Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated)

by Rudyard Kipling

  ‘Alone there? I’d ha’ thought you’d ‘ad enough of empty houses,’ said Mrs. Fettley, horrified.

  ‘Oh, Mrs. Ellis an’ Sophy was runnin’ in an’ out soon’s I was back, an’ ‘twixt us we cleaned de house again top-to-bottom. There’s allus a hand’s turn more to do in every house. An’ that’s ‘ow ‘twas with me that autumn an’ winter, in Lunnon.’

  ‘Then na’un hap-overtook ye for your doin’s?’

  Mrs. Ashcroft smiled. ‘No. Not then. ‘Long in November I sent Bessie ten shillin’s.’

  ‘You was allus free-’anded,’ Mrs. Fettley interrupted.

  ‘An’ I got what I paid for, with the rest o’ the news. She said the hoppin’ ‘ad set ‘im up wonderful. ‘E’d ‘ad six weeks of it, and now ‘e was back again carterin’ at Smalldene. No odds to me ‘ow it ‘ad ‘appened-’slong’s it ‘ad. But I dunno as my ten shillin’s eased me much. ‘Arry bein’ dead, like, ‘e’d ha’ been mine, till Judgment. ‘Arry bein’ alive, ‘e’d like as not pick up with some woman middlin’ quick. I raged over that. Come spring, I ‘ad somethin’ else to rage for. I’d growed a nasty little weepin’ boil, like, on me shin, just above the boot-top, that wouldn’t heal no shape. It made me sick to look at it, for I’m clean-fleshed by nature. Chop me all over with a spade, an’ I’d heal like turf. Then Mrs. Marshall she set ‘er own doctor at me. ‘E said I ought to ha’ come to him at first go-off, ‘stead o’ drawn’ all manner o’ dyed stockm’s over it for months. ‘E said I’d stood up too much to me work, for it was settin’ very close atop of a big swelled vein, like, behither the small o’ me ankle. “Slow come, slow go,” ‘e says. “Lay your leg up on high an’ rest it,” he says, “an’ ‘twill ease off. Don’t let it close up too soon. You’ve got a very fine leg, Mrs. Ashcroft,” ‘e says. An’ he put wet dressin’s on it.’

  ‘‘E done right.’ Mrs. Fettley spoke firmly. ‘Wet dressin’s to wet wounds. They draw de humours, same’s a lamp-wick draws de oil.’

  ‘That’s true. An’ Mrs. Marshall was allus at me to make me set down more, an’ dat nigh healed it up. An’ then after a while they packed me off down to Bessie’s to finish the cure; for I ain’t the sort to sit down when I ought to stand up. You was back in the village then, Liz.’

  ‘I was. I was, but-never did I guess!’

  ‘I didn’t desire ye to.’ Mrs. Ashcroft smiled. ‘I saw ‘Arry once or twice in de street, wonnerful fleshed up an’ restored back. Then, one day I didn’t see ‘im, an’ ‘is mother told me one of ‘is ‘orses ‘ad lashed out an’ caught ‘im on the ‘ip. So ‘e was abed an’ middlin’ painful. An’ Bessie, she says to his mother, ‘twas a pity ‘Arry ‘adn’t a woman of ‘is own to take the nursin’ off ‘er. And the old lady was mad! She told us that ‘Arry ‘ad never looked after any woman in ‘is born days, an’ as long as she was atop the mowlds, she’d contrive for ‘im till ‘er two ‘ands dropped off. So I knowed she’d do watch-dog for me, ‘thout askin’ for bones.’

  Mrs. Fettley rocked with small laughter.

  ‘That day,’ Mrs. Ashcroft went on, ‘I’d stood on me feet nigh all the time, watchin’ the doctor go in an’ out; for they thought it might be ‘is ribs, too. That made my boil break again, issuin’ an’ weepin’. But it turned out ‘twadn’t ribs at all, an’ ‘Arry ‘ad a good night. When I heard that, nex’ mornin’, I says to meself, “I won’t lay two an’ two together yit. I’ll keep me leg down a week, an’ see what comes of it.” It didn’t hurt me that day, to speak of-’seemed more to draw the strength out o’ me like-an’ ‘Arry ‘ad another good night. That made me persevere; but I didn’t dare lay two an’ two together till the week- end, an’ then, ‘Arry come forth e’en a’most ‘imself again-na’un hurt outside ner in of him. I nigh fell on me knees in de washhouse when Bessie was up-street. “I’ve got ye now, my man,” I says. “You’ll take your good from me ‘thout knowin’ it till my life’s end. O God, send me long to live for ‘Arry’s sake!” I says. An’ I dunno that didn’t still me ragin’s.’

  ‘For good?’ Mrs. Fettley asked.

