The Wish House and Other Stories

by Rudyard Kipling

  ‘I was not dishputin’ about the morils av Paythans that tide, so I dhropped Love-o’-Women’s butt acrost the man’s face, an’ “Hurry into camp,” I sez, “for this may be the first av a rush.”

  ‘There was no rush after all, though we waited undher arms to give them a chanst. The Paythan man must ha’ come alone for the mischief, an’ afther a while Love-o’-Women wint back to his tint wid that quare lurchin’ sind-off in his walk that I cud niver understand. Begad, I pitied him, an’ the more bekaze he made me think for the rest av the night av the day whin I was confirmed corp’ril, not actin’ lef’tinant, an’ my thoughts was not good to me.’

  ‘Ye can ondersthand that afther that night we came to talkin’ a dale together, an’ bit by bit ut came out fwhat I’d suspicioned. The whole av his carr’in’s on an’ divilments had come back on him hard, as liquor comes back whin you’ve been on the dhrink for a wake. All he’d said an all he’d done, an’ only he cud tell how much that was, come back, and there was niver a minut’s peace in his sowl. ’twas the Horrors widout any cause to see, an’ yet, an’ yet – fwhat am I talkin’ av? He’d ha’ taken the Horrors wid thankfulness. Beyon’ the repentince av the man, an’ that was beyon’ the nature av man-awful, awful, to behould! – there was more that was worst than any repentince. Av the scores an’ scores that he called over in his mind (an’ they were drivin’ him mad), there was, mark you, wan woman av all an’ she was not his wife, that cut him to the quick av his marrow. ’twas there he said that he’d thrown away di’monds an’ pearls past count, an’ thin he’d begin again like a blind byle in an oil-mill, walkin’ round and round, to considher (him that was beyond all touch av bein’ happy this side Hell!) how happy he wud ha’ been wid her. The more he considhered, the more he’d consate himself that he’d lost mighty happiness, an’ thin he wud work ut all backwards, an’ cry that he niver cud ha’ been happy anyway.

  ‘Time an’ time an’ again in camp, on p’rade, ay, an’ in action, I’ve seen that man shut his eyes an’ duck his head as ye wud duck to the flicker av a baynit. For ’twas thin, he tould me, that the thought av all he’d missed came an’ stud forninst him like red-hot irons. For what he’d done wid the others he was sorry, but he did not care; but this wan woman that I’ve tould of, by the Hilts av God, she made him pay for all the others twice over! Niver did I know that a man cud enjure such tormint widout his heart crackin’ in his ribs, an’ I have been’-Terence turned the pipe-stem slowly between his teeth – ‘I have been in some black cells. All I iver suffered tho’ was not to be talked of alongside av him. an’ what could I do? Paternosters was no more than peas on plates for his sorrows.

  ‘Evenshually we finished our prom’nade acrost the hills, and, thanks to me for the same, there was no casualties an’ no glory. The campaign was comin’ to an ind, an’ all the rig’mints was being drawn together for to be sint back home. Love-o’-Women was mighty sorry bekaze he had no work to do, an’ all his time to think in. I’ve heard that man talkin’ to his belt-plate an’ his side-arms while he was soldierin’ thim, all to prevent himself from thinkin’, an’ ivry time he got up afther he had been settin’ down or wint on from the halt, he’d start wid that kick an’ traverse that I tould you offris legs sprawlin’ all ways to wanst. He wud niver go see the docthor, tho’ I tould him to be wise. He’d curse me up an’ down for my advice; but I knew he was no more a man to be reckoned wid than the little bhoy was a commanding orf’cer, so I let his tongue run if it aised him.

  ‘Wan day – ’twas on the way back–I was walkin’ round camp wid him, an’ he stopped an’ struck ground wid his right fut three or four times doubtful. “Fwhat is ut?” I sez. “Is that ground?” sez he; an’ while I was thinkin’ his mind was goin’, up comes the docthor, who’d been anatomizin’ a dead bullock. Love-o’-Women starts to go on quick, an’ lands me a kick on the knee while his legs was gettin’ into marchin’ ordher.

  ‘“Hould on there,” sez the doctor; an’ Love-o’-Women’s face, that was lined like a gridiron, turns red as brick.

  ““Tention,” says the doctor; an’ Love-o’-Women stud so. “Now shut your eyes,” sez the docthor. “No, ye must not hould by your comrade.”

