Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated)

by Rudyard Kipling

  “Unchain the Gyascutis!” said Sir Christopher commandingly. Giuseppe placed the monkey atop of the organ, where the beast, misunderstanding, stood on his head.

  “He’s throwing himself on the mercy of the Court, me lud,” said Jimmy. “No — now he’s interested. Now he’s reaching after higher things. What wouldn’t I give to have here” (he mentioned a name not unhonoured in British Art). “Ambition plucking apples of Sodom!” (the monkey had pricked himself and was swearing). “Genius hampered by Convention? Oh, there’s a whole bushelful of allegories in it!”

  “Give him time. He’s balancing the probabilities,” said Lord Lundie.

  The three closed round the monkey, — hanging on his every motion with an earnestness almost equal to ours. The great judge’s head — seamed and vertical forehead, iron mouth, and pike-like under-jaw, all set on that thick neck rising out of the white flannelled collar — was thrown against the puckered green silk of the organ-front as it might have been a cameo of Titus. Jimmy, with raised eyes and parted lips, fingered his grizzled chestnut beard, and I was near enough to-note, the capable beauty of his hands. Sir Christopher stood a little apart, his arms folded behind his back, one heavy brown boot thrust forward, chin in as curbed, and black eyebrows lowered to shade the keen eyes.

  Giuseppe’s dark face between flashing earrings, a twisted rag of red and yellow silk round his throat, turned from the reaching yearning monkey to the pink and white biscuits spiked on the bronzed leafage. And upon them all fell the serious and workmanlike sun of an English summer forenoon.

  “Fils de Saint Louis, montez au ciel!” said Lord Lundie suddenly in a voice that made me think of Black Caps. I do not know what the monkey thought, because at that instant he leaped off the organ and disappeared.

  There was a clash of broken glass behind the tree.

  The monkey’s face, distorted with passion, appeared at an upper window of the house, and a starred hole in the stained-glass window to the left of ‘the front door showed the first steps of his upward path.

  “We’ve got to catch him,” cried Sir Christopher. “Come along!”

  They pushed at the door, which was unlocked.

  “Yes. But consider the ethics of the case,” said Jimmy. “Isn’t this burglary or something, Bubbles?”

  “Settle that when he’s caught,” said Sir Christopher. “We’re responsible for the beast.”

  A furious clanging of bells broke out of the empty house, followed by muffed gurglings and trumpetings.

  “What the deuce is that?” I asked, half aloud.

  “The plumbing, of course,” said Penfentenyou. “What a pity! I believe he’d have climbed if Lord Lundie hadn’t put him off!”

  “Wait a moment, Chris,” said Jimmy the interpreter; “Guiseppe says he may answer to the music of his infancy. Giuseppe, therefore, will go in with the organ. Orpheus with his lute, you know. Avante, Orpheus! There’s no Neapolitan for bathroom, but I fancy your friend is there.”

  “I’m not going into another man’s house with a hurdy-gurdy,” said Lord Lundie, recoiling, as Giuseppe unshipped the working mechanism of the organ (it developed a hang-down leg) from its wheels, slipped a strap round his shoulders, and gave the handle a twist.

  “Don’t be a cad, Bubbles,” was Jimmy’s answer. “You couldn’t leave us now if you were on the Woolsack. Play, Orpheus! The Cadi accompanies.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  With a whoop, a buzz, and a crash, the organ sprang to life under the hand of Giuseppe, and the procession passed through the rained-to-imitate-walnut front door. A moment later we saw the monkey ramping on the roof.

  “He’ll be all over the township in a minute if we don’t head him,” said Penfentenyou, leaping to his feet, and crashing into the garden. We headed him with pebbles till he retired through a window to the tuneful reminder that he had left a lot of little things behind him. As we passed the front door it swung open, and showed Jimmy the artist sitting at the bottom of a newly-cleaned staircase. He waggled his hands at us, and when we entered we saw that the man was stricken speechless. His eyes grew red — red like a ferret’s — and what little breath he had whistled shrilly. At first we thought it was a fit, and then we saw that it was mirth — the inopportune mirth of the Artistic Temperament.

