Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated)

by Rudyard Kipling

  CAPTAIN GADSBY. (Aside.) The filly, by Jove! ‘Must ha’ picked up that action from the sire. (Aloud, rising.) Good evening, Miss Threegan.

  MISS T. (Conscious that she is flushing.) Good evening, Captain

  Gadsby. Mamma told me to say that she will be ready in a few minutes.

  Won’t you have some tea? (Aside.) I hope Mamma will be quick. What

  am I to say to the creature? (Aloud and abruptly.) Milk and sugar?

  CAPT. G. No sugar, tha-anks, and very little milk. Ha-Hmmm.

  MISS T. (Aside.) If he’s going to do that, I’m lost. I shall laugh.

  I know I shall!

  CAPT. G. (Pulling at his moustache and watching it sideways down his nose.) Ha-Hmmm. (Aside.) ‘Wonder what the little beast can talk about. ‘Must make a shot at it.

  MISS T. (Aside.) Oh, this is agonising. I must say something.

  BOTH TOGETHER. Have you been — -

  CAPT. G. I beg your pardon. You were going to say — -

  MISS T. (Who has been watching the moustache with awed fascination.)

  Won’t you have some eggs?

  CAPT. G. (Looking bewilderedly at the tea-table.) Eggs! (A side.) O Hades! She must have a nursery-tea at this hour. S’pose they’ve wiped her mouth and sent her to me while the Mother is getting on her duds. (Aloud.) No, thanks.

  MISS T. (Crimson with confusion.) Oh! I didn’t mean that. I wasn’t thinking of mou — eggs for an instant. I mean salt. Won’t you have some sa — - sweets? (Aside.) He’ll think me a raving lunatic. I wish Mamma would come.

  CAPT. G. (Aside.) It was a nursery-tea and she’s ashamed of it. By Jove! She doesn’t look half bad when she colours up like that. (Aloud, helping himself from the dish.) Have you seen those new chocolates at Peliti’s?

  MISS T. No, I made these myself. What are they like?

  CAPT. G. These! De-licious. (Aside.) And that’s a fact.

  MISS T. (Aside.) Oh, bother! he’ll think I’m fishing for compliments. (Aloud.) No, Peliti’s of course.

  CAPT. G. (Enthusiastically.) Not to compare with these. How d’you make them? I can’t get my khansamah to understand the simplest thing beyond mutton and fowl.

  MISS T. Yes? I’m not a khansamah, you know. Perhaps you frighten him. You should never frighten a servant. He loses his head. It’s very bad policy.

  CAPT. G. He’s so awf’ly stupid.

  MISS T. (Folding her hands in her lap.) You should call him quietly and say: ‘O khansamah jee!’

  CAPT. G. (Getting interested.) Yes? (Aside.) Fancy that little featherweight saying, ‘O khansamah jee’ to my bloodthirsty Mir Khan!

  MISS T. Then you should explain the dinner, dish by dish.

  CAPT. G. But I can’t speak the vernacular.

  MISS T. (Patronizingly.) You should pass the Higher Standard and try.

  CAPT. G. I have, but I don’t seem to be any the wiser. Are you?

  MISS T. I never passed the Higher Standard. But the khansamah is very patient with me. He doesn’t get angry when I talk about sheep’s topees, or order maunds of grain when I mean seers.

  CAPT. G. (Aside, with intense indignation.) I’d like to see Mir Khan being rude to that girl! Hullo! Steady the Buffs! (Aloud.) And do you understand about horses, too?

  MISS T. A little — not very much. I can’t doctor them, but I know what they ought to eat, and I am in charge of our stable.

  CAPT. G. Indeed! You might help me then. What ought a man to give his sais in the Hills? My ruffian says eight rupees, because everything is so dear.

  MISS T. Six rupees a month, and one rupee Simla allowance — neither more nor less. And a grass-cut gets six rupees. That’s better than buying grass in the bazar.

  CAPT. G. (Admiringly.) How do you know?

  MISS T. I have tried both ways.

  CAPT. G. Do you ride much, then? I’ve never seen you on the Mall.

  MISS T. (Aside.) I haven’t passed him more than fifty times. (Aloud.) Nearly every day.

  CAPT. G. By Jove! I didn’t know that. Ha-Hmmm! (Pulls at his moustache and is silent for forty seconds.)

  MISS T. (Desperately, and wondering what will happen next.) It looks beautiful. I shouldn’t touch it if I were you. (Aside.) It’s all Mamma’s fault for not coming before. I will be rude!

  CAPT. G. (Bronzing under the tan and bringing down his hand very quickly.) Eh! Wha-at! Oh, yes! Ha! Ha! (Laughs uneasily.) (Aside.) Well, of all the dashed cheek! I never had a woman say that to me yet. She must be a cool hand or else — Ah! that nursery-tea!

