Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated)
Page 793
And kicked. A Council always has its H-pes.
They look for nothing from the West but Death
Or Bath or Bournemouth. Here’s their ground.
They fight
Until the middle classes take them back,
One of ten millions plus a C.S.I.
Or drop in harness. Legion of the Lost?
Not altogether — earnest, narrow men,
But chiefly earnest, and they’ll do your work,
And end by writing letters to the Times,
(Shall I write letters, answering H-nt-r — fawn
With R-p-n on the Yorkshire grocers? Ugh!)
They have their Reputations. Look to one —
I work with him — the smallest of them all,
White-haired, red-faced, who sat the plunging horse
Out in the garden. He’s your right-hand man,
And dreams of tilting W-ls-y from the throne,
But while he dreams gives work we cannot buy;
He has his Reputation — wants the Lords
By way of Frontier Roads. Meantime, I think,
He values very much the hand that falls
Upon his shoulder at the Council table —
Hates cats and knows his business; which is yours.
Your business! twice a hundered million souls.
Your business! I could tell you what I did
Some nights of Eighty-Five, at Simla, worth
A Kingdom’s ransom. When a big ship drives,
God knows to what new reef the man at the whee!
Prays with the passengers. They lose their lives,
Or rescued go their way; but he’s no man
To take his trick at the wheel again — that’s worse
Than drowning. Well, a galled Mashobra mule
(You’ll see Mashobra) passed me on the Mall,
And I was — some fool’s wife and ducked and bowed
To show the others I would stop and speak.
Then the mule fell — three galls, a hund-breadth each,
Behind the withers. Mrs. Whatsisname
Leers at the mule and me by turns, thweet thoul!
“How could they make him carry such a load!”
I saw — it isn’t often I dream dreams —
More than the mule that minute — smoke and flame
From Simla to the haze below. That’s weak.
You’re younger. You’ll dream dreams before you’ve done.
You’ve youth, that’s one — good workmen — that means two
Fair chances in your favor. Fate’s the third.
I know what I did. Do you ask me, “Preach”?
I answer by my past or else go back
To platitudes of rule — or take you thus
In confidence and say: “You know the trick:
You’ve governed Canada. You know. You know!”
And all the while commend you to Fate’s hand
(Here at the top on loses sight o’ God),
Commend you, then, to something more than you —
The Other People’s blunders and
. . . that’s all.
I’d agonize to serve you if I could.
It’s incommunicable, like the cast
That drops the tackle with the gut adry.
Too much — too little — there’s your salmon lost!
And so I tell you nothing — with you luck,
And wonder — how I wonder! — for your sake
And triumph for my own. You’re young, you’re young,
You hold to half a hundred Shibboleths.
I’m old. I followed Power to the last,
Gave her my best, and Power followed Me.
It’s worth it — on my sould I’m speaking plain,
Here by the claret glasses! — worth it all.
I gave — no matter what I gave — I win.
I know I win. Mine’s work, good work that lives!
A country twice the size of France — the North
Safeguarded. That’s my record: sink the rest
And better if you can. The Rains may serve,
Rupees may rise — three pence will give you Fame —
It’s rash to hope for sixpence — If they rise
Get guns, more guns, and lift the salt-tax.
Oh!
I told you what the Congress meant or thought?
I’ll answer nothing. Half a year will prove
The full extent of time and thought you’ll spare
To Congress. Ask a Lady Doctor once
How little Begums see the light — deduce
Thence how the True Reformer’s child is born.
It’s interesting, curious . . . and vile.
I told the Turk he was a gentlman.
I told the Russian that his Tartar veins
Bled pure Parisian ichor; and he purred.
The Congress doesn’t purr. I think it swears.
You’re young — you’ll swear to ere you’ve reached the end.
The End! God help you, if there be a God.
(There must be one to startle Gl-dst-ne’s soul
In that new land where all the wires are cut.
And Cr-ss snores anthems on the asphodel.)
God help you! And I’d help you if I could,
But that’s beyond me. Yes, your speech was crude.
Sound claret after olives — yours and mine;
But Medoc slips into vin ordinaire.
(I’ll drink my first at Genoa to your health.)
Raise it to Hock. You’ll never catch my style.
And, after all, the middle-classes grip
The middle-class — for Brompton talk Earl’s Court.
Perhaps you’re right. I’ll see you in the Times —
A quarter-column of eye-searing print,
A leader once a quarter — then a war;
The Strand abellow through the fog: “Defeat!”
“‘Orrible slaughter!” While you lie awake
And wonder. Oh, you’ll wonder ere you’re free!
I wonder now. The four years slide away
So fast, so fast, and leave me here alone.
