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CHAPTER V
AN OLD PORTUGUESE SUBURB
Temporal blessings pass like a dream, beauty fades like a flower, the longest life disappears like a flash. Our existence may be likened to the bubble that forms on the surface of the water.–Sloka.
It was somewhat appalling to learn that it was the duty of the chaplain’s wife to call on all the ladies of the cathedral congregation, and that no one dreamed of visiting new arrivals until a call had been made, a complete reversal of the etiquette in England.
I was provided with a list of names and addresses by a neighbour, who took compassion on my ignorance and constituted herself my guide and mentor in things social. She proved a lifelong friend. The calling had its drawbacks, but it also had its compensations for me. Among the former were the heat and glare, the dust and smells. These features of the East are inconceivable to the dwellers in a temperate climate. The dust of Madras rises from the laterite, a ferruginous earth of which the roads are made. The laterite is beaten down with water, and binds into a hard, smooth surface that is very pleasant to drive over. The constant wear of cart-wheels and the pounding of hoofs, equine and bovine, reduces it in time to the finest powder, so fine that it resembles an ochre paint of Venetian red tint ready ground for mixing. It permeates everything, and penetrates through clothing to the very skin. It stains white material with which it
