‘But tha winna mak’ a fool o’ t’poor dumb beast, will tha’, lads?’ Mrs. Enoch pleaded, as she dipped the broom in warm water and began on that enormous back.
Angelique lay down at command, sure that these things were but prelude to more admiration. They scrubbed her, till she was as white as a puff ball. Then, area by area, she was painted with dazzle-patterns of greenish-yellow and purple-brown, till it was hard to say whether she moved to or from the beholder. Jem took her head, jowl, and neck, where the space was limited. So he was forced to use spots which, by divine ordering, suggested the foullest evidences of decomposition. Remembering the lady in the restaurant, he paid special attention to her eyes and brows.
‘If t’Major niver had ‘em before, she’ll give ‘em to him proper,’ was Enoch’s verdict.
‘She lukes like nowt o’ God’s makin’ already,’ Mrs. Enoch agreed. ‘But she’s proud of hersen! — Sitha! She’s tryin’ to admire of her own belly! Wicked wumman! She’ll niver be t’saam to me again.’
‘It’ll wash off. Now we’ll go for a walk. Shove her into t’sty, Enoch, and pray the Major comes this morning.’
Their prayers were answered within the hour. They saw the Major, on his regular Sunday round, descend the slope to the home farm. Then they turned, on interior lines, which brought them face to face with him rounding the barn by Angelique’s sty. At the sound of their well- known voices, she reared up ponderously, and hitched her elbows over the low door, much as Jezebel, after her head was tyred, looked out of the window. It was not the loathly brown and yellow-green blotches on bosom and shoulder that appalled most, but the smaller ones on face, jowl, and neck, for she had been rubbing her cheeks a little, and the pattern had drawn into wedges and smears, perfectly simulating a mask of unspeakable agony coupled with desperate appeal. Moreover, so wholly is hearing dominated by sight, that her jovial grunt of welcome seemed the too-human plaint of a beast against realised death.
When, with haggard, purple-bordered eyes, she looked for applause and cabbage, the horror of that slow-turning head made even the artists forget their well-thought-out lines.
‘‘Mornin’, old lady,’ said Jem at last, and Kit echoed him.
But the Major’s greeting was otherwise. He blenched. He held out one dramatic arm. He stammered: ‘How — how long has that creature been like that?’
‘Always, hasn’t she, Jem?’ said Kit sweetly. ‘We’re just taking her for a walk.’
‘I — I forbid you to touch her. Look at her spots! Look at her spots!’
‘Spots?’ Kit seemed puzzled for a moment.
‘Yes. Spots!’ The voice shook.
‘Spo-ots! Oh yes. Of course.’ This was in Kit’s best bedside-manner. ‘Certainly we won’t let her out if you feel that way.’
‘Feel! Can’t you see? She’s infected to the marrow. She’s rotting alive. Put her out of her misery at once!’
Here Enoch appeared with a broom, and the Major commanded him to kill and keep the body.
Enoch merely opened the sty door, and Angelique came out. The Major backed several yards, calling and threatening. But everyone except a few female summer-visitors had always been kind to her. This person — she argued — might be good for an apple, or — she was not bigoted — cigarette-ends. So she went towards him smiling, and her smile, for reasons given, was like the rolling back of the Gates of Golgotha.
Whether she would have rubbed herself against his Sunday trousers, or fled when she had seen his face, are “matters arguable to all eternity.” It is only agreed that the Major floated out of her orbit by about a bow-shot in the direction of the village, and thence onward earnestly.
‘Well, that proves it ain’t glands, at any rate,’ Kit pronounced. ‘He’ll stay away for a bit, but we won’t take chances. Come along, Angelique! Washee-washee, ma luv!’
Then and there they treated her in the washhouse with petrol, which removes grease-paints, and sacking soaked in warm water, which takes off the sting of it, till she was fit to turn out into the orchard and root a bit, lest she should be too clean at any later inspection. By then it was nearly lunch-time.
‘Tha sees,’ said Jem, slipping on his coat. ‘Pe-wer as a lily! There’s nowt need come ‘twix thee an’ t’owd lady now, Liz — is there, ma luv?’
