Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated)

by Rudyard Kipling

  DOONE. It’s dead goat as a rule, but go on, Mackesy.

  MACKESY. If a man’s once taken that way nothing will hold him. Do you remember Benoit of your service, Doone? They transferred him to Tharanda when his time came, and he married a platelayer’s daughter, or something of that kind. She was the only female about the place.

  DOONE. Yes, poor brute. That smashed Benoit’s chances of promotion altogether. Mrs. Benoit used to ask: ‘Was you goin’ to the dance this evenin’?’

  CURTISS. Hang it all! Gaddy hasn’t married beneath him. There’s no tar-brush in the family, I suppose.

  JERVOISE. Tar-brush! Not an anna. You young fellows talk as though the man was doing the girl an honour in marrying her. You’re all too conceited — nothing’s good enough for you.

  BLAYNE. Not even an empty Club, a dam’ bad dinner at the Judge’s, and a Station as sickly as a hospital. You’re quite right. We’re a set of Sybarites.

  DOONE. Luxurious dogs, wallowing in — -

  CURTISS. Prickly heat between the shoulders. I’m covered with it. Let’s hope Beora will be cooler.

  BLAYNE. Whew! Are you ordered into camp, too? I thought the Gunners had a clean sheet.

  CURTISS. No, worse luck. Two cases yesterday — one died — and if we have a third, out we go. Is there any shooting at Beora, Doone?

  DOONE. The country’s under water, except the patch by the Grand Trunk Road. I was there yesterday, looking at a bund, and came across four poor devils in their last stage. It’s rather bad from here to Kuchara.

  CURTISS. Then we’re pretty certain to have a heavy go of it. Heigho!

  I shouldn’t mind changing places with Gaddy for a while. ‘Sport with

  Amaryllis in the shade of the Town Hall, and all that. Oh, why doesn’t

  somebody come and marry me, instead of letting me go into cholera camp?

  MACKESY. Ask the Committee.

  CURTISS. You ruffian! You’ll stand me another peg for that. Blayne, what will you take? Mackesy is fine on moral grounds. Doone, have you any preference?

  DOONE. Small glass Kummel, please. Excellent carminative, these days.

  Anthony told me so.

  MACKESY. (Signing votucher for four drinks.) Most unfair punishment. I only thought of Curtiss as Actaeon being chivied round the billiard tables by the nymphs of Diana.

  BLAYNE. Curtiss would have to import his nymphs by train. Mrs. Cockley’s the only woman in the Station. She won’t leave Cockley, and he’s doing his best to get her to go.

  CURTISS. Good, indeed! Here’s Mrs. Cockley’s health. To the only wife in the Station and a damned brave woman!

  OMNES. (Drinking.) A damned brave woman!

  BLAYNE. I suppose Gaddy will bring his wife here at the end of the cold weather. They are going to be married almost immediately, I believe.

  CURTISS. Gaddy may thank his luck that the Pink Hussars are all detachment and no headquarters this hot weather, or he’d be torn from the arms of his love as sure as death. Have you ever noticed the thorough-minded way British Cavalry take to cholera? It’s because they are so expensive. If the Pinks had stood fast here, they would have been out in camp a month ago. Yes, I should decidedly like to be Gaddy.

  MACKESY. He’ll go Home after he’s married, and send in his papers — see if he doesn’t.

  BLAYNE. Why shouldn’t he? Hasn’t he money? Would any one of us be here if we weren’t paupers?

  DOONE. Poor old pauper! What has became of the six hundred you rooked from our table last month?

  BLAYNE. It took unto itself wings. I think an enterprising tradesman got some of it, and a shroff gobbled the rest — or else I spent it.

  CURTISS. Gaddy never had dealings with a shroff in his life.

  DOONE. Virtuous Gaddy! If I had three thousand a month, paid from

  England, I don’t think I’d deal with a shroff either.

  MACKESY. (Yawning.) Oh, it’s a sweet life! I wonder whether matrimony would make it sweeter.

  CURTISS. Ask Cockley — with his wife dying by inches!

  BLAYNE. Go home and get a fool of a girl to come out to — what is it

  Thackeray says? — ’the splendid palace of an Indian pro-consul.’

  DOONE. Which reminds me. My quarters leak like a sieve. I had fever last night from sleeping in a swamp. And the worst of it is, one can’t do anything to a roof till the Rains are over.

  CURTISS. What’s wrong with you? You haven’t eighty rotting Tommies to take into a running stream.