R-y, C-lv-n, L-l, R-b-rts, B-ck, the rest,
Princes and Powers of Darkness troops and trains,
(I cannot sleep in trains), land piled on land,
Whitewash and weariness, red rockets, dust,
White snows that mocked me, palaces — with draughts,
And W-stl-nd with the drafts he couldn’t pay,
Poor W-ls-n reading his obituary.
Before he died, and H-pe, the man with bones,
And A-tch-s-n a dripping mackintosh
At Council in the Rains, his grating “Sirrr”
Half drowned by H-nt-r’s silky: “Bat my lahnd.”
Hunterian always: M-rsh-l spinning plates
Or standing on his head; the Rent Bill’s roar,
A hundred thousand speeches, must red cloth,
And Smiths thrice happy if I call them Jones,
(I can’t remember half their names) or reined
My pony on the Mall to greet their wives.
More trains, more troops, more dust, and then all’s done.
Four years, and I forget. If I forget
How will they bear me in their minds? The North
Safeguarded — nearly (R-b-rts knows the rest),
A country twice the size of France annexed.
That stays at least. The rest may pass — may pass —
Your heritage — and I can teach you nought.
“High trust,” “vast honor,” “interests twice as vast,”
“Due reverence to your Council” — keep to those.
I envy you the twenty years you’ve gained,
But not the five to follow. What’s that? One?
Two! — Surely not so late. Good-night. Don’t dream.
The Only Son
Enlarged from “Many Inventions”
She dropped the bar, sh
e shot the bolt, she fed the fire anew
For she heard a whimper under the sill and a great grey paw came through.
The fresh flame comforted the hut and shone on the roof-beam,
And the Only Son lay down again and dreamed that he dreamed a dream.
The last ash fell from the withered log with the click of a falling spark,
And the Only Son woke up again, and called across the dark: —
“Now was I born of womankind and laid in a mother’s breast?
For I have dreamed of a shaggy hide whereon I went to rest.
And was I born of womankind and laid on a father’s arm?
For I have dreamed of clashing teeth that guarded me from harm.
And was I born an Only Son and did I play alone?
For I have dreamed of comrades twain that bit me to the bone.
And did I break the barley-cake and steep it in the tyre?
For I have dreamed of a youngling kid new-riven from the byre:
For I have dreamed of a midnight sky and a midnight call to blood
And red-mouthed shadows racing by, that thrust me from my food.
‘Tis an hour yet and an hour yet to the rising of the moon,
But I can see the black roof-tree as plain as it were noon.
‘Tis a league and a league to the Lena Falls where the trooping blackbuck go;
But I can hear the little fawn that bleats behind the doe.
‘Tis a league and a league to the Lena Falls where the crop and the upland meet,
But I Can smell the wet dawn-wind that wakes the sprouting wheat.
Unbar the door. I may not bide, but I must out and see
If those are wolves that wait outside or my own kin to me!”
. . . . .
She loosed the bar, she slid the bolt, she opened the door anon,
And a grey bitch-wolf came out of the dark and fawned on the Only Son!
Oonts
(Northern India Transport Train)
Wot makes the soldier’s ‘eart to penk, wot makes ‘im to perspire?
It isn’t standin’ up to charge nor lyin’ down to fire;
But it’s everlastin’ waitin’ on a everlastin’ road
For the commissariat camel an’ ‘is commissariat load.
O the oont*, O the oont, O the commissariat oont!
With ‘is silly neck a-bobbin’ like a basket full o’ snakes;
We packs ‘im like an idol, an’ you ought to ‘ear ‘im grunt,
An’ when we gets ‘im loaded up ‘is blessed girth-rope breaks.
Wot makes the rear-guard swear so ‘ard when night is drorin’ in,
An’ every native follower is shiverin’ for ‘is skin?
It ain’t the chanst o’ being rushed by Paythans from the ‘ills,
It’s the commissariat camel puttin’ on ‘is bloomin’ frills!
O the oont, O the oont, O the hairy scary oont!
A-trippin’ over tent-ropes when we’ve got the night alarm!
We socks ‘im with a stretcher-pole an’ ‘eads ‘im off in front,
An’ when we’ve saved ‘is bloomin’ life ‘e chaws our bloomin’ arm.
The ‘orse ‘e knows above a bit, the bullock’s but a fool,
The elephant’s a gentleman, the battery-mule’s a mule;
But the commissariat cam-u-el, when all is said an’ done,
‘E’s a devil an’ a ostrich an’ a orphan-child in one.
O the oont, O the oont, O the Gawd-forsaken oont!
The lumpy-’umpy ‘ummin’-bird a-singin’ where ‘e lies,
‘E’s blocked the whole division from the rear-guard to the front,
An’ when we get him up again — the beggar goes an’ dies!