  VOICE FROM THE UNKNOWN. Tchk! Tchk! Tchk!

  CAPT. G. Good Gracious! What’s that?

  MISS T. The dog, I think. (Aside.) Emma has been listening, and

  I’ll never forgive her!

  CAPT. G. (Aside.) They don’t keep dogs here. (Aloud.) Didn’t sound like a dog, did it?

  MISS T. Then it must have been the cat. Let’s go into the veranda.

  What a lovely evening it is!

  Steps into veranda and looks out across the hills into sunset. The Captain follows.

  CAPT. G. (Aside.) Superb eyes! I wonder that I never noticed them before! (Aloud.) There’s going to be a dance at Viceregal Lodge on Wednesday. Can you spare me one?

  MISS T. (Shortly.) No! I don’t want any of your charity-dances. You only ask me because Mamma told you to. I hop and I bump. You know I do!

  CAPT. G. (Aside.) That’s true, but little girls shouldn’t understand these things. (Aloud.) No, on my word, I don’t. You dance beautifully.

  MISS T. Then why do you always stand out after half a dozen turns? I thought officers in the Army didn’t tell fibs.

  CAPT. G. It wasn’t a fib, believe me. I really do want the pleasure of a dance with you.

  MISS T. (Wickedly.) Why? Won’t Mamma dance with you any more?

  CAPT. G. (More earnestly than the necessity demands.) I wasn’t thinking of your Mother. (Aside.) You little vixen!

  MISS T. (Still looking out of the window.) Eh? Oh, I beg your pardon.

  I was thinking of something else.

  CAPT. G. (Aside.) Well! I wonder what she’ll say next. I’ve never known a woman treat me like this before. I might be — Dash it, I might be an Infantry subaltern! (Aloud.) Oh, please don’t trouble. I’m not worth thinking about. Isn’t your Mother ready yet?

  MISS T. I should think so; but promise me, Captain Gadsby, you won’t take poor dear Mamma twice round Jakko any more. It tires her so.

  CAPT. G. She says that no exercise tires her.

  MISS T. Yes, but she suffers afterwards. You don’t know what rheumatism is, and you oughtn’t to keep her out so late, when it gets chill in the evenings.

  CAPT. G. (Aside.) Rheumatism! I thought she came off her horse rather in a bunch. Whew! One lives and learns. (Aloud.) I’m sorry to hear that. She hasn’t mentioned it to me.

  MISS T. (Flurried.) Of course not! Poor dear Mamma never would. And you mustn’t say that I told you either. Promise me that you won’t. Oh, Captain Gadsby, promise me you won’t!

  CAPT. G. I am dumb, or — I shall be as soon as you’ve given me that dance, and another — if you can trouble yourself to think about me for a minute.

  MISS T. But you won’t like it one little bit. You’ll be awfully sorry afterwards.

  CAPT. G. I shall like it above all things, and I shall only be sorry that I didn’t get more. (Aside.) Now what in the world am I saying?

  MISS T. Very well. You will have only yourself to thank if your toes are trodden on. Shall we say Seven?

  CAPT. G. And Eleven. (Aside.) She can’t be more than eight stone, but, even then, it’s an absurdly small foot. (Looks at his own riding boots.)

  MISS T. They’re beautifully shiny. I can almost see my face in them.

  CAPT. G. I was thinking whether I should have to go on crutches for the rest of my life if you trod on my toes.

  MISS T. Very likely. Why not change Eleven for a square?

  CAPT. G. No, please! I want them both waltzes. Won’t you writ
e them down?

  MISS T. I don’t get so many dances that I shall confuse them. You will be the offender.

  CAPT. G. Wait and see! (Aside.) She doesn’t dance perfectly, perhaps, but —

  MISS T. Your tea must have got cold by this time. Won’t you have another cup?

  CAPT. G. No, thanks. Don’t you think it’s pleasanter out in the veranda? (Aside.) I never saw hair take that colour in the sunshine before. (Aloud.) It’s like one of Dicksee’s pictures.

  MISS T. Yes! It’s a wonderful sunset, isn’t it? (Bluntly.) But what do you know about Dicksee’s pictures?

  CAPT. G. I go Home occasionally. And I used to know the Galleries. (Nervously.) You mustn’t think me only a Philistine with — a moustache.

  MISS T. Don’t! Please don’t! I’m so sorry for what I said then. I was horribly rude. It slipped out before I thought. Don’t you know the temptation to say frightful and shocking things just for the mere sake of saying them? I’m afraid I gave way to it.

