‘It’s all right. I’ve paid for them,’ said Mr. Lingnam. He dumped out the last dregs like mould from a pot-bound flower-pot.
‘What? Are you going to take ‘em home with you?’ said the Agent-General.
‘No!’ He passed a wet hand over his streaky forehead. ‘Wasn’t there a bicycle that was the beginning of this trouble?’ said he.
‘It’s under the fore-axle, sir,’ said Holford promptly. ‘I can fish it out from ‘ere.’
‘Not till I’ve done with it, please.’ Before we could stop him, he had jumped into the car and taken charge. The hireling leaped into her collar, surged, shrieked (less loudly than Mrs. Bellamy at the window), and swept on. That which came out behind her was, as Holford truly observed, no joy-wheel. Mr. Lingnam swung round the big drum in the market-place and thundered back, shouting: ‘Leave it alone. It’s my meat!’
‘Mince-meat, ‘e means,’ said Holford after this second trituration. ‘You couldn’t say now it ‘ad ever been one, could you?’
Mrs. Bellamy opened the window and spoke. It appears she had only charged for damage to the bicycle, not for the entire machine which Mr. Lingnam was ruthlessly gleaning, spoke by spoke, from the highway and cramming into the slack of the hood. At last he answered, and I have never seen a man foam at the mouth before. ‘If you don’t stop, I shall come into your house — in this car — and drive upstairs and — kill you!’
She stopped; he stopped. Holford took the wheel, and we got away. It was time, for the sun shone after the storm, and Deborah beneath the tiles and the eaves already felt its reviving influence compel her to her interrupted labours of federation. We warned the village policeman at the far end of the street that he might have to suspend traffic again. The proprietor of the giddy-go-round, swings, and cocoanut-shies wanted to know from whom, in this world or another, he could recover damages. Mr. Lingnam referred him most directly to Mrs. Bellamy.... Then we went home.
After dinner that evening Mr. Lingnam rose stiffly in his place to make a few remarks on the Federation of the Empire on the lines of Co-ordinated, Offensive Operations, backed by the Entire Effective Forces, Moral, Military, and Fiscal, of Permanently Mobilised Communities, the whole brought to bear, without any respect to the merits of any casus belli, instantaneously, automatically, and remorselessly at the first faint buzz of war.
‘The trouble with Us,’ said he, ‘is that We take such an infernally long time making sure that We are right that We don’t go ahead when things happen. For instance, I ought to have gone ahead instead of pulling up when I hit that bicycle.’
‘But you were in the wrong, Lingnam, when you turned to the right,’ I put in.
‘I don’t want to hear any more of your damned, detached, mugwumping excuses for the other fellow,’ he snapped.
‘Now you’re beginning to see things,’ said Penfentenyou. ‘I hope you won’t backslide when the swellings go down.’
* * *
THE SONG OF SEVEN CITIES
I was Lord of Cities very sumptuously builded.
Seven roaring Cities paid me tribute from afar.
Ivory their outposts were — the guardrooms of them gilded,
And garrisoned with Amazons invincible in war.
All the world went softly when it walked before my Cities —
Neither King nor Army vexed my peoples at their toil.
Never horse nor chariot irked or overbore my Cities,
Never Mob nor Ruler questioned whence they drew their spoil.
Banded, mailed and arrogant from sunrise unto sunset,
Singing while they sacked it, they possessed the land at large.
Yet when men would rob them, they resisted, they made onset
And pierced the smoke of battle with a thousand-sabred charge!
So they warred and trafficked only yesterday, my Cities.
To-day there is no mark or mound of where my Cities stood.
For the River rose at midnight and it washed away my Cities.
They are evened with Atlantis and the towns before the Flood.
Rain on rain-gorged channels raised the water-levels round them,
Freshet backed on freshet swelled and swept their world from sight,
Till the emboldened floods linked arms and flashing forward drowned them —
Drowned my Seven Cities and their peoples in one night!
