Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated)

by Rudyard Kipling

  A flickering smile crossed the planter’s face. ‘Deesa,’ said he, ‘you’ve spoken the truth, and I’d give you leave on the spot if anything could be done with Moti Guj while you’re away. You know that he will only obey your orders.’

  ‘May the Light of the Heavens live forty thousand years. I shall be absent but ten little days. After that, upon my faith and honour and soul, I return. As to the inconsiderable interval, have I the gracious permission of the Heaven-born to call up Moti Guj?’

  Permission was granted, and, in answer to Deesa’s shrill yell, the lordly tusker swung out of the shade of a clump of trees where he had been squirting dust over himself till his master should return.

  ‘Light of my heart, Protector of the Drunken, Mountain of Might, give ear,’ said Deesa, standing in front of him.

  Moti Guj gave ear, and saluted with his trunk. ‘I am going away,’ said

  Deesa.

  Moti Guj’s eyes twinkled. He liked jaunts as well as his master. One could snatch all manner of nice things from the roadside then.

  ‘But you, you fubsy old pig, must stay behind and work.’

  The twinkle died out as Moti Guj tried to look delighted. He hated stump-hauling on the plantation. It hurt his teeth.

  ‘I shall be gone for ten days, O Delectable One. Hold up your near forefoot and I’ll impress the fact upon it, warty toad of a dried mud- puddle.’ Deesa took a tent-peg and banged Moti Guj ten times on the nails. Moti Guj grunted and shuffled from foot to foot.

  ‘Ten days,’ said Deesa, ‘you must work and haul and root trees as Chihun here shall order you. Take up Chihun and set him on your neck!’ Moti Guj curled the tip of his trunk, Chihun put his foot there and was swung on to the neck. Deesa handed Chihun the heavy ankus, the iron elephant- goad.

  Chihun thumped Moti Guj’s bald head as a paviour thumps a kerbstone.

  Moti Guj trumpeted.

  ‘Be still, hog of the backwoods. Chihun’s your mahout for ten days. And now bid me good-bye, beast after mine own heart. Oh, my lord, my king! Jewel of all created elephants, lily of the herd, preserve your honoured health; be virtuous. Adieu!’

  Moti Guj lapped his trunk round Deesa and swung him into the air twice.

  That was his way of bidding the man good-bye.

  ‘He’ll work now,’ said Dessa to the planter. ‘Have I leave to go?’

  The planter nodded, and Deesa dived into the woods. Moti Guj went back to haul stumps.

  Chihun was very kind to him, but he felt unhappy and forlorn notwithstanding. Chihun gave him balls of spices, and tickled him under the chin, and Chihun’s little baby cooed to him after work was over, and Chihun’s wife called him a darling; but Moti Guj was a bachelor by instinct, as Deesa was. He did not understand the domestic emotions. He wanted the light of his universe back again — the drink and the drunken slumber, the savage beatings and the savage caresses.

  None the less he worked well, and the planter wondered. Deesa had vagabonded along the roads till he met a marriage procession of his own caste and, drinking, dancing, and tippling, had drifted past all knowledge of the lapse of time.

  The morning of the eleventh day dawned, and there returned no Deesa. Moti Guj was loosed from his ropes for the daily stint. He swung clear, looked round, shrugged his shoulders, and began to walk away, as one having business elsewhere.

  ‘Hi! ho! Come back, you,’ shouted Chihun. ‘Come back, and put me on your neck, Misborn Mountain. Return, Splendour of the Hillsides. Adornment of all India, heave to, or I’ll bang every toe off your fat fore-foot!’

  Moti Guj gurgled gently, but did not obey. Chihun ran after him with a rope and caught him up. Moti Guj put his ears forward, and Chihun knew what that meant, though he tried to carry it off with high words.

  ‘None of your nonsense with me,’ said he. ‘To your pickets, Devil-son.’

  ‘Hrrump!’ said Moti Guj, and that was all — that and the forebent ears.