  CAPT. G. (Watching the girl as she flushes.) I think I know the feeling. It would be terrible if we all yielded to it, wouldn’t it? For instance, I might say —

  POOR DEAR MAMMA. (Entering, habited, hatted, and booted.) Ah, Captain Gadsby! ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. ‘Hope you haven’t been bored. ‘My little girl been talking to you?

  MISS T. (Aside.) I’m not sorry I spoke about the rheumatism. I’m not! I’m NOT! I only wish I’d mentioned the corns too.

  CAPT. G. (Aside.) What a shame! I wonder how old she is. It never occurred to me before. (Aloud.) We’ve been discussing ‘Shakespeare and the musical glasses’ in the veranda.

  MISS T. (Aside.) Nice man! He knows that quotation. He isn’t a Philistine with a moustache. (Aloud.) Good-bye, Captain Gadsby. (Aside.) What a huge hand and what a squeeze! I don’t suppose he meant it, but he has driven the rings into my fingers.

  POOR DEAR MAMMA. Has Vermillion come round yet? Oh, yes! Captain Gadsby, don’t you think that the saddle is too far forward? (They pass into the front veranda.)

  CAPT. G. (Aside.) How the dickens should I know what she prefers?

  She told me that she doted on horses. (Aloud.) I think it is.

  MISS T. (Coming out into front veranda.) Oh! Bad Buldoo! I must speak to him for this. He has taken up the curb two links, and Vermillion hates that. (Passes out and to horse’s head.)

  CAPT. G. Let me do it.

  MISS T. No, Vermillion understands me. Don’t you, old man? (Looses curb-chain skilfully, and pats horse on nose and throttle.) Poor Vermillion! Did they want to cut his chin off? There!

  CAPTAIN GADSBY watches the interlude with undisguised admiration.

  POOR DEAR MAMMA. (Tartly to MISS T.) You’ve forgotten your guest,

  I think, dear.

  MISS T. Good gracious! So I have! Good-bye. (Retreats indoors hastily)

  POOR DEAR MAMMA. (Bunching reins in fingers hampered by too tight gauntlets) Captain Gadsby!

  CAPTAIN GADSBY stoops and makes the foot-rest.

  POOR DEAR MAMMA blunders, halts too long, and breaks through it.

  CAPT. G. (Aside.) Can’t hold up eleven stone for ever. It’s all your rheumatism. (Aloud.) Can’t imagine why I was so clumsy. (Aside.) Now Little Featherweight would have gone up like a bird.

  They ride out of the garden. The Captain falls back.

  CAPT. G. (Aside.) How that habit catches her under the arms! Ugh!

  POOR DEAR MAMMA. (With the worn smile of sixteen seasons, the worse for exchange.) You’re dull this afternoon, Captain Gadsby.

  CAPT. G. (Spurring up wearily.) Why did you keep me waiting so long?

  Et caetera, et caetera, et caetera.

  (AN INTERVAL OF THREE WEEKS.)

  GILDED YOUTH. (Sitting on railings opposite Town Hall.) Hullo,

  Gaddy! ‘Been trotting out the Gorgonzola! We all thought it was the

  Gorgon you’re mashing.

  CAPT. G. (With withering emphasis.) You young cub! What the — — does it matter to you?

  Proceeds to read GILDED YOUTH a lecture on discretion and deportment, which crumbles latter like a Chinese Lantern. Departs fuming.

  (FURTHER INTERVAL OF FIVE WEEKS.)

  SCENE. — Exterior of New Simla Library on a foggy evening. MISS THREEGAN and MISS DEERCOURT meet among the ‘rickshaws. MISS T. is carrying a bundle of books under her left arm.

  MISS D. (Level intonation.) Well?

  MISS T. (Ascending intonation.) Well?

  MISS D. (Capturing her friend’s left arm, taking away all the books, placing books in ‘rickshaw, returning to arm, securing hand by the third finger and investigating.) Well! You bad girl! And you never told me.

  MISS T. (Demurely.) He — he — he only spoke yesterday afternoon.

  MISS D. Bless you, dear! And I’m to be bridesmaid, aren’t I? You know you promised ever so long ago.

  MISS T. Of course. I’ll tell you all about it to-morrow. (Gets into’rickshaw.) O Emma!

  MISS D. (With intense interest.) Yes, dear?

  MISS T. (Piano.) It’s quite true — about — the — egg.

  MISS D. What egg?

  MISS T. (Pianissimo prestissimo.) The egg without the salt. (Forte.) Chalo ghar ko jaldi, jhampani! (Go home, jhampani.)

  THE WORLD WITHOUT

  Certain people of importance.