Low among the alders lie their derelict foundations,
The beams wherein they trusted and the plinths whereon they built —
My rulers and their treasure and their unborn populations,
Dead, destroyed, aborted, and defiled with mud and silt!
The Daughters of the Palace whom they cherished in my Cities,
My silver-tongued Princesses, and the promise of their May —
Their bridegrooms of the June-tide — all have perished in my Cities,
With the harsh envenomed virgins that can neither love nor play.
I was Lord of Cities — I will build anew my Cities,
Seven, set on rocks, above the wrath of any flood.
Nor will I rest from search till I have filled anew my Cities
With peoples undefeated of the dark, enduring blood.
To the sound of trumpets shall their seed restore my Cities.
Wealthy and well-weaponed, that once more may I behold
All the world go softly when it walks before my Cities,
And the horses and the chariots fleeing from them as of old!
* * *
‘Swept and Garnished’
(January 1915)
When the first waves of feverish cold stole over Frau Ebermann she very wisely telephoned for the doctor and went to bed. He diagnosed the attack as mild influenza, prescribed the appropriate remedies, and left her to the care of her one servant in her comfortable Berlin flat. Frau Ebermann, beneath the thick coverlet, curled up with what patience she could until the aspirin should begin to act, and Anna should come back from the chemist with the formamint, the ammoniated quinine, the eucalyptus, and the little tin steam-inhaler. Meantime, every bone in her body ached; her head throbbed; her hot, dry hands would not stay the same size for a minute together; and her body, tucked into the smallest possible compass, shrank from the chill of the well-warmed sheets.
Of a sudden she noticed that an imitation-lace cover which should have lain mathematically square with the imitation-marble top of the radiator behind the green plush sofa had slipped away so that one corner hung over the bronze-painted steam pipes. She recalled that she must have rested her poor head against the radiator-top while she was taking off her boots. She tried to get up and set the thing straight, but the radiator at once receded toward the horizon, which, unlike true horizons, slanted diagonally, exactly parallel with the dropped lace edge of the cover. Frau Ebermann groaned through sticky lips and lay still.
‘Certainly, I have a temperature,’ she said. ‘Certainly, I have a grave temperature. I should have been warned by that chill after dinner.’
She resolved to shut her hot-lidded eyes, but opened them in a little while to torture herself with the knowledge of that ungeometrical thing against the far wall. Then she saw a child — an untidy, thin-faced little girl of about ten, who must have strayed in from the adjoining flat. This proved — Frau Ebermann groaned again at the way the world falls to bits when one is sick — proved that Anna had forgotten to shut the outer door of the flat when she went to the chemist. Frau Ebermann had had children of her own, but they were all grown up now, and she had never been a child-lover in any sense. Yet the intruder might be made to serve her scheme of things.
‘Make — put,’ she muttered thickly, ‘that white thing straight on the top of that yellow thing.’
The child paid no attention, but moved about the room, investigating everything that came in her way — the yellow cut-glass handles of the chest of drawers, the stamped bronze hook to hold back the heavy puce curtains, and the mauve enamel, New Art finger-plates on the door. Frau
Ebermann watched indignantly.
‘Aie! That is bad and rude. Go away!’ she cried, though it hurt her to raise her voice. ‘Go away by the road you came!’ The child passed behind the bed-foot, where she could not see her. ‘Shut the door as you go. I will speak to Anna, but — first, put that white thing straight.’
She closed her eyes in misery of body and soul. The outer door clicked, and Anna entered, very penitent that she had stayed so long at the chemist’s. But it had been difficult to find the proper type of inhaler, and —
‘Where did the child go?’ moaned Frau Ebermann — ’the child that was here?’
‘There was no child,’ said startled Anna. ‘How should any child come in when I shut the door behind me after I go out? All the keys of the flats are different.’
‘No, no! You forgot this time. But my back is aching, and up my legs also. Besides, who knows what it may have fingered and upset? Look and see.’
‘Nothing is fingered, nothing is upset,’ Anna replied, as she took the inhaler from its paper box.