  Moti Guj put his hands in his pockets, chewed a branch for a toothpick, and strolled about the clearing, making jest of the other elephants, who had just set to work.

  Chihun reported the state of affairs to the planter, who came out with a dog-whip and cracked it furiously. Moti Guj paid the white man the compliment of charging him nearly a quarter of a mile across the clearing and ‘Hrrumping’ him into the verandah. Then he stood outside the house chuckling to himself, and shaking all over with the fun of it, as an elephant will.

  ‘We’ll thrash him,’ said the planter. ‘He shall have the finest thrashing that ever elephant received. Give Kala Nag and Nazim twelve foot of chain apiece, and tell them to lay on twenty blows.’

  Kala Nag — which means Black Snake — and Nazim were two of the biggest elephants in the lines, and one of their duties was to administer the graver punishments, since no man can beat an elephant properly.

  They took the whipping-chains and rattled them in their trunks as they sidled up to Moti Guj, meaning to hustle him between them. Moti Guj had never, in all his life of thirty-nine years, been whipped, and he did not intend to open new experiences. So he waited, weaving his head from right to left, and measuring the precise spot in Kala Nag’s fat side where a blunt tusk would sink deepest. Kala Nag had no tusks; the chain was his badge of authority; but he judged it good to swing wide of Moti Guj at the last minute, and seem to appear as if he had brought out the chain for amusement. Nazim turned round and went home early. He did not feel fighting-fit that morning, and so Moti Guj was left standing alone with his ears cocked.

  That decided the planter to argue no more, and Moti Guj rolled back to his inspection of the clearing. An elephant who will not work, and is not tied up, is not quite so manageable as an eighty-one ton gun loose in a heavy sea-way. He slapped old friends on the back and asked them if the stumps were coming away easily; he talked nonsense concerning labour and the inalienable rights of elephants to a long ‘nooning’; and, wandering to and fro, thoroughly demoralized the garden till sundown, when he returned to his pickets for food.

  ‘If you won’t work you shan’t eat,’ said Chihun angrily. ‘You’re a wild elephant, and no educated animal at all. Go back to your jungle.’

  Chihun’s little brown baby, rolling on the floor of the hut, stretched its fat arms to the huge shadow in the doorway. Moti Guj knew well that it was the dearest thing on earth to Chihun. He swung out his trunk with a fascinating crook at the end, and the brown baby threw itself shouting upon it. Moti Guj made fast and pulled up till the brown baby was crowing in the air twelve feet above his father’s head.

  ‘Great Chief!’ said Chihun. ‘Flour cakes of the best, twelve in number, two feet across, and soaked in rum shall be yours on the instant, and two hundred pounds’ weight of fresh-cut young sugar-cane therewith. Deign only to put down safely that insignificant brat who is my heart and my life to me.’

  Moti Guj tucked the brown baby comfortably between his forefeet, that could have knocked into toothpicks all Chihun’s hut, and waited for his food. He ate it, and the brown baby crawled away. Moti Guj dozed, and thought of Deesa. One of many mysteries connected with the elephant is that his huge body needs less sleep than anything else that lives. Four or five hours in the night suffice — two just before midnight, lying down on one side; two just after one o’clock, lying down on the other. The rest of the silent hours are filled with eating and fidgeting and long grumbling soliloquies.

  At midnight, therefore, Moti Guj strode out of his pickets, for a thought had come to him that Deesa might be lying drunk somewhere in the dark forest with none to look after him. So all that night he chased through the undergrowth, blowing and trumpeting and shaking his ears. He went down to the river and blared across the shallows where Deesa used to wash him, but there was no answer. He could not find Deesa, but he disturbed all the elephants in the lines, and nearly frightened to death some gypsies in the woods.

  At dawn Deesa returned to the plantation. He had been very drunk indeed, and he expected to fall into tro
uble for outstaying his leave. He drew a long breath when he saw that the bungalow and the plantation were still uninjured; for he knew something of Moti Guj’s temper; and reported himself with many lies and salaams. Moti Guj had gone to his pickets for breakfast. His night exercise had made him hungry.