  ‘They come back, plenty times, but, let be how ‘twould, I knowed I was doin’ for ‘im. I knowed it. I took an’ worked me pains on an’ off, like regulatin’ my own range, till I learned to ‘ave ‘em at my commandments. An’ that was funny, too. There was times, Liz, when my trouble ‘ud all s’rink an’ dry up, like. First, I used to try an’ fetch it on again; bein’ fearful to leave ‘Arry alone too long for anythin’ to lay ‘old of. Prasin’ly I come to see that was a sign he’d do all right awhile, an’ so I saved myself’

  ‘‘Ow long for?’ Mrs. Fettley asked, with deepest interest.

  ‘I’ve gone de better part of a year onct or twice with na’un more to show than the liddle weepin’ core of it, like. All s’rinked up an’ dried off. Then he’d inflame up-for a warnin’-an’ I’d suffer it. When I couldn’t no more-an’ I ‘ad to keep on goin’ with my Lunnon work-I’d lay me leg high on a cheer till it eased. Not too quick. I knowed by the feel of it, those times, dat ‘Arry was in need. Then I’d send another five shillin’s to Bess, or somethin’ for the chillern, to find out if, mebbe, ‘e’d took any hurt through my neglects. ‘Twas so! Year in, year out, I worked it dat way, Liz, an’ ‘e got ‘is good from me ‘thout knowin’-for years and years.’

  ‘But what did you get out of it, Gra’?’ Mrs. Fettley almost wailed. ‘Did ye see ‘im reg’lar?’

  ‘Times-when I was ‘ere on me ‘ol’days. An’ more, now that I’m ‘ere for good. But ‘e’s never looked at me, ner any other woman ‘cept ‘is mother. ‘Ow I used to watch an’ listen! So did she.’

  ‘Years an’ years!’ Mrs. Fettley repeated. ‘An’ where’s ‘e workin’ at now?’

  ‘Oh, ‘e’s give up carterin’ quite a while. He’s workin’ for one o’ them big tractorisin’ firms-plowin’ sometimes, an’ sometimes off with lorries-fur as Wales, I’ve ‘eard. He comes ‘ome to ‘is mother ‘tween whiles; but I don’t set eyes on him now, fer weeks on end. No odds! ‘Is job keeps ‘im from continuin’ in one stay anywheres.’

  ‘But just for de sake o’ sayin’ somethin’-s’pose ‘Arry did get married?’ said Mrs. Fettley.

  Mrs. Ashcroft drew her breath sharply between her still even and natural teeth. ‘Dat ain’t been required of me,’ she answered. ‘I reckon my pains ‘ull be counted agin that. Don’t you, Liz?’

  ‘It ought to be, dearie. It ought to be.’

  ‘It do ‘urt sometimes. You shall see it when Nurse comes. She thinks I don’t know it’s turned.’

  Mrs. Fettley understood. Human nature seldom walks up to the word ‘cancer.’

  ‘Be ye certain sure, Gra’?’ she asked.

  ‘I was sure of it when old Mr. Marshall ‘ad me up to ‘is study an’ spoke a long piece about my faithful service. I’ve obliged ‘em on an’ off for a goodish time, but not enough for a pension. But they give me a weekly ‘lowance for life. I knew what that sinnified-as long as three years ago.

  ‘Dat don’t prove it, Gra’.’

  ‘To give fifteen bob a week to a woman ‘oo’d live twenty year in the course o’ nature? It do!’

  ‘You’re mistook! You’re mistook!’ Mrs. Fettley insisted.

  ‘Liz, there’s no mistakin’ when the edges are all heaped up, like-same as a collar. You’ll see it. An’ I laid out Dora Wickwood, too. She ‘ad it under the arm-pit, like.’

  Mrs. Fettley considered awhile, and bowed her head in finality.

  ‘‘Ow long d’you reckon ‘twill allow ye, countin’ from now, dearie?’

  ‘Slow come, slow go. But if I don’t set eyes on ye ‘fore next hoppin’, this’ll be good-bye, Liz.’

  ‘Dunno as I’ll be able to manage by then-not ‘thout I have a liddle dog to lead me. For de chillern, dey won’t be troubled, an’-O Gra’! I’m blindin’ up-I’m blindin’ up!’

  ‘Oh, dat was why you didn’t more’n finger with your quilt-patches all this while! I was wonderin’...But the pain do count
, don’t ye think, Liz? The pain do count to keep ‘Arry where I want ‘im. Say it can’t be wasted, like.’

  ‘I’m sure of it-sure of it, dearie. You’ll ‘ave your reward.’

  ‘I don’t want no more’n this-if de pain is taken into de reckonin’.’

  ‘‘Twill be-’twill be, Gra’.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘That’s Nurse. She’s before ‘er time,’ said Mrs. Ashcroft. ‘Open to ‘er.’