‘Yes, there is. Now I remember all about it. Put — put that white thing, with the open edge — the lace, I mean — quite straight on that — ’ she pointed. Anna, accustomed to her ways, understood and went to it.
‘Now, is it quite straight?’ Frau Ebermann demanded.
‘Perfectly,’ said Anna. ‘In fact, in the very centre of the radiator.’ Anna measured the equal margins with her knuckle, as she had been told to do when she first took service.
‘And my tortoise-shell hair brushes?’ Frau Ebermann could not command her dressing-table from where she lay.
‘Perfectly straight, side by side in the big tray, and the comb laid across them. Your watch also in the coralline watch-holder. Everything’ — she moved round the room to make sure — ’everything is as you have it when you are well.’ Frau Ebermann sighed with relief. It seemed to her that the room and her head had suddenly grown cooler.
‘Good!’ said she. ‘Now warm my night-gown in the kitchen, so it will be ready when I have perspired. And the towels also. Make the inhaler steam, and put in the eucalyptus; that is good for the larynx. Then sit you in the kitchen, and come when I ring. But, first, my hot-water bottle.’
It was brought and scientifically tucked in.
‘What news?’ said Frau Ebermann drowsily. She had not been out that day.
‘Another victory,’ said Anna. ‘Many more prisoners and guns.’
Frau Ebermann purred, one might almost say grunted, contentedly.
‘That is good too,’ she said; and Anna, after lighting the inhaler-lamp, went out.
Frau Ebermann reflected that in an hour or so the aspirin would begin to work, and all would be well. To-morrow — no, the day after — she would take up life with something to talk over with her friends at coffee. It was rare — every one knew it — that she should be overcome by any ailment. Yet in all her distresses she had not allowed the minutest deviation from daily routine and ritual. She would tell her friends — she ran over their names one by one — exactly what measures she had taken against the lace cover on the radiator-top and in regard to her two tortoise-shell hair brushes and the comb at right angles. How she had set everything in order — everything in order. She roved further afield as she wriggled her toes luxuriously on the hot-water bottle. If it pleased our dear God to take her to Himself, and she was not so young as she had been — there was that plate of the four lower ones in the blue tooth-glass, for instance — He should find all her belongings fit to meet His eye. ‘Swept and garnished’ were the words that shaped themselves in her intent brain. ‘Swept and garnished for — ’
No, it was certainly not for the dear Lord that she had swept; she would have her room swept out to-morrow or the day after, and garnished. Her hands began to swell again into huge pillows of nothingness. Then they shrank, and so did her head, to minute dots. It occurred to her that she was waiting for some event, some tremendously important event, to come to pass. She lay with shut eyes for a long time till her head and hands should return to their proper size.
She opened her eyes with a jerk.
‘How stupid of me,’ she said aloud, ‘to set the room in order for a parcel of dirty little children!’
They were there — five of them, two little boys and three girls — headed by the anxious-eyed ten-year-old whom she had seen before. They must have entered by the outer door, which Anna had neglected to shut behind her when she returned with the inhaler. She counted them backward and forward as one counts scales — one, two, three, four, five.
They took no notice of her, but hung about, first on one foot then on the other, like strayed chickens, the smaller ones holding by the larger. They had the air of utterly wearied passengers in a railway waiting-room, and their clothes were disgracefully dirty.
‘Go away!’ cried Frau Ebermann at last, after she had struggled, it seemed to her, for years to shape the words.
‘You called?’ said Anna at the living-room door.
‘No,’ said her mistress. ‘Did you shut the flat door when you came in?’
‘Assuredly,’ said Anna. ‘Besides, it is made to catch shut of itself.’
‘Then go away,’ said she, very little above a whisper. If Anna pretended not to see the children, she would speak to Anna later on.
‘And now,’ she said, turning toward them as soon as the door closed. The smallest of the crowd smiled at her, and shook his head before he buried it in his sister’s skirts.
‘Why — don’t — you — go — away?’ she whispered earnestly.