  ““Tis all up,” sez Love-o’-Women, thrying to smile. “I’d fall, docthor, an’ you know ut.”

  “Fall?” I sez. “Fall at attention wid your eyes shut! Fwhat do you mane?”

  ‘“The doctor knows,” he sez. “I’ve hild up as long as I can, but begad I’m glad ’tis all done. But I will die slow,” he sez, “I will die very slow.”

  ‘I cud see by the docthor’s face that he was mortial sorry for the man, an’ he ordered him to hospital. We wint back together, an’ I was dumb-struck. Love-o’-Women was cripplin’ and crumblin’ at ivry step. He walked wid a hand on my shoulder all slued sideways, an’ his right leg swingin’ like a lame camel. Me not knowin’ more than the dead fwhat ailed him, ’twas just as though the docthor’s word had done ut all – as if Love-o’-Women had but been waitin’ for the word to let go.

  ‘In hospital he sez somethin’ to the docthor that I could not catch.

  ‘“Holy Shmoke!” sez the docthor, “an’ who are you, to be givin’ names to your diseases? ’Tis agin all the reg’lations.”

  ‘“I’ll not be a privit much longer,” sez Love-o’-Women in his gentleman’s voice, an’ the docthor jumped.

  “Thrate me as a study, Doctor Lowndes,” he sez; an’ that was the first time I’d iver heard a docthor called his name.

  ‘“Goodbye, Terence,” sez Love-o’-Women. “Tis a dead man I am widout the pleasure av dyin’. You’ll come an’ set wid me sometimes for the peace av my soul.”

  ‘Now I had been minded for to ask Crook to take me back to the Ould Rig’mint; the fightin’ was over, an’ I was wore out wid the ways av the bhoys in the Tyrone; but I shifted my will, an’ hild on, and wint to set wid Love-o’-Women in the hospital. As I have said, sorr, the man bruk all to little pieces under my hand. How long he had hild up an’ forced himself fit to march I cannot tell, but in hospital but two days later he was such as I hardly knew. I shuk hands wid him, an’ his grip was fair strong, but his hands wint all ways to wanst, an’ he cud not button his tunic.

  ‘“I’ll take long an’ long to die yet,” he sez, “for the wages av sin they’re like interest in the rig’mintal savin’s-bank – sure, but a damned long time bein’ paid.”

  ‘The docthor sez to me, quiet one day, “Has Tighe there anythin’ on his mind?” he sez. “He’s burnin’ himself out.”

  ‘“How shud I know, sorr?” I sez, as innocint as putty.

  “They call him Love-o’-Women in the Tyrone, do they not?” he sez. “I was a fool to ask. Be wid him all you can. He’s houldin’ on to your strength.”

  ‘“But fwhat ails him, docthor?” I sez.

  “They call ut Locomotus Attacks us,” he sez, “bekaze,” sez he, “ut attacks us like a locomotive, if ye know fwhat that manes. an’ ut comes,” sez he, lookin’ at me, “ut comes from bein’ called Love-o’-Women.”

  ‘“You’re jokin’, docthor,” I sez.

  “‘Jokin’!” sez he. “If iver you feel that you’ve got a felt sole in your boot instid av a government bull’s-wool, come to me,” he sez, “an’ I’ll show you whether ’tis a joke.”

  ‘You would not belave ut, sorr, but that, an’ seein’ Love-o’-Women overtuk widout warning’, put the cowld fear av Attacks us on me so strong that for a week an’ more I was kickin’ my toes against shoes an’ stumps for the pleasure av feelin’ thim hurt.

  ‘An Love-o’-Women lay in the cot (he might have gone down wid the wounded before an’ before, but he asked to stay wid me), and fwhat there was in his mind had full swing at him night an’ day an’ ivry hour av the day an’ the night, and he shrivelled like beef-rations in a hot sun, an’ his eyes was like owls’ eyes, an’ his hands was mut’nous.

