# At Delhi/Chapter 2

​II.
TRAVELS IN CAMP.
December 12.
THERE is no commanding eminence from which to survey the whole of the Durbar Camp. The Ridge is not lofty enough, and if it were the morning haze and the afternoon dust would limit the view. To see the Canvas City which has arisen on the plain outside the walls of Delhi, it is necessary to travel through it and gaze upon it in sections. The newcomer, having first stuck his head outside his tent to make quite sure that the morning sun is really above the horizon, sallies forth with the ingenuous idea of "riding round the camp"; and it is not until you have absolutely lost yourself amid a wilderness of tents that you realise what you have undertaken. You plough your way along a road deep in sand, with plenty of big flints scattered about to give variety to the surface. The fifty miles of new roads, by the way, are at present of very varying quality. There will be a mile of road in faultless condition, at the end of which you find yourself embedded in a sand bank. You drag through that and turn a corner, to be confronted by a rope, the legend "Road Closed," and in the middle distance a stray steam-roller. But every one says ​it will be "all right by the First" — if it does not rain.
On all sides are tents, big and little, round and square, from the lordly marquee to the tiny gipsy tents where the servants shelter. There cannot have been such a collection since the tent-dwellers of Central Asia set out to conquer the world. No other country could furnish a like spectacle. It is worth coming to Delhi to see the tents alone. Many have mud fire-places neatly let into the walls, while without rise square chimneys of white-washed mud. Over the sea of white roofs a flag-staff appears, with the Union Jack hanging limply in the still morning air. It marks the Commander-in-Chiefs quarters, and his Excellency is evidently in residence. You turn into a broad well-kept road, and emerge upon a large open space surrounded by spacious dwellings. A circular drive before the biggest marquee encloses a plot of grass, with flower-beds. The happy idea of bedecking Lord Kitchener's camp with flowers has been ruined by the dust. The plants are dirty and dejected, the blossoms are begrimed. Elsewhere a forlorn coolie had actually been set to dust a bed of flowers with a red feather dusting-brush!
You make your way up an adjacent gentle slope to the Viceregal House, a not very imposing structure of khaki colour, relieved by white pillars and cornices. In front, the outlook is neat and smooth enough, but the ground behind is an unkempt desert of sands and boulders. The terrace is ​littered with furniture not yet unpacked. Standing upon it, you look past the magnificent collection of tents where the Duke and Duchess of Connaught and their suite will be housed, down a long vista of roadway to the distant polo grounds. Wandering along this road, you stray presently into the camp of the Governor of Bombay. It seems the most trim and orderly camp of all, without a trace of slovenliness to offend the eye. The tents are ranged around a huge oblong lawn, green and refreshing after the sand and dust without. The designers have wisely refrained from disfiguring it with banks of sickly flowers, though a few dwarf palms are dotted about. Every tent has its fire-place and chimney and boarded floor, and is cosily furnished. People say that Lord Northcote's guests will be more comfortable than any other party in camp, and tell you wonderful stories of billiard tables, and tents with glass doors, and other marvels.
The sun is fairly high now, and you ruefully reflect that you have not got very far on that "ride round the camp." So you press onwards amid the all-encompassing tents, and hurry along a network of roads selected at random. The "light railway" — it is really nothing more than a steam tramway, with carriages very like the Bombay trams — is crossed, and you reach the Alipur Road, one of the few arterial thoroughfares in this rather chaotic place. All the roads are so thronged that it is hard to believe that the official ceremonies are still seven​teen days distant. Gangs of melancholy coolies, squads of soldiers, busy camp officials, mounted orderlies, stray postmen and telegraph messengers and chaprassies, pervade the scene. In a bye-road pleasantly shaded with trees, you see a couple of horsemen whom nobody appears to notice. The fore-most is quietly dressed in dark tweed, with a grey cloth cap. Only at the moment of passing do you suddenly perceive the face bronzed and reddened by long exposure, the heavy moustache, the cold stern eyes, and realise in a flash that it is Lord Kitchener,
On past the interminable tents, moving ever northward. Surely you must be near the verge of the camp now ? You seem to have been riding for hours. At last you emerge upon a wide bare plain. You think: "At any rate I have ridden all along one side of the place." Then a convenient notice board informs you that this particular tract — it looks like a couple of ten acre fields thrown into one — is reserved for the accommodation of the Royal Field Artillery, and you grow a little dubious about the extent of your achievement. An affable stranger passes, and you enquire if you are anywhere near the Amphitheatre. You fancy it should be hard by, but it seems to have coyly concealed itself. He points towards the north-west, and says : — "You see that village over there?"
You select a village so far away that the houses are only indistinctly visible, and ask if that is the one.
"No, not that one. Farther on to the right, where there is a line of white wall on a hillock." ​ "What, do you mean that place away towards the horizon?"
"Yes. Well, the Amphitheatre is behind that."
And away you pound across rough and broken country, wondering whether the Camp extends from here to Umballa. As a matter of fact, you afterwards find that you have taken a rather circuitous route, and also that the white wall is not quite so far away as it looks : but the point is that all this time you have never left the camp limits. The size of the place, and the distances between one point and another, must be seen to be realised. There is an Exhibition somewhere, goodness knows where; I have not yet set eyes on it.
Weird sounds of music presently assail the ear. They do not resolve themselves into any particular tune, but convey a general impression that about fifty brass bands are somewhere about and have simultaneously gone mad. As you surmount a piece of rising ground the mystery is explained. Here are sections of military bands, dotted about a sort of parade ground, all stolidly engaged in playing tunes, each section cheerfully independent of the others. You remember at last that about two thousand military bandsmen are to play on Durbar Day. At a signal, two or three hundred of them form up two deep, and burst forth into — "The Lost Chord ! "
And then you flee towards the Amphitheatre, which finally comes into view. It is an impressive sight, with its roof of creamy white, its cupolas and ​glittering decorations. It stands in massive solitude on a great dirty-brown plain, far removed from the sights and sounds of the camp. It will seat about ten thousand people. In shape it resembles a horse-shoe, and right opposite the entrance is the Viceroy's dais, projected forward into the arena, and surmounted by a cupola. The troops will be drawn up on the plain outside, facing the Amphitheatre, but only those directly before the entrance will be visible to the spectators. Somehow one feels, standing in the middle of the vast empty arena, that though the Durbar may be the most dramatic and impressive incident of this historic gathering, it will not be the most picturesque. The proportions are too great to be effectually visualised. Then, again, the roof which covers the seats will throw a large proportion of the spectators into deep shadow, and so much of the rich colouring will be lost. Moreover, there is something about Delhi in winter which does not accord with one's traditional ideas of Oriental splendour. Elephants alone do not make an Eastern pageant. We want palm trees and the luxuriant green of the tropics, and above all, warmth. And here in January, even at noon- tide, the dominant note seems likely to be imparted by the steel-blue wintry sky.