  The house palpitated to an infamous melody punctuated by the stump of the barrel-organ’s one leg, as Giuseppe, above, moved from room to room after his rebel slave. Now and again a floor shook a little under the combined rushes of Lord Lundie and Sir Christopher Tomling, who gave many and contradictory orders. But when they could they cursed Jimmy with splendid thoroughness.

  “Have you anything to do with the house?” panted Jimmy at last. “Because we’re using it just now.” He gulped. “And I’m ah — keeping cave.”

  “All right,” said Penfentenyou, and shut the hall door.

  “Jimmy, you unspeakable blackguard, Jimmy, you cur! You coward!” (Lord Lundie’s voice overbore the flood of melody.) “Come up here! Giussieppe’s saying something we don’t understand.”

  Jimmy listened and interpreted between hiccups.

  “He says you’d better play the organ, Bubbles, and let him do the stalking. The monkey knows him.”

  “By Jove, he’s quite right,” said Sir Christopher from the landing. “Take it, Bubbles, at once.”

  “My God!” said Lord Lundie in horror.

  The chase reverberated over our heads, from the attics to the first floor and back again. Bodies and Voices met in collision and argument, and once or twice the organ hit walls and doors. Then it broke forth in a new manner.

  “He’s playing it,” said Jimmy. “I know his acute Justinian ear. Are you fond of music?”

  “I think Lord Lundie plays very well for a beginner,” I ventured.

  “Ah! That’s the trained legal intellect. Like mastering a brief. I haven’t got it.” He wiped his eyes and shook.

  “Hi!” said Penfentenyou, looking through the stained glass window down the garden. “What’s that!”

  * * * * * * * * *

  A household removals van, in charge of four men, had halted at the gate. A husband and his wife householders beyond question — quavered irresolutely up the path. He looked tired. She was certainly cross. In all this haphazard world the last couple to understand a scientific experiment.

  I laid hands on Jimmy — the clamour above drowning speech and with Penfentenyou’s aid, propped him against the window, that he should see.

  He saw, nodded, fell as an umbrella can fall, and kneeling, beat his forehead on the shut door. Penfentenyou slid the bolt.

  The furniture men reinforced the two figures on the path, and advanced, spreading generously.

  “Hadn’t we better warn them up-stairs?” I suggested:

  “No. I’ll die first!” said Jimmy. “I’m pretty near it now. Besides, they called me names.”

  I turned from the Artist to the Administrator.

  “Coeteris paribus, I think we’d better be going,” said Penfentenyou, dealer in crises.

  “Ta — take me with you,” said Jimmy. “I’ve no reputation to lose, but I’d like to watch ‘em from — er — outside the picture.”

  “There’s always a modus viviendi,” Penfentenyou murmured, and tiptoed along the hall to a back door, which he opened quite silently. We passed into a tangle of gooseberry bushes where, at his statesmanlike example, we crawled on all fours, and regained the hedge.

  Here we lay up, secure in our alibi.

  “But your firm,” — the woman was wailing to the furniture removals men — ”your firm promised me everything should be in yesterday. And it’s to-day! You should have been here yesterday!”

  “The last tenants ain’t out yet, lydy,” said one of them.

  Lord Lundie was rapidly improving in technique, though organ-grinding, unlike the Law, is more of a calling than a trade, and he hung occasionally on a dead centre. Giuseppe, I think, was singing, but I could not understand the drift of Si
r Christopher’s remarks. They were Spanish.

  The woman said something we did not catch.

  “You might ‘ave sub-let it,” the man insisted. “Or your gentleman ‘ere might.”

  “But I didn’t. Send for the Police at once.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, lydy. They’re only fruit pickers on a beano. They aren’t particular where they sleep.”

  “D’you mean they’ve been sleeping there? I only had it cleaned last week. Get them out.”

  “Oh, if you say so, we’ll ‘ave ‘em out of it in two twos. Alf, fetch me the spare swingle-bar.”

  “Don’t! You’ll knock the paint off the door. Get them out!”

  “What the ‘ell else am I trying to do for you, lydy?” the man answered with pathos; but the woman wheeled on her mate.