  The young lady entered briskly, all the bottles in her bag clicking. ‘Evenin’, Mrs. Ashcroft,’ she began. ‘I’ve come raound a little earlier than usual because of the Institute dance to-na-ite. You won’t ma-ind, will you?

  ‘Oh, no. Me dancin’ days are over.’ Mrs. Ashcroft was the self- contained domestic at once.

  ‘My old friend, Mrs. Fettley ‘ere, has been settin’ talkin’ with me a while.’

  ‘I hope she ‘asn’t been fatiguing you?’ said the Nurse a little frostily.

  ‘Quite the contrary. It ‘as been a pleasure. Only-only-just at the end I felt a bit-a bit flogged out like.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ The Nurse was on her knees already, with the washes to hand. ‘When old ladies get together they talk a deal too much, I’ve noticed.’

  ‘Mebbe we do,’ said Mrs. Fettley, rising. ‘So now I’ll make myself scarce.’

  ‘Look at it first, though,’ said Mrs. Ashcroft feebly. ‘I’d like ye to look at it.’

  Mrs. Fettley looked, and shivered. Then she leaned over, and kissed Mrs. Ashcroft once on the waxy yellow forehead, and again on the faded grey eyes.

  ‘It do count, don’t it-de pain?’ The lips that still kept trace of their original moulding hardly more than breathed the words.

  Mrs. Fettley kissed them and moved towards the door.

  What is a God beside Woman? Dust and derision!

  Rahere

  RAHERE, King Henry’s jester, feared by all the Norman Lords For his eye that pierced their bosoms, for his tongue that shamed their swords; Feed and flattered by the Churchmen-well they knew how deep he stood In dark Henry’s crooked counsels-fell upon an evil mood. Suddenly, his days before him and behind him seemed to stand Stripped and barren, fixed and fruitless, as those leagues of naked sand When St. Michael’s ebb slinks outward to the bleak horizon-bound. And the trampling wide-mouthed waters are withdrawn from sight and sound. Then a Horror of Great Darkness sunk his spirit and, anon. (Who had seen him wince and whiten as he turned to walk alone) Followed Gilbert the Physician, and muttered in his ear. ‘Thou hast it, O my brother?’ ‘Yea, I have it,’ said Rahere. ‘So it comes,’ said Gilbert smoothly, ‘man’s most immanent distress. ‘Tis a humour of the Spirit which abhorreth all excess; And, whatever breed the surfeit-Wealth, or Wit, or Power, or Fame (And thou hast each) the Spirit laboureth to expel the same. ‘Hence the dulled eye’s deep self-loathing hence the loaded leaden brow; Hence the burden of Wanhope that aches thy soul and body now. Ay, the merriest fool must face it, and the wisest Doctor learn; For it comes-it comes,’ said Gilbert, ‘as it passes-to return.’ But Rahere was in his torment, and he wandered, dumb and far. Till he came to reeking Smithfield where the crowded gallows are. (Followed Gilbert the Physician) and beneath the wry-necked dead. Sat a leper and his woman, very merry, breaking bread. He was cloaked from chin to ankle-faceless, fingerless, obscene Mere corruption swaddled man-wise, but the woman whole and clean; And she waited on him crooning, and Rahere beheld the twain. Each delighting in the other, and he checked and groaned again. ‘So it comes,-it comes,’ said Gilbert, ‘as it came when Life began. ‘Tis a motion of the Spirit that revealeth God to man In the shape of Love exceeding, which regards not taint or fall. Since in perfect Love, saith Scripture, can be no excess at all. ‘Hence the eye that sees no blemish-hence the hour that holds no shame. Hence the Soul assured the Essence and the Substance are the same. Nay, the meanest need not miss it, though the mightier pass it by; For it comes-it comes,’ said Gilbert, ‘and, thou seest, it does not die!’

  The Survival

  HORACE, Ode 22, Bk. V

  SECURELY, after days

  Unnumbered, I behold

  Kings mourn that promised praise

  Their cheating bards foretold.

  Of earth-constricting wars.

  Of Princes passed in chains.

  Of deeds out-shining stars.

  No word or voice remains.

  Yet furthest times receive.

  And to fresh praise restore.

  Mere flutes that breathe at eve.

  Mere seaweed on the shore;

  A smoke of sacrifice;

  A chosen myrtle-wreath;

  An harlot’s altered eyes;

  A rage ‘gainst love or death;

  Glazed snow beneath the moon;

  The surge of storm-bowed trees-

  The Caesars perished soon.

  And Rome Herself: But these

  Endure while Empires fall

  And Gods for Gods make room...

  Which greater God than all

  Imposed the amazing doom?

  The Janeites

  Jane lies in Winchester-blessed be her shade!

  Praise the Lord for making her, and her for all she made!

  And while the stones of Winchester, or Milsom Street, remain.

  Glory, love, and honour unto England’s Jane!