‘E’ll gall an’ chafe an’ lame an’ fight — ‘e smells most awful vile;
‘E’ll lose ‘isself for ever if you let ‘im stray a mile;
‘E’s game to graze the ‘ole day long an’ ‘owl the ‘ole night through,
An’ when ‘e comes to greasy ground ‘e splits ‘isself in two.
O the oont, O the oont, O the floppin’, droppin’ oont!
When ‘is long legs give from under an’ ‘is meltin’ eye is dim,
The tribes is up be’ind us, and the tribes is out in front —
It ain’t no jam for Tommy, but it’s kites an’ crows for ‘im.
So when the cruel march is done, an’ when the roads is blind,
An’ when we sees the camp in front an’ ‘ears the shots be’ind,
Ho! then we strips ‘is saddle off, and all ‘is woes is past:
‘E thinks on us that used ‘im so, and gets revenge at last.
O the oont, O the oont, O the floatin’, bloatin’ oont!
The late lamented camel in the water-cut ‘e lies;
We keeps a mile be’ind ‘im an’ we keeps a mile in front,
But ‘e gets into the drinkin’-casks, and then o’ course we dies.
* Camel: — oo is pronounced like u in “bull”, but by Mr. Atkins to rhyme with “front”.
The Open Door
ENGLAND is a cosy little country,
Excepting for the draughts along the floor.
And that is why you’re told,
When the passages are cold:
“Darling, you’ve forgot to shut the Door!”
The Awful East Wind blows it-
Pussy on the Hearthrug shows it,
Aunty at the Writing-table knows it-
“Darling, you’ve forgot to shut the Door!”
Shut-shut-shut the Door, my darling!
Always shut the Door behind you, but
You can go when you are old
Where there isn’t any cold-
So there isn’t any Door that need be shut!
And-
The deep Verandah shows it-
The pale Magnolia knows it-
And the bold, white Trumpet-flower blows it:-
There isn’t any Door that need be shut!
The piping Tree-toad knows it-
The midnight Firefly shows it
And the Beams of the Moon disclose it:-
There isn’t any Door that need be shut!
The milky Beaches know it-
The silky Breezes blow it-
And the Shafts of the Sunrise show it:-
There isn’t any Door that need be shut!
Our Fathers Also
“Below the Mill Dam” — Traffics and Discoveries
Thrones, Powers, Dominions, Peoples, Kings,
Are changing ‘neath our hand.
Our fathers also see these things
But they do not understand.
By — they are by with mirth and tears,
Wit or the works of Desire-
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire.
The grapes are pressed, the corn is shocked —
Standeth no more to glean;
For the Gates of Love and Learning locked
When they went out between.
All lore our Lady Venus bares,
Signalled it was or told
By the dear lips long given to theirs
And longer to the mould.
All Profit, all Device, all Truth,
Written it was or said
By the mighty men of their mighty youth,
Which is mighty being dead.
The film that floats before their eyes
The Temple’s Veil they call;
And the dust that on the Shewbread lies
Is holy over all.
Warn them of seas that slip our yoke,
Of slow-conspiring stars-
The ancient Front of Things unbroke
But heavy with new wars?
By — they are by with mirth and tears,
Wit or the waste of Desire-
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire!
Our Fathers of Old
“A Doctor of Medicine” — Rewards and Fairies
Excellent herbs had our fathers of old —
Excellent herbs to ease their pain —
Alexanders and Marigold,
Eyebright, Orris, and Elecampane —
Basil, Rocket, Valerian, Rue,
( Almost singing themselves they run)
Vervain, Dittany, Call-me-to-you —
Cowslip, Melilot, Rose of the Sun.
Anything green that grew out of the mould
Was an excellent herb to our fathers of old.
Wonderful tales had our fathers of old,
Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars-
The Sun was Lord of the Marigold,
Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars.
Pat as a sum in division it goes —
(Every herb had a planet bespoke) —
Who but Venus should govern the Rose?
Who but Jupiter own the Oak?
Simply and gravely the facts are told
In the wonderful books of our fathers of old.
Wonderful little, when all is said,
Wonderful little our fathers knew.
Half their remedies cured you dead —
Most of their teaching was quite untrue —
“Look at the stars when a patient is ill.
(Dirt has nothing to do with disease),
Bleed and blister as much as you will,
Bister and bleed him as oft as you please.”
Whence enormous and manifold
Errors were made by our fathers of old.
Yet when the sickness was sore in the land,
And neither planets nor herbs assuaged,
They took their lives in their lancet-hand
And, oh, what a wonderful war they waged!
Yes, when the crosses were chalked on the door-
(Yes, when the terrible dead-cart rolled! )
Excellent courage our fathers bore —
None too learned, but nobly bold
Into the fight went our fathers of old.
If it be certain, as Galen says —
And sage Hippocrates holds as much —
“That those afflicted by doubts and dismays
Are mightily helped by a dead man’s touch,”
Then, be good to us, stars above!