  ‘Call up your beast,’ said the planter, and Deesa shouted in the mysterious elephant-language, that some mahouts believe came from China at the birth of the world, when elephants and not men were masters. Moti Guj heard and came. Elephants do not gallop. They move from spots at varying rates of speed. If an elephant wished to catch an express train he could not gallop, but he could catch the train. Thus Moti Guj was at the planter’s door almost before Chihun noticed that he had left his pickets. He fell into Deesa’s arms trumpeting with joy, and the man and beast wept and slobbered over each other, and handled each other from head to heel to see that no harm had befallen.

  ‘Now we will get to work,’ said Deesa. ‘Lift me up, my son and my joy.’

  Moti Guj swung him up and the two went to the coffee-clearing to look for irksome stumps.

  The planter was too astonished to be very angry.

  L’ENVOI

  My new-cut ashlar takes the light

  Where crimson-blank the windows flare;

  By my own work, before the night,

  Great Overseer, I make my prayer.

  If there be good in that I wrought,

  Thy hand compelled it, Master, Thine;

  Where I have failed to meet Thy thought

  I know, through Thee, the blame is mine.

  One instant’s toil to Thee denied

  Stands all Eternity’s offence,

  Of that I did with Thee to guide

  To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.

  Who, lest all thought of Eden fade,

  Bring’st Eden to the craftsman’s brain,

  Godlike to muse o’er his own trade

  And Manlike stand with God again.

  The depth and dream of my desire,

  The bitter paths wherein I stray,

  Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,

  Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay.

  One stone the more swings to her place

  In that dread Temple of Thy Worth —

  It is enough that through Thy grace

  I saw naught common on Thy earth.

  Take not that vision from my ken;

  Oh whatso’er may spoil or speed,

  Help me to need no aid from men

  That I may help such men as need!

  MANY INVENTIONS

  This collection of short stories and poetry was first published in 1893.

  CONTENTS

  TO THE TRUE ROMANCE

  THE DISTURBER OF TRAFFIC

  A CONFERENCE OF THE POWERS

  MY LORD THE ELEPHANT

  ONE VIEW OF THE QUESTION

  ‘THE FINEST STORY IN THE WORLD’

  HIS PRIVATE HONOUR

  A MATTER OF FACT

  THE LOST LEGION

  IN THE RUKH

  ‘BRUGGLESMITH’

  ‘LOVE-O’-WOMEN’

  THE RECORD OF BADALIA HERODSFOOT

  JUDSON AND THE EMPIRE

  THE CHILDREN OF THE ZODIAC

  ANCHOR SONG

  TO THE TRUE ROMANCE

  THY face is far from this our war,

  Our call and counter-cry,

  I shall not find Thee quick and kind,

  Nor know Thee till I die,

  Enough for me in dreams to see

  And touch Thy garments’ hem:

  Thy feet have trod so near to God

  I may not follow them.

  Through wantonness if men profess

  They weary of Thy parts,

  E’en let them die at blasphemy

  And perish with their arts;

  But we that love, but we that prove

  Thine excellence august,

  While we adore discover more

  Thee perfect, wise, and just.

  Since spoken word Man’s Spirit stirred

  Beyond his belly-need,

  What is is Thine of fair design

  In thought and craft and deed;

  Each stroke aright of toil and fight,

  That was and that shall be,

  And hope too high, wherefore we die,

  Has birth and worth in Thee.

  Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee

  To gild his dross thereby,

  And knowledge sure that he endure

  A child until he die —

  For to make plain that man’s disdain

  Is but new Beauty’s birth —

  For to possess in loneliness

  The joy of all the earth.

  As Thou didst teach all lovers speech

  And Life all mystery,

  So shalt Thou rule by every school

  Till love and longing die,

  Who wast or yet the Lights were set,

  A whisper in the Void,

  Who shalt be sung through planets young

  When this is clean destroyed.