Upon which Mrs. Enoch very properly kissed him, while Enoch sat helpless on a swill-bucket.
Mrs. Saul and the rest of the staff came back from evening service fully informed, for the Major had spent every minute since his meeting with Angelique in talking about her to everyone. He said, among other things, that she had been wilfully hidden, that she was being taken out for secret exercise when he discovered her condition, and that he was going to attend to the matter himself.
Thus Mrs. Saul on the landing as the two young men went up to change. ‘Very good,’ said Jem. ‘Don’t go to Dad about it, though.’
‘But we — but I’ve been down to Enoch’s to look at her. She’s as clean as me. Isn’t it shocking to be that way — on a Sunday morning? He took the bag round, too! You can never tell what these old bachelors are really like...’
They had finished dessert — the State-aided summer sunlight was still on the table — and the boys had gone to the billiard-room, when the Major was announced on an urgent matter.
‘Better have him in here, Wally,’ Sir Harry mildly suggested. ‘I believe he’s a bit of a bore.’
So he entered, and told his story, summarising the steps he would take, out of pure public spirit, to deal with this plague, and this menace, and these evasions.
‘I see! You’ve seen a spotted pig,’ said Mr. Gravell at last. ‘Well, that couldn’t have been our Angelique. She’s a Large White, you know, and — my son generally attends to this sort of thing.’
‘He saw her, too. As I’ve been telling you, your son saw her! He was perfectly cognisant of her condition. So was yours.’
The Major wheeled on Sir Harry, who was not a Company lawyer for nothing.
‘We won’t dispute that. Better call the boys in, Wally,’ said he.
They entered, without interest, as the young do when dragged from private conferences.
‘So far as I understand you, Major Kniveat,’ Sir Harry resumed, ‘you saw a pig — spotted yellow and green and purple, wasn’t it? — this morning?’
‘I did. I’m prepared to swear to it.’
‘I accept your word without question. There’s nothing to prevent anyone seeing spotted pigs on Sunday mornings, of course; but there are lots of things — on Saturday nights, for example — that may lead up to it. Can you recall any of them for us?’
The Major wished to know what Sir Harry might infer.
‘Oh, he saw them all right,’ Kit put in.
‘You did, too. You agreed with me at the time,’ the Major panted.
‘Naturally. Any medical man would — in the state you were then. Now, can you remember, sir, whether the spots were fixed or floating? Merely green and yellow, or iridescent with unstable black cores — oily and, perhaps, vermicular?’
The Major rose to his feet.
‘It’s all right — all right,’ Kit spoke soothingly. ‘It won’t come here! We won’t let the nasty pig come in here. And now, if you’ll put out your tongue, we’ll see if the tip trembles.’
‘Jem, what is it all about?’ Mr. Gravell wailed against the torrent of the Major’s speech.
‘Angelique,’ Jem answered, wearily. ‘He thinks she’s spotted green and purple and Lord knows what all.’
‘Then why doesn’t he go down to Enoch’s and look at her? There’s plenty of light still,’ the father answered. ‘Take him down and let him see her.’
‘I suppose we must. Come on, Kit, and help...Oh, hush! Hush! Yes! Yes! You shall have your dam’ pig!’
The Major, among other things, said he wished for impartial witnesses and no evasions.
‘About half the village have been down there already,’ said Kit. ‘You’ll have witnesses enough.
Come along!’
‘That’s right. That’s all right, then,’ said Mr. Gravell, and dropped further interest in the matter, for he was of a stock that attended to their own business and held their own liquor. But Sir Harry Birtle joined the house-party. He knew his Kit better than Mr. Gravell knew his Jemmy.
They went down through the long last lights of evening to the home farm. People were there already — a little group by Angelique’s sty that melted as they neared, leaving only the local solicitor; Dr. Frole, the general practitioner; and a retired Navy Captain — a J.P. who did not much affect the Major. As the other folk of lower degree moved off, they halted for a few words with the Enochs at the farmhouse door. Thence they joined friends who were waiting for them in the lane.
‘Do you want more witnesses?’ Jem asked. The Major shook his head.