  DOONE. No: but I’m mixed boils and bad language. I’m a regular Job all over my body. It’s sheer poverty of blood, and I don’t see any chance of getting richer — either way.

  BLAYNE. Can’t you take leave?

  DOONE. That’s the pull you Army men have over us. Ten days are nothing in your sight. I’m so important that Government can’t find a substitute if I go away. Ye-es, I’d like to be Gaddy, whoever his wife may be.

  CURTISS. You’ve passed the turn of life that Mackesy was speaking of.

  DOONE. Indeed I have, but I never yet had the brutality to ask a woman to share my life out here.

  BLAYNE. On my soul I believe you’re right. I’m thinking of Mrs. Cockley.

  The woman’s an absolute wreck.

  DOONE. Exactly. Because she stays down here. The only way to keep her fit would be to send her to the Hills for eight months — and the same with any woman. I fancy I see myself taking a wife on those terms.

  MACKESY. With the rupee at one and sixpence. The little Doones would be little Dehra Doones, with a fine Mussoorie chi-chi anent to bring home for the holidays.

  CURTISS. And a pair of be-ewtiful sambhur-horns for Doone to wear, free of expense, presented by — -

  DOONE. Yes, it’s an enchanting prospect. By the way, the rupee hasn’t done falling yet. The time will come when we shall think ourselves lucky if we only lose half our pay.

  CURTISS. Surely a third’s loss enough. Who gains by the arrangement?

  That’s what I want to know.

  BLAYNE. The Silver Question! I’m going to bed if you begin squabbling.

  Thank Goodness, here’s Anthony — looking like a ghost.

  Enter ANTHONY, Indian Medical Staff, very white and tired.

  ANTHONY. ‘Evening, Blayne. It’s raining in sheets. Whiskey-peg, lao,

  Khitmatgar. The roads are something ghastly.

  CURTISS. How’s Mingle?

  ANTHONY. Very bad, and more frightened. I handed him over to Fewton. Mingle might just as well have called him in the first place, instead of bothering me.

  BLAYNE. He’s a nervous little chap. What has he got, this time?

  ANTHONY. ‘Can’t quite say. A very bad tummy and a blue funk so far.

  He asked me at once if it was cholera, and I told him not to be a fool.

  That soothed him.

  CURTISS. Poor devil! The funk does half the business in a man of that build.

  ANTHONY. (Lighting a cheroot.) I firmly believe the funk will kill him if he stays down. You know the amount of trouble he’s been giving Fewton for the last three weeks. He’s doing his very best to frighten himself into the grave.

  GENERAL CHORUS. Poor little devil! Why doesn’t he get away?

  ANTHONY. ‘Can’t. He has his leave all right, but he’s so dipped he can’t take it, and I don’t think his name on paper would raise four annas. That’s in confidence, though.

  MACKESY. All the Station knows it.

  ANTHONY. ‘I suppose I shall have to die here,’ he said, squirming all across the bed. He’s quite made up his mind to Kingdom Come. And I know he has nothing more than a wet-weather tummy if he could only keep a hand on himself.

  BLAYNE. That’s bad. That’s very bad. Poor little Miggy. Good little chap, too. I say —

  ANTHONY. What do you say?

  BLAYNE. Well, look here — anyhow. If it’s like that — as you say — I say fifty.

  CURTISS. I say fifty.

  MACKESY. I go twenty better.
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  DOONE. Bloated Croesus of the Bar! I say fifty. Jervoise, what do you say? Hi! Wake up!

  JERVOISE. Eh? What’s that? What’s that?

  CURTISS. We want a hundred rupees from you. You’re a bachelor drawing a gigantic income, and there’s a man in a hole.

  JERVOISE. What man? Any one dead?

  BLAYNE. No, but he’ll die if you don’t give the hundred. Here! Here’s a peg-voucher. You can see what we’ve signed for, and Anthony’s man will come round to-morrow to collect it. So there will be no trouble.

  JERVOISE. (Signing.) One hundred, E. M. J. There you are (feebly). It isn’t one of your jokes, is it?

  BLAYNE. No, it really is wanted. Anthony, you were the biggest poker-winner last week, and you’ve defrauded the tax-collector too long. Sign!

  ANTHONY. Let’s see. Three fifties and a seventy — two twenty — three twenty — say four hundred and twenty. That’ll give him a month clear at the Hills. Many thanks, you men. I’ll send round the chaprassi tomorrow.

