you did to me," and all

that nonsense. We lived in a grand way now, and had our separate

establishments and separate plans, and I used to think that a real

separation couldn't make matters much different. Not that Polly

meant to be any different, or was, at heart; but, you know, she was

so much absorbed in her new life of splendor, and perhaps I was a

little old-fashioned.

I don't wonder at it now, as I look back. There was an army of

dressmakers to see, and a world of shopping to do, and a houseful of

servants to manage, and all the afternoon for calls, and her dear,

dear friend, with the artless manners and merry heart of a girl, and

the dignity and grace of a noble woman, the dear friend who lived in

the house of the Seven Gables, to consult about all manner of im-

portant things. I could not, upon my honor, see that there was any

place for me, and I went my own way, not that there was much comfort

in it.

And then I would rather have had charge of a hospital ward than take

care of that uncle. Such coddling as he needed, such humoring of

whims. And I am bound to say that Polly could n't have been more

dutiful to him if he had been a Hindoo idol. She read to him and

talked to him, and sat by him with her embroidery, and was patient

with his crossness, and wearied herself, that I could see, with her

devoted ministrations.

I fancied sometimes she was tired of it, and longed for the old

homely simplicity. I was. Nepotism had no charms for me. There was

nothing that I could get Polly that she had not. I could surprise

her with no little delicacies or trifles, delightedly bought with

money saved for the purpose. There was no more coming home weary

with office work and being met at the door with that warm, loving

welcome which the King of England could not buy. There was no long

evening when we read alternately from some favorite book, or laid our

deep housekeeping plans, rejoiced in a good bargain or made light of

a poor one, and were contented and merry with little. I recalled

with longing my little den, where in the midst of the literary

disorder I love, I wrote those stories for the "Antarctic" which

Polly, if nobody else, liked to read. There was no comfort for me in

my magnificent library. We were all rich and in splendor, and our

uncle had come from India. I wished, saving his soul, that the ship

that brought him over had foundered off Barnegat Light. It would

always have been a tender and regretful memory to both of us. And

how sacred is the memory of such a loss!

Christmas? What delight could I have in long solicitude and

ingenious devices touching a gift for Polly within my means, and

hitting the border line between her necessities and her extravagant

fancy? A drove of white elephants would n't have been good enough

for her now, if each one carried a castle on his back.

"--and so they were married, and in their snug cottage lived happy

ever after."--It was Polly's voice, as she closed the book.

"There, I don't believe you have heard a word of it," she said half

complaininglv.

"Oh, yes, I have," I cried, starting up and giving the fire a jab

with the poker; "I heard every word of it, except a few at the close

I was thinking"--I stopped, and looked round.

"Why, Polly, where is the camel's-hair shawl?"

"Camel's-hair fiddlestick! Now I know you have been asleep for an

hour."

And, sure enough, there was n't anv camel's-hair shawl there, nor any

uncle, nor were there any Hindoos at our windows.

And then I told Polly all about it; how her uncle came back, and we

were rich and lived in a palace and had no end of money, but she

didn't seem to have time to love me in it all, and all the comfort of

the little house was blown away as by the winter wind. And Polly

vowed, half in tears, that she hoped her uncle never would come back,

and she wanted nothing that we had not, and she wouldn't exchange our

independent comfort and snug house, no, not for anybody's mansion.

And then and there we made it all up, in a manner too particular for

me to mention; and I never, to this day, heard Polly allude to My

Uncle in India.

And then, as the clock struck eleven, we each produced from the place

where we had hidden them the modest Christmas gifts we had prepared

for each other, and what surprise there was! "Just the thing I

needed." And, "It's perfectly lovely." And, "You should n't have

done it." And, then, a question I never will answer, "Ten? fifteen?

five? twelve?" "My dear, it cost eight hundred dollars, for I have

put my whole year into it, and I wish it was a thousand times

better."

And so, when the great iron tongue of the city bell swept over the

snow the twelve strokes that announced Christmas day, if there was

anywhere a happier home than ours, I am glad of it!