‘Major Knivead — to see Angelique,’ Jem announced to the local solicitor. ‘The Major says he saw her this morning after divine service spotted green and yellow and purple. Look at her now, Major Knivead, please. She is the only pig we have. Would you like an affidavit?...We-ell, old lady.’
Angelique, once again hitched her elbows akimbo over her sty door, crossed her front feet, smiled, and — white almost as a puff-ball — said in effect to the company: ‘Bless you, my children!’
‘Wait a minute. You haven’t seen all of her yet,’ Kit opened the door. She came out and — it was a trick of infancy learned in the Christian kitchen — sat on her haunches like a dog, leering at the Major, Dr. Frole, the solicitor, and the Navy J.P. This latter sniffed dryly but very audibly. Sir Harry Birtle said, in the tone that had swayed many juries: ‘Yes. I think we all see.’
‘Now,’ said Jem. ‘About your spots?’
The Major would have looked over his left shoulder, but Kit was there softly patting it. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’ said Kit. ‘The ugly pig won’t run after you this time. I’ll attend to that. Look at her from here and tell me how many spots you count now.’
‘None,’ said Major Kniveat. ‘They’re all gone. My God! Everything’s gone!’
‘Quite right. Everything’s gone now, and here’s Dr. Frole, isn’t it yes, your own kind Dr. Frole — to see you safe home.’
The generation that tolerates but does not pity went away. They did not even turn round when they heard the first dry sob of one from whom all hope of office, influence, and authority was stripped for ever — drowned by the laughter in the lane.
The Expert
YOUTH that trafficked long with Death.
And to second life returns.
Squanders little time or breath
On his fellow-man’s concerns.
Earnèd peace is all he asks
To fulfil his broken tasks.
Yet, if he find war at home
(Waspish and importunate).
He hath means to overcome
Any warrior at his gate;
For the past he buried brings
Back unburiable things —
Nights that he lay out to spy
Whence and when the raid might start;
Or prepared in secrecy
Sudden Things to break its heart —
All the lore of No-Man’s Land
Moves his soul and arms his hand.
So, if conflict vex his life
Where he thought all conflict done.
He, resuming ancient strife.
Springs his mine or trains his gun.
And, in mirth more dread than wrath.
Wipes the nuisance from his path!
The Curé
LONG years ago, ere R — lls or R — ce
Trebled the mileage man could cover;
When Sh — nks’s Mare was H — bs — n’s Choice.
And Bl — r — ot had not flown to Dover
When good hoteliers looked askance
If any power save horse-flesh drew vans —
‘Time was in easy, hand-made France.
I met the Curé of Saint Juvans.
He was no babbler, but, at last.
One learned from things he left unspoken
How in some fiery, far-off past.
His, and a woman’s, heart were broken.
He sought for death, but found it not.
Yet, seeking, found his true vocation.
And fifty years, by all forgot.
Toiled at a simple folks’ salvation.
His pay was lower than our Dole;
The piteous little church he tended
Had neither roof nor vestments whole
Save what his own hard fingers mended
While, any hour, at every need
(As Conscience or La Grippe assailed ‘em).
His parish bade him come with speed.
And, foot or cart, he never failed ‘em.
His speech — to suit his hearers — ran
From pure Parisian to gross peasant.
With interludes North African
If any Legionnaire were present:
And when some wine-ripe atheist mocked
His office or the Faith he knelt in.
He left the sinner dumb and shocked
By oaths his old Battalion dealt in...
And he was learned in Death and Life;
And he was Logic’s self (as France is).
He knew his folk — man, maid, and wife —
Their forebears, failings, and finances.
Spite, Avarice, Devotion, Lies —
Passion ablaze or sick Obsession —
He dealt with each physician-wise;
Stern or most tender, at Confession.
* * * * *
To-day? God knows where he may lie —
His Cross of weathered beads above him
But one not worthy to untie
His shoe-string, prays you read — and love him!
The Miracle of Saint Jubanus
THE visitor had been drawn twenty kilometres beyond the end of the communal road under construction, by a rumour of a small window of thirteenth-century glass, said to represent a haloed saint in a helmet — none other, indeed, than Saint Julian of Auvergne — and to be found in the village church of Saint Jubans, down the valley.