  CURTISS. You must engineer his taking the stuff, and of course you mustn’t —

  ANTHONY. Of course. It would never do. He’d weep with gratitude over his evening drink.

  BLAYNE. That’s just what he would do, damn him. Oh! I say, Anthony, you pretend to know everything. Have you heard about Gaddy?

  ANTHONY. No. Divorce Court at last?

  BLAYNE. Worse. He’s engaged!

  ANTHONY. How much? He can’t be!

  BLAYNE. He is. He’s going to be married in a few weeks. Markyn told me at the Judge’s this evening. It’s pukka.

  ANTHONY. You don’t say so? Holy Moses! There’ll be a shine in the tents of Kedar.

  CURTISS. ‘Regiment cut up rough, think you?

  ANTHONY. ‘Don’t know anything about the Regiment.

  MACKESY. It is bigamy, then?

  ANTHONY. Maybe. Do you mean to say that you men have forgotten, or is there more charity in the world than I thought?

  DOONE. You don’t look pretty when you are trying to keep a secret. You bloat. Explain.

  ANTHONY. Mrs. Herriott!

  BLAYNE. (After a long pause, to the room generally.) It’s my notion that we are a set of fools.

  MACKESY. Nonsense. That business was knocked on the head last season.

  Why, young Mallard —

  ANTHONY. Mallard was a candlestick, paraded as such. Think awhile.

  Recollect last season and the talk then. Mallard or no Mallard, did

  Gaddy ever talk to any other woman?

  CURTISS. There’s something in that. It was slightly noticeable now you come to mention it. But she’s at Naini Tal and he’s at Simla.

  ANTHONY. He had to go to Simla to look after a globetrotter relative of his — a person with a title. Uncle or aunt.

  BLAYNE. And there he got engaged. No law prevents a man growing tired of a woman.

  ANTHONY. Except that he mustn’t do it till the woman is tired of him.

  And the Herriott woman was not that.

  CURTISS. She may be now. Two months of Naini Tal work wonders.

  DOONE. Curious thing how some women carry a Fate with them. There was a Mrs. Deegie in the Central Provinces whose men invariably fell away and got married. It became a regular proverb with us when I was down there. I remember three men desperately devoted to her, and they all, one after another, took wives.

  CURTISS. That’s odd. Now I should have thought that Mrs. Deegie’s influence would have led them to take other men’s wives. It ought to have made them afraid of the judgment of Providence.

  ANTHONY. Mrs. Herriott will make Gaddy afraid of something more than the judgment of Providence, I fancy.

  BLAYNE. Supposing things are as you say, he’ll be a fool to face her.

  He’ll sit tight at Simla.

  ANTHONY. ‘Shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he went off to Naini to explain. He’s an unaccountable sort of man, and she’s likely to be a more than unaccountable woman.

  DOONE. What makes you take her character away so confidently?

  ANTHONY. Primum tempus. Gaddy was her first, and a woman doesn’t allow her first man to drop away without expostulation. She justifies the first transfer of affection to herself by swearing that it is for ever and ever. Consequently —

  BLAYNE. Consequently, we are sitting here till past one o’clock, talking scandal like a set of Station cats. Anthony, it’s all your fault. We were perfectly respectable till you came in. Go to bed. I’m off. Good-night all.

  CURTISS. Past one! It’s past two, by Jove, and here’s the khit coming for the late charge. Just Heavens! One, two, three, four, five rupees to pay for the pleasure of saying that a poor little beast of a woman is no better than she should be. I’m ashamed of myself. Go to bed, you slanderous villains, and if I’m sent to Beora to-morrow, be prepared to hear I’m dead before paying my card account!

  THE TENTS OF KEDAR

  Only why should it be with pain at all,

  Why must I ‘twixt the leaves of coronal

  Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow?

  Why should the other women know so much,

  And talk together: — Such the look and such

  The smile he used to love with, then as now.

  Any Wife to any Husband.

  SCENE.-A Naini Tal dinner for thirty-four. Plate, wines, crockery, and khitmatgars carefully calculated to scale of Rs. 6000 per mensem, less Exchange. Table split lengthways by bank of flowers.

  MRS. HERRIOTT. (After conversation has risen to proper pitch.) Ah! ‘Didn’t see you in the crush in the drawing-room. (Sotto voce.) Where have you been all this while, Pip?

  CAPTAIN GADSBY. (Turning from regularly ordained dinner partner and settling hock glasses.) Good evening. (Sotto voce.) Not quite so loud another time. You’ve no notion how your voice carries. (Aside.) So much for shirking the written explanation. It’ll have to be a verbal one now. Sweet prospect! How on earth am I to tell her that I am a respectable, engaged member of society and it’s all over between us?