  SCENE. — Smoking-room of the Deychi Club. Time, 10.30 P. M. of a stuffy night in the Rains. Four men dispersed in picturesque attitudes and easy-chairs. To these enter BLAYNE of the Irregular Moguls, in evening dress.

  BLAYNE. Phew! The Judge ought to be hanged in his own store-godown.

  Hi, khitmatgar! Poora whiskey-peg, to take the taste out of my mouth.

  CURTISS. (Royal Artillery.) That’s it, is it? What the deuce made you dine at the Judge’s? You know his bandobust.

  BLAYNE. ‘Thought it couldn’t be worse than the Club; but I’ll swear he buys ullaged liquor and doctors it with gin and ink (looking round the room). Is this all of you tonight?

  DOONE. (P. W. D.) Anthony was called out at dinner. Mingle had a pain in his tummy.

  CURTISS. Miggy dies of cholera once a week in the Rains, and gets drunk on chlorodyne in between. ‘Good little chap, though. Any one at the Judge’s, Blayne?

  BLAYNE. Cockley and his memsahib looking awfully white and fagged. ‘Female girl — couldn’t catch the name — on her way to the Hills, under the Cockleys’ charge — the Judge, and Markyn fresh from Simla — disgustingly fit.

  CURTISS. Good Lord, how truly magnificent! Was there enough ice? When

  I mangled garbage there I got one whole lump — nearly as big as a walnut.

  What had Markyn to say for himself?

  BLAYNE. ‘Seems that every one is having a fairly good time up there in spite of the rain. By Jove, that reminds me! I know I hadn’t come across just for the pleasure of your society. News! Great news! Markyn told me.

  DOONE. Who’s dead now?

  BLAYNE. No one that I know of; but Gaddy’s hooked at last!

  DROPPING CHORUS. How much? The Devil! Markyn was pulling your leg. Not

  GADDY!

  BLAYNE. (Humming.) ‘Yea, verily, verily, verily! Verily, verily, I say unto thee.’ Theodore, the gift o’ God! Our Phillup! It’s been given out up above.

  MACKESY. (Barrister-at-Law.) Huh! Women will give out anything. What does accused say?

  BLAYNE. Markyn told me that he congratulated him warily — one hand held out, t’other ready to guard. Gaddy turned pink and said it was so.

  CURTISS. Poor old Gaddy! They all do it. Who’s she? Let’s hear the details.

  BLAYNE. She’s a girl — daughter of a Colonel Somebody.

  DOONE. Simla’s stiff with Colonels’ daughters. Be more explicit.

  BLAYNE. Wait a shake. What was her name? Three — something. Three —

  CURTISS. Stars, perhaps. Gaddy knows that brand.

  BLAYNE. Threegan — Minnie Threegan.

  MACKESY. Threegan! Isn’t she a little bit of a girl with
red hair?

  BLAYNE. ‘Bout that — from what Markyn said.

  MACKESY. Then I’ve met her. She was at Lucknow last season. ‘Owned a permanently juvenile Mamma, and danced damnably. I say, Jervoise, you knew the Threegans, didn’t you?

  JERVOISE. (Civilian of twenty-five years’ service, waking up from his doze.) Eh? What’s that? Knew who? How? I thought I was at Home, confound you!

  MACKESY. The Threegan girl’s engaged, so Blayne says.

  JERVOISE. (Slowly.) Engaged — engaged! Bless my soul! I’m getting an old man! Little Minnie Threegan engaged. It was only the other day I went home with them in the Surat — no, the Massilia — and she was crawling about on her hands and knees among the ayahs. ‘Used to call me the ‘Tick Tack Sahib’ because I showed her my watch. And that was in Sixty-seven — no, Seventy. Good God, how time flies! I’m an old man. I remember when Threegan married Miss Derwent — daughter of old Hooky Derwent — but that was before your time. And so the little baby’s engaged to have a little baby of her own! Who’s the other fool?

  MACKESY. Gadsby of the Pink Hussars.

  JERVOISE. ‘Never met him. Threegan lived in debt, married in debt, and’ll die in debt. ‘Must be glad to get the girl off his hands.

  BLAYNE. Gaddy has money — lucky devil. Place at Home, too.

  DOONE. He comes of first-class stock. ‘Can’t quite understand his being caught by a Colonel’s daughter, and (looking cautiously round room) Black Infantry at that! No offence to you, Blayne.

  BLAYNE. (Stiffly.) Not much, tha-anks.

  CURTISS. (Quoting motto of Irregular Moguls.) ‘We are what we are,’ eh, old man? But Gaddy was such a superior animal as a rule. Why didn’t he go Home and pick his wife there?

  MACKESY. They are all alike when they come to the turn into the straight. About thirty a man begins to get sick of living alone —

  CURTISS. And of the eternal muttony-chop in the morning.