  “Edward! They’re all drunk here, and they’re all mad there. Do something!” she said.

  Edward took one short step forward, and sighed “Hullo!” in the direction of the turbulent house. The woman walked up and down, the very figure of Domestic Tragedy. The furniture men swayed a little on their heels, and —

  “Got him!” The shout rang through all the windows at once. It was followed by a blood-hound-like bay from Sir Christopher, a maniacal prestissimo on the organ, and loud cries, for Jimmy. But Jimmy, at my side, rolled his congested eyeballs, owl-wise.

  “I never knew them,” he said. “I’m an orphan.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  The front, door opened, and the three came forth to short-lived triumph. I had never before seen a Law Lord dressed as for tennis, with a stump-leg barrel-organ strapped to his shoulder. But it is a shy bird in this plumage. Lord Lundie strove to disembarrass himself of his accoutrements much as an ill-trained Punch and Judy dog tries to escape backwards through his frilled collar. Sir Christopher, covered with limewash, cherished a bleeding thumb, and the almost crazy monkey tore at Giuseppe’s hair.

  The men on both sides reeled, but the woman stood her ground. “Idiots!” she said, and once more, “Idiots!”

  I could have gladdened a few convicts of my acquaintance with a photograph of Lord Lundie at that instant.

  “Madam,” he began, wonderfully preserving the roll in his voice, “it was a monkey.”

  Sir Christopher sucked his thumb and nodded.

  “Take it away and go,” she replied. “Go away!”

  I would have gone, and gladly, on this permission, but these still strong men must ever be justifying themselves. Lord Lundie turned to the husband, who for the first time spoke.

  “I have rented this house. I am moving in,” he said.

  “We ought to have been in yesterday,” the woman interrupted.

  “Yes. We ought to have been in yesterday. Have you slept there overnight?” said the man peevishly.

  “No; I assure you we haven’t,” said Lord Lundie.

  “Then go away. Go quite away,” cried the woman.

  They went — in single file down the path. They went silently, restrapping the organ on its wheels, and rechaining the monkey to the organ.

  “Damn it all!” said Penfentenyou. “They do face the music, and they do stick by each other in private life!”

  “Ties of Common Funk,” I answered. Giuseppe ran to the gate and fled back to the possible world. Lord Lundie and Sir Christopher, constrained by tradition, paced slowly.

  Then it came to pass that the woman, who walked behind them, lifted up her eyes, and beheld the tree which they had dressed.

  “Stop!” she called; and they stopped. “Who did that?”

  There was no answer. The Eternal Bad Boy in every man hung its head before the Eternal Mother in every woman.

  “Who put these disgusting things there?” she repeated.

  Suddenly Penfentenyou, Premier of his Colony in all but name, left Jimmy and me, and appeared at the gate. (If he is not turned out of office, that is how he will appear on the Day of Armageddon.)

  “Well done you!” he cried zealously, and doffed his hat to the woman. “Have you any children, madam?” he demanded.

  “Yes, two. They should have been here to-day. The firm promised — ”

  “Then we’re not a minute too soon. That monkey escaped. It was a very dangerous beast. ‘Might have frightened your children into fits. All the organ-grinder’s fault! A most lucky thing these gentlemen caught it when they did. I hope you aren’t badly mauled, Sir Christopher?” Shaken as I was (I wanted to get away and laugh) I could not but admire the scoundrel’s consummate tact in leading his second highest trump. An ass would have introduced Lord Lundie and they would not have believed him.

  It took the trick. The couple smiled, and gave respectful thanks for their deliverance by such hands from such perils.

  “Not in the least,” said Lord Lundie. “Anybody — any father would have done as much, and pray don’t apologize your mistake was quite natural.” A furniture man sniggered here, and Lord Lundie rolled an Eye of Doom on their ranks. “By the way, if you have trouble with these persons — they seem to have taken as much as is good for them — please let me know. Er — Good morning!”

  They turned into the lane.

  “Heavens!” said Jimmy, brushing himself down. “Who’s that real man with the real head?” and we hurried after them, for they were running unsteadily, squeaking like rabbits as they ran. We overtook them in a little nut wood half a mile up the road, where they had turned aside, and were rolling. So we rolled with them, and ceased not till we had arrived at the extremity of exhaustion.