  MRS. H. I’ve a heavy score against you. Where were you at the Monday

  Pop? Where were you on Tuesday? Where were you at the Lamonts’ tennis?

  I was looking everywhere.

  CAPT. G. For me! Oh, I was alive somewhere, I suppose. (Aside.) It’s for Minnie’s sake, but it’s going to be dashed unpleasant.

  MRS. H. Have I done anything to offend you? I never meant it if I have. I couldn’t help going for a ride with the Vaynor man. It was promised a week before you came up.

  CAPT. G. I didn’t know —

  MRS. H. It really was.

  CAPT. G. Anything about it, I mean.

  MRS. H. What has upset you to-day? All these days? You haven’t been near me for four whole days — nearly one hundred hours. Was it kind of you, Pip? And I’ve been looking forward so much to your coming.

  CAPT. G. Have you?

  MRS. H. You know I have! I’ve been as foolish as a schoolgirl about it. I made a little calendar and put it in my card-case, and every time the twelve o’clock gun went off I scratched out a square and said: ‘That brings me nearer to Pip. My Pip!’

  CAPT. G. (With an uneasy laugh.) What will Mackler think if you neglect him so?

  MRS. H. And it hasn’t brought you nearer. You seem farther away than ever. Are you sulking about something? I know your temper.

  CAPT. G. No.

  MRS. H. Have I grown old in the last few months, then? (Reaches forward to bank of flowers for menu-card.)

  MRS. H. (To partner.) Oh, thanks. I didn’t see.

  MRS. H. Keeps her arm at full stretch for three seconds.

  PARTNER ON LEFT. Allow me. (Hands menu-card.) (Turns right again.)

  Is anything in me changed at all?

  CAPT. G. For Goodness’ sake go on with your dinner! You must eat something. Try one of those cutlet arrangements. (Aside.) And I fancied she had good shoulders, once upon a time! What an ass a man can make of himself!

  MRS. H. (Helping herself to a pape
r frill, seven peas, some stamped carrots and a spoonful of gravy.) That isn’t an answer. Tell me whether I have done anything.

  CAPT. G. (Aside.) If it isn’t ended here there will be a ghastly scene somewhere else. If only I’d written to her and stood the racket — at long range! (To Khitmatgar.) Han! Simpkin do. (Aloud.) I’ll tell you later on.

  MRS. H. Tell me now. It must be some foolish misunderstanding, and you know that there was to be nothing of that sort between us. We, of all people in the world, can’t afford it. Is it the Vaynor man, and don’t you like to say so? On my honour —

  CAPT. G. I haven’t given the Vaynor man a thought.

  MRS. H. But how d’you know that I haven’t?

  CAPT. G. (Aside.) Here’s my chance and may the Devil help me through with it. (Aloud and measuredly.) Believe me, I do not care how often or how tenderly you think of the Vaynor man.

  MRS. H. I wonder if you mean that. — Oh, what is the good of squabbling and pretending to misunderstand when you are only up for so short a time? Pip, don’t be a stupid!

  Follows a pause, during which he crosses his left leg over his right and continues his dinner.

  CAPT. G. (In answer to the thunderstorm in her eyes.) Corns — my worst.

  MRS. H. Upon my word, you are the very rudest man in the world! I’ll never do it again.

  CAPT. G. (Aside.) No, I don’t think you will; but I wonder what you will do before it’s all over. (To Khitmatgar.) Thorah ur Simpkin do.

  MRS. H. Well! Haven’t you the grace to apologise, bad man?

  CAPT. G. (Aside.) I mustn’t let it drift back now. Trust a woman for being as blind as a bat when she won’t see.

  MRS. H. I’m waiting: or would you like me to dictate a form of apology?

  CAPT. G. (Desperately.) By all means dictate.

  MRS. H. (Lightly.) Very well. Rehearse your several Christian names after me and go on: ‘Profess my sincere repentance.’

  CAPT. G. ‘Sincere repentance.’

  MRS. H. ‘For having behaved — ’

  CAPT. G. (Aside.) At last! I wish to Goodness she’d look away. ‘For having behaved’ — as I have behaved, and declare that I am thoroughly and heartily sick of the whole business, and take this opportunity of making clear my intention of ending it, now, henceforward, and for ever. (Aside.) If any one had told me I should be such a blackguard — !