  Beyond the bounds our staring rounds,

  Across the pressing dark,

  The children wise of outer skies

  Look hitherward and mark

  A light that shifts, a glare that drifts,

  Rekindling thus and thus,

  Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne

  Strange tales to them of us.

  Time hath no tide but must abide

  The servant of Thy will;

  Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme

  The ranging stars stand still —

  Regent of spheres that lock our fears,

  Our hopes invisible,

  Oh ‘twas certes at Thy decrees

  We fashioned Heaven and Hell!

  Pure Wisdom hath no certain path

  That lacks thy morning-eyne,

  And captains bold by Thee controlled

  Most like to Gods design;

  Thou art the Voice to kingly boys

  To lift them through the fight,

  And Comfortress of Unsuccess,

  To give the dead good-night —

  A veil to draw ‘twixt God His Law

  And Man’s infirmity,

  A shadow kind to dumb and blind

  The shambles where we die;

  A rule to trick th’ arithmetic

  Too base of leaguing odds —

  The spur of trust, the curb of lust,

  Thou handmaid of the Gods!

  O Charity, all patiently

  Abiding wrack and scaith!

  O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats

  Yet drops no jot of faith!

  Devil and brute Thou dost transmute

  To higher, lordlier show,

  Who art in sooth that lovely Truth

  The careless angels know!

  Thy face is far from this our war,

  Our call and counter-cry,

  I may not find Thee quick and kind,

  Nor know Thee till I die.

  Yet may I look with heart unshook

  On blow brought home or missed —

  Yet may I hear with equal ear

  The clarions down the List;

  Yet set my lance above mischance

  And ride the barriere —

  Oh, hit or miss, how little ‘tis,

  My Lady is not there!

  THE DISTURBER OF TRAFFIC

  From the wheel and the drift of Things

  Deliver us, good Lord;

  And we will meet the wrath of kings

  The faggot, and the sword.

  Lay not Thy toil before our eyes,

  Nor vex us with Thy wars,

  Lest we should feel the straining skies

  O’ertrod by trampling stars.

  A veil ‘twixt us and Thee, dread Lord,

  A veil ‘twixt us and Thee:

  Lest we should hear too clear, too clear,

  And unto madness see!

 
MIRIAM COHEN.

  THE Brothers of the Trinity order that none unconnected with their service shall be found in or on one of their Lights during the hours of darkness; but their servants can be made to think otherwise. If you are fair-spoken and take an interest in their duties, they will allow you to sit with them through the long night and help to scare the ships into mid-channel.

  Of the English south-coast Lights, that of St. Cecilia-under-the-Cliff is the most powerful, for it guards a very foggy coast. When the sea- mist veils all, St. Cecilia turns a hooded head to the sea and sings a song of two words once every minute. From the land that song resembles the bellowing of a brazen bull; but off-shore they understand, and the steamers grunt gratefully in answer.

  Fenwick, who was on duty one night, lent me a pair of black glass spectacles, without which no man can look at the Light unblinded, and busied himself in last touches to the lenses before twilight fell. The width of the English Channel beneath us lay as smooth and as many- coloured as the inside of an oyster shell. A little Sunderland cargoboat had made her signal to Lloyd’s Agency, half a mile up the coast, and was lumbering down to the sunset, her wake lying white behind her. One star came out over the cliff’s, the waters turned to lead colour, and St. Cecilia’s Light shot out across the sea in eight long pencils that wheeled slowly from right to left, melted into one beam of solid light laid down directly in front of the tower, dissolved again into eight, and passed away. The light-frame of the thousand lenses circled on its rollers, and the compressed-air engine that drove it hummed like a bluebottle under a glass. The hand of the indicator on the wall pulsed from mark to mark. Eight pulse-beats timed one half-revolution of the Light; neither more nor less.

  Fenwick checked the first few revolutions carefully; he opened the engine’s feed-pipe a trifle, looked at the racing governor, and again at the indicator, and said: ‘She’ll do for the next few hours. We’ve just sent our regular engine to London, and this spare one’s not by any manner so accurate.’