  ‘They was gettin’ the rig’mints away wan by wan, the campaign bein’ in
ded, but as ushuil they was behavin’ as if niver a rig’mint had been moved before in the mem’ry av man. Now, fwhy is that, sorr? There’s fightin’, in an’ out, nine months av the twelve somewhere in the Army. There has been – for years an’ years an’ years; an’ I wud ha’ thought they’d begin to get the hang av providin’ for throops. But no! Ivry time ’tis like a girls’ school meetin’ a big red bull whin they’re goin’ to church; an’ “Mother av God,” sez the commissariat an’ the railways an’ the barrick-masters, “fwhat will we do now?” The ordhers came to us av the Tyrone an’ the Ould Rig’mint an’ half a dozen more to go down, an’ there the ordhers stopped dumb. We wint down, by the special grace av God-down the Khaiber anyways. There was sick wid us, an’ I’ve thinkin’ that some av thim was jolted to death in the doolies, but they was anxious to be kilt so if they cud get to Peshawar alive the sooner. I walked by Love-o’-Women – there was no marchin’, an’ Love-o’-Women was not in a stew to get on. “If I’d only ha’ died up there,” sez he through the dooli-curtains, an’ thin he’d twist up his eyes an’ duck his head for the thoughts that come an’ raked him.

  ‘Dinah was in Depot at Pindi, but I wint circumspectuous, for well I knew ’tis just at the rump-ind av all things that his luck turns on a man. By token I had seen a dhriver of a batthery goin’ by at a trot singin’ “Home, swate home” at the top av his shout, and takin’ no heed to his bridle-hand–I had seen that man dhrop under the gun in the middle of a word, and come out by the limber like – like a frog on a pavestone. No. I wud not hurry, though, God knows, my heart was all in Pindi. Love-o’-Women saw fwhat was in my mind, an’ “Go on, Terence,” he sez, “I know fwhat’s waitin’ for you.” “I will not,” I sez. “Twill kape a little yet.”

  ‘Ye know the turn of the pass fornist Jumrood and the nine-mile road on the flat to Peshawar? All Peshawar was along that road day and night waitin’ for frinds – men, women, childer, and bands. Some av the throops was camped round Jumrood, an’ some wint on to Peshawar to get away down to their cantonmints. We came through in the early mornin’, havin’ been awake the night through, and we dhruv sheer into the middle av the mess. Mother av Glory, will I iver forget that comin’ back? The light was not fair lifted, and the first we heard was “For ’tis my delight av a shiny night”, frum a band that thought we was the second four comp’nies av the Lincolnshire. At that we was forced to sind them a yell to say who we was, an’ thin up wint “The wearin’ av the Green”. It made me crawl all up my backbone, not havin’ taken my brequist. Then right smash into our rear came fwhat was left av the Jock Elliott’s – wid four pipers an’ not half a kilt among thim, playing for the dear life, an’ swingin’ their rumps like buck-rabbits, an’ a native rig’mint shriekin’ blue murther. Ye niver heard the like! There was men cryin’ like women that did – an’ faith I do not blame them! Fwhat bruk me down was the Lancers’ Band – shinin’ an’ spick like angils, wid the ould dhrum-horse at the head an’ the silver kettle-dhrums an’ all an’ all, waitin’ for their men that was behind us. They shtruck up the Cavalry Canter; an’ begad those poor ghosts that had not a sound fut in a throop they answered to ut; the men rockin’ in their saddles. We thried to cheer them as they wint by, but ut came out like a big gruntin’ cough, so there must have been many that was feelin’ like me. Oh, but I’m forgettin’! The Fly-by-Nights was waitin’ for their second battalion, an’ whin ut came out, there was the Colonel’s horse led at the head – saddle-empty. The men fair worshipped him, an’ he’d died at Ali Musjid on the road down. They waited till the remnint av the battalion was up, and thin – clane against ordhers, for who wanted that chune that day? – they wint back to Peshawar slow-time an’ tearin’ the bowils out av ivry man that heard, wid “The Dead March”. Right acrost our line they wint, an’ ye know their uniforms are as black as the Sweeps, crawlin’ past like the dead, an’ the other bands damnin’ them to let be.

  ‘Little they cared. The carpse was wid them, an’ they’d ha’ taken ut so through a coronation. Our ordhers was to go into Peshawar, an’ we wint hot-fut past the Fly-by-Nights, not singin’, to lave that chune behind us. That was how we tuk the road of the other corps.

  “Twas ringin’ in my ears still whin I felt in the bones of me that Dinah was comin’, an’ I heard a shout, an’ thin I saw a horse an’ a tattoo latherin’ down the road, hell-to-shplit, under women. I knew – I knew! Wan was the Tyrone Colonel’s wife – ould Beeker’s lady-her grey hair flyin’ an’ her fat round carkiss rowlin’ in the saddle, an’ the other was Dinah, that shud ha’ been at Pindi. The Colonel’s lady she charged the head av our column like a stone wall, an’ she all but knocked Beeker off his horse, throwin’ her arms round his neck an’ blubberin’, “Me bhoy! me bhoy!” an’ Dinah wheeled left an’ came down our flank, an’ I let a yell that had suffered inside av me for months and – Dinah came! Will I iver forget that while I live! She’d come on pass from Pindi, an’ the Colonel’s lady had lint her the tattoo. They’d been huggin’ an’ cryin’ in each other’s arms all the long night.