Again they took no notice, but, guided by the elder girl, set themselves to climb, boots and all, on to the green plush sofa in front of the radiator. The little boys had to be pushed, as they could not compass the stretch unaided. They settled themselves in a row, with small gasps of relief, and pawed the plush approvingly.
‘I ask you — I ask you why do you not go away — why do you not go away?’ Frau Ebermann found herself repeating the question twenty times. It seemed to her that everything in the world hung on the answer. ‘You know you should not come into houses and rooms unless you are invited. Not houses and bedrooms, you know.’
‘No,’ a solemn little six-year-old repeated, ‘not houses nor bedrooms, nor dining-rooms, nor churches, nor all those places. Shouldn’t come in. It’s rude.’
‘Yes, he said so,’ the younger girl put in proudly. ‘He said it. He told them only pigs would do that.’ The line nodded and dimpled one to another with little explosive giggles, such as children use when they tell deeds of great daring against their elders.
‘If you know it is wrong, that makes it much worse,’ said Frau Ebermann.
‘Oh yes; much worse,’ they assented cheerfully, till the smallest boy changed his smile to a baby wail of weariness.
‘When will they come for us?’ he asked, and the girl at the head of the row hauled him bodily into her square little capable lap.
‘He’s tired,’ she explained. ‘He is only four. He only had his first breeches this spring.’ They came almost under his armpits, and were held up by broad linen braces, which, his sorrow diverted for the moment, he patted proudly.
‘Yes, beautiful, dear,’ said both girls.
‘Go away!’ said Frau Ebermann. ‘Go home to your father and mother!’
Their faces grew grave at once.
‘H’sh! We can’t,’ whispered the eldest. ‘There isn’t anything left.’
‘All gone,’ a boy echoed, and he puffed through pursed lips. ‘Like that, uncle told me. Both cows too.’
‘And my own three ducks,’ the boy on the girl’s lap said sleepily.
‘So, you see, we came here.’ The elder girl leaned forward a little, caressing the child she rocked.
‘I — I don’t understand,’ said Frau Ebermann ‘Are you lost, then? You must tell our police.’
‘Oh no; we are only waiting.’
‘But what are you waiting for?’
‘We are w
aiting for our people to come for us. They told us to come here and wait for them. So we are waiting till they come,’ the eldest girl replied.
‘Yes. We are waiting till our people come for us,’ said all the others in chorus.
‘But,’ said Frau Ebermann very patiently — ’but now tell me, for I tell you that I am not in the least angry, where do you come from? Where do you come from?’
The five gave the names of two villages of which she had read in the papers,
‘That is silly,’ said Frau Ebermann. ‘The people fired on us, and they were punished. Those places are wiped out, stamped flat.’
‘Yes, yes, wiped out, stamped flat. That is why and — I have lost the ribbon off my pigtail,’ said the younger girl. She looked behind her over the sofa-back.
‘It is not here,’ said the elder. ‘It was lost before. Don’t you remember?’
‘Now, if you are lost, you must go and tell our police. They will take care of you and give you food,’ said Frau Ebermann. ‘Anna will show you the way there.’
‘No,’ — this was the six-year-old with the smile, — ’we must wait here till our people come for us. Mustn’t we, sister?’
‘Of course. We wait here till our people come for us. All the world knows that,’ said the eldest girl.
‘Yes.’ The boy in her lap had waked again. ‘Little children, too — as little as Henri, and he doesn’t wear trousers yet. As little as all that.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Frau Ebermann, shivering. In spite of the heat of the room and the damp breath of the steam-inhaler, the aspirin was not doing its duty.
The girl raised her blue eyes and looked at the woman for an instant.
‘You see,’ she said, emphasising her statements with her ringers, ‘they told us to wait here till our people came for us. So we came. We wait till our people come for us.’
‘That is silly again,’ said Frau Ebermann. ‘It is no good for you to wait here. Do you know what this place is? You have been to school? It is Berlin, the capital of Germany.’
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 504