  IN the Lodge of Instruction attached to ‘Faith and Works No. 5837 E.C.,’ which has already been described, Saturday afternoon was appointed for the weekly clean-up, when all visiting Brethren were welcome to help under the direction of the Lodge Officer of the day: their reward was light refreshment and the meeting of companions.

  This particular afternoon-in the autumn of ‘20-Brother Burges, P.M., was on duty and, finding a strong shift present, took advantage of it to strip and dust all hangings and curtains, to go over every inch of the Pavement-which was stone, not floorcloth-by hand; and to polish the Columns, Jewels, Working outfit and organ. I was given to clean some Officers’ Jewels-beautiful bits of old Georgian silver-work humanised by generations of elbow-grease-and retired to the organ- loft; for the floor was like the quarterdeck of a battleship on the eve of a ball. Half-a-dozen brethren had already made the Pavement as glassy as the aisle of Greenwich Chapel; the brazen chapiters winked like pure gold at the flashing Marks on the Chairs; and a morose one- legged brother was attending to the Emblems of Mortality with, I think, rouge.

  ‘They ought,’ he volunteered to Brother Burges as we passed, ‘to be betwixt the colour of ripe apricots an’ a half-smoked meerschaum. That’s how we kept ‘em in my Mother-Lodge-a treat to look at.’

  ‘I’ve never seen spit-and-polish to touch this,’ I said.

  ‘Wait till you see the organ,’ Brother Burges replied. ‘You could shave in it when they’ve done. Brother Anthony’s in charge up there- the taxi-owner you met here last month. I don’t think you’ve come across Brother Humberstall, have you?’

  ‘I don’t remember — ’ I began.

  ‘You wouldn’t have forgotten him if you had. He’s a hairdresser now, somewhere at the back of Ebury Street. ‘Was Garrison Artillery. ‘Blown up twice.’

  ‘Does he show it?’ I asked at the foot of the organ-loft stairs.

  ‘No-o. Not much more than Lazarus did, I expect.’ Brother Burges fled off to set some one else to a job.

  Brother Anthony, small, dark, and humpbacked, was hissing groom- fashion while he treated the rich acacia-wood panels of the Lodge organ with some sacred, secret composition of his own. Under his guidance Humberstall, an enormous, flat-faced man, carrying the shoulders, ribs, and loins of the old Mark ‘14 Royal Garrison Artillery, and the eyes of a bewildered retriever, rubbed the stuff in. I sat down to my task on the organ-bench, whose purple velvet cushion was being vacuum-cleaned on the floor below.

  ‘Now,’ said Anthony, after five minutes’ vigorous work on the part of Humberstall. ‘Now we’re gettin’ somethin’ worth lookin’ at! Take it easy, an’ go
on with what you was tellin’ me about that Macklin man.’

  ‘I-I ‘adn’t anything against ‘im,’ said Humberstall, ‘excep’ he’d been a toff by birth; but that never showed till he was bosko absoluto. Mere bein’ drunk on’y made a common ‘ound of ‘im. But when bosko, it all came out. Otherwise, he showed me my duties as mess-waiter very well on the ‘ole.’

  ‘Yes, yes. But what in ‘ell made you go back to your Circus? The Board gave you down-an’-out fair enough, you said, after the dump went up at Eatables?’

  ‘Board or no Board, I ‘adn’t the nerve to stay at ‘ome-not with Mother chuckin’ ‘erself round all three rooms like a rabbit every time the Gothas tried to get Victoria; an’ sister writin’ me aunts four pages about it next day. Not for me, thank you! till the war was over. So I slid out with a draft-they wasn’t particular in ‘17, so long as the tally was correct-and I joined up again with our Circus somewhere at the back of Lar Pug Noy, I think it was.’ Humberstall paused for some seconds and his brow wrinkled. ‘Then I-I went sick, or somethin’ or other, they told me; but I know when I reported for duty, our Battery Sergeant-Major says that I wasn’t expected back, an’-an’, one thing leadin’ to another-to cut a long story short-I went up before our Major-Major-I shall forget my own name next-Major — ’

  ‘Never mind,’ Anthony interrupted. ‘Go on! It’ll come back in talk!’

  ‘‘Alf a mo’. ‘Twas on the tip o’ my tongue then.’

  Humberstall dropped the polishing-cloth and knitted his brows again in most profound thought. Anthony turned to me and suddenly launched into a sprightly tale of his taxi’s collision with a Marble Arch refuge on a greasy day after a three-yard skid.

  ‘‘Much damage?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh no! Ev’ry bolt an’ screw an’ nut on the chassis strained; but nothing carried away, you understand me, an’ not a scratch on the body. You’d never ‘ave guessed a thing wrong till you took ‘er in hand. It was a wop too: ‘ead-on-like this!’ And he slapped his tactful little forehead to show what a knock it had been.