But there was a wedding in the church, followed by the usual collection for charity. After the bridal procession had passed into the sunshine, two small acolytes began fighting over an odd sou. In a stride the tall old priest was upon them, knocked their heads together, unshelled them from their red, white-laced robes of office, and they rolled — a pair of black-gabardined gamins locked in war — out over the threshold on to the steep hillside.
He stood at the church door and looked down into the village beneath, half buried among the candles of the horse-chestnuts. It climbed up, house by house, from a busy river, to sharp, turfed slopes that lapped against live rock, whence, dominating the red valley, rose enormous ruins of an old château with bastions, curtains, and keeps, and a flying bridge that spanned the dry moat. Valerian and lilac in flower sprang wherever there was foothold.
‘All acolytes are little devils,’ said the priest benignly, and descended to the wedding-breakfast, which one could see in plan, set out by the stream in a courtyard of cut limes. His bearing was less that of a curé than a soldier, for his soutane swung like a marching- overcoat, and he lacked that bend of the neck, ‘the priest’s stoop,’ with which his Church stamps her sons when they are caught young. The wedding-feast had ended, and the heat of the day was abated before he climbed up again, beneath an enormous umbrella, to find the visitor among the ruins beside the little church...
‘I make a rule not to smoke unless it is offered. A thousand thanks!...This ought to be Smyrna...’ He exhaled the smoke through his finely-cut nostrils. ‘Yes, it is Smyrna...Good! And Monsieur appreciates our “Marylands” also? Hmm. I remember the time when our Government tobaccos were a national infamy...How long here am I? Close upon forty years...No. Never much elsewhere. It suffices me...’
‘A g
ood people. Composed of a few old clans — Meilhac — Leclos — Falloux — Poivrain — Ballart. Monsieur may have observed their names upon our Monument.’ He pointed downward to the little cast-iron poilu, which seemed to be standard pattern for War memorials in that region. ‘Neither rich nor poor. When the charabanc-road through the valley is made they will be richer...Postcards for the tourists, an hotel, and an antiquity shop, for sure, here beside the church. A Syndicate of Initiative has, indeed, approached me to write on the attractions of the district, as well as on the life of Saint Jubanus...But surely he existed! He was a Gaul commanding a Gaulish legion at the time when Christianity was spreading in the Roman Army. We were — he was engaged against the Bo — the Alemanni — and was on the eve of attack when some of his officers chose that moment to throw down their swords and embrace the Cross. Knowing that he had been baptized, they assumed his sympathy; but he charged them to wait till the battle was finished. He said, in effect “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.” Some obeyed. Some did not. But even with defaitist and demoralised forces he won the day. They would then have given him a triumph, but he put aside the laurel wreath, and from his own chariot publicly renounced his profession and the old deities. So — I expect it was necessary for discipline to be kept — he was beheaded on the field he had won. That is the legend...
‘His miracles? But one only on record. He called a dying man back to life by whispering in his ear, and the man sat up and laughed. (I wish I knew that joke.) That is why we have a proverb in our valley: “It would take Saint Jubans himself to make you smile.” I imagine him as an old soldier, strict in his duty, but also something of a farceur. Every year I deliver on his Day a discourse in his honour. And you will perceive that when the War came his life applied with singular force to the situation...
‘They called up the priests? Assuredly! I went...It is droll to re-enter the old life in a double capacity. You see, one can sometimes — er — replace a casualty if — if — one has been — had experience. In that event, one naturally speaks secularly on secular subjects. A moment later one gives them Absolution as they advance. But they were good — good boys. And so wastefully used!...That is why I am of all matchmakers in our village the least scrupulous. Ask the old women!...Yes, monsieur...and I returned without a scar...The good God spared me also the darkness of soul which covered, and which covers still, so many — the doubt — the defiance — the living damnation. I had thought — may He pardon me! — that it was hard to reach the hearts of my people here. I saw them, after the War, split open! Some entered hells of whose existence they had not dreamed — of whose terrors they lacked words to tell. So they — men distraught — needed more care in the years that followed the War than even at Chemin des Dames...Yes, I was there, also, when it seemed that hope had quitted France. I know now how a man can lay hands upon himself out of pure fear!
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 579