  “You — you saw it all, then?” said Lord Lundie, rebuttoning his nineteen-inch collar.

  “I saw it was a vital question from the first,” responded Penfentenyou, and blew his nose.

  “It was. By the way, d’you mind telling me your name?”

  Summa. Penfentenyou’s Great Idea has gone through, a little chipped at the edges, but in fine and far-reaching shape. His Opposite Number worked at it like a mule — a bewildered mule, beaten from behind, coaxed from in front, and propped on either soft side by Lord Lundie of the compressed mouth and the searing tongue.

  Sir Christopher Tomling has been ravished from the Argentine, where, after all, he was but preparing trade-routes for hostile peoples, and now adorns the forefront of Penfentenyou’s Advisory Board. This was an unforeseen extra, as was Jimmy’s gratis full-length — (it will be in this year’s Academy) of Penfentenyou, who has returned to his own place.

  Now and again, from afar off, between the slam and bump of his shifting scenery, the glare of his manipulated limelight, and the controlled rolling of his thunder-drums, I catch his voice, lifted in encouragement and advice to his fellow-countrymen. He is quite sound on Ties of Sentiment, and — alone of Colonial Statesmen ventures to talk of the Ties of Common Funk.

  Herein I have my reward.

  THE PUZZLER

  The Celt in all his variants from Builth to Ballyhoo,

  His mental processes are plain — one knows what he will do,

  And can logically predicate his finish by his start:

  But the English — ah, the English! — they are quite a race apart.

  Their psychology is bovine, their outlook crude and rare;

  They abandon vital matters to be tickled with a straw;

  But the straw that they were tickled with — the chaff that

  they were fed with —

  They convert into a weaver’s beam to break their foeman’s head

  with.

  For undemocratic reasons and for motives not of State,

  They arrive at their conclusions — largely inarticulate.

  Being void of self-expression they confide their views to none;

  But sometimes, in a smoking-room, one learns why things were

  done.

  In telegraphic sentences, half swallowed at the ends,

  They hint a matter’s inwardness — and there the matter ends.

  And while the Celt is talking from Valencia to Kirkwall,

&nb
sp; The English — ah, the English! — don’t say anything at all!

  LITTLE FOXES

  A TALE OF THE GIHON HUNT

  A fox came out of his earth on the banks of the Great River Gihon, which waters Ethiopia. He saw a white man riding through the dry dhurra-stalks, and, that his destiny might be fulfilled, barked at him.

  The rider drew rein among the villagers round his stirrup.

  “What,” said he, “is that?”

  “That,” said the Sheikh of the village, “is a fox, O Excellency Our Governor.”

  “It is not, then, a jackal?”

  “No jackal, but Abu Hussein the father of cunning.”

  “Also,” the white man spoke half aloud, “I am Mudir of this Province.”

  “It is true,” they cried. “Ya, Saart el Mudir” (O Excellency Our Governor).

  The Great River Gihon, well used to the moods of kings, slid between his mile-wide banks toward the sea, while the Governor praised God in a loud and searching cry never before heard by the river.

  When he had lowered his right forefinger from behind his right ear, the villagers talked to him of their crops — barley, dhurrah, millet, onions, and the like. The Governor stood in his stirrups. North he looked up a strip of green cultivation a few hundred yards wide that lay like a carpet between the river and the tawny line of the desert. Sixty miles that strip stretched before him, and as many behind. At every half-mile a groaning water-wheel lifted the soft water from the river to the crops by way of a mud-built aqueduct. A foot or so wide was the water-channel; five foot or more high was the bank on which it ran, and its base was broad in proportion. Abu Hussein, misnamed the Father of Cunning, drank from the river below his earth, and his shadow was long in the low sun. He could not understand the loud cry which the Governor had cried.

  The Sheikh of the village spoke of the crops from which the rulers of all lands draw revenue; but the Governor’s eyes were fixed, between his horse’s ears, on the nearest water-channel.

  “Very like a ditch in Ireland,” he murmured, and smiled, dreaming of a razor-topped bank in distant Kildare.