  ‘So she walked along wid her hand in mine, asking forty questions to wanst, an’ beggin’ me on the Virgin to make oath that there was not a bullet consaled in me, unbeknownst somewhere, an’ thin I remembered Love-o’-Women. He was watchin’ us, an’ his face was like the face av a divil that has been cooked too long. I did not wish Dinah to see ut, for whin a woman’s runnin’ over with happiness she’s like to be touched, for harm afterwards, by the laste little thing in life. So I dhrew the curtain, an’ Love-o’-Women lay back and groaned.

  ‘Whin we marched into Peshawar Dinah wint to barracks to wait for me, an’, me feelin’ so rich that tide, I wint on to take Love-o’-Women to hospital. It was the last I cud do, an’ to save him the dust an’ the smother I turned the dooli-men down a road well clear av the rest av the throops, an’ we wint along, me talkin’ through the curtains. Av a sudden I heard him say:

  ‘“Let me look. For the mercy av Hiven, let me look.” I had been so tuk up wid gettin’ him out av the dust an’ thinkin’ av Dinah that I had not kept my eyes about me. There was a woman ridin’ a little behind av us; an’ talkin’ ut over wid Dinah afterwards, that same woman must ha’ rid out far on the Jumrood road. Dinah said that she had been hoverin’ like a kite on the left flank av the columns.

  ‘I halted the dooli to set the curtains, an’ she rode by, walkin’ pace, an’ Love-o’-Women’s eyes wint afther her as if he wud fair haul her down from the saddle.

  ‘“Follow there,” was all he sez, but I niver heard a man speak in that voice before or since; an’ I knew by those two wan words an’ the look in his face that she was Di’monds-an’-Pearls that he’d talked av in his disthresses.

  ‘We followed till she turned into the gate av a little house that stud near the Edwardes’ Gate. There was two girls in the veranda, an’ they ran in whin they saw us. Faith, at long eye-range it did not take me a wink to see fwhat kind av house ut was. The throops bein’ there an’ all, there was three or four such; but aftherwards the polis bade thim go. At the veranda Love-o’-Women sez, catchin’ his breath, “Stop here,” an’ thin, an’ thin, wid a grunt that must ha’ tore the heart up from his stomick, he swung himself out av the dooli, an’ my troth he stud up on his feet wid the sweat pourin’ down his face! If Mackie was to walk in here now I’d be less tuk back that I was thin. Where he’d dhrawn his power from, God knows – or the Divil – but ’twas a dead man walkin’ in the sun, wid the face av a dead man and the breath av a dead man, hild up by the Power, an’ the legs an’ the arms av the carpse obeyin’ ordhers.

  ‘The woman stud in the veranda. She’d been a beauty too, though her eyes was sunk in her head, an’ she looked Love-o’-Women up an’ down terrible. “An’,” she sez, kicking back the tail av her habit – “An’,” she sez, “fwhat are you doin’ here, married man?”

  ‘Love-o’-Women said nothin’, but a little froth came to his lips, an’ he wiped ut off wid his hand an’ looked at
her an’ the paint on her, an’ looked, an’ looked, an’ looked.

  “‘An’ yet,” she sez, wid a laugh. (Did you hear Raines’ wife laugh whin Mackie died? Ye did not? Well for you.) “An’ yet,” she sez, “who but you have betther right,” sez she. “You taught me the road. You showed me the way,” she sez. “Ay, look,” she sez, “for ’tis your work; you that tould me – d’you remimber it? – that a woman who was false to wan man cud be false to two. I have been that,” she sez, “that an’ more, for you always said I was a quick learner, Ellis. Look well,” she sez, “for it is me that you called your wife in the sight av God long since.” an’ she laughed.

  ‘Love-o’-Women stud still in the sun widout answerin’. Thin he groaned an coughed to wanst, an’ I thought ’twas the death-rattle, but he niver tuk his eyes off her face, not for a blink. Ye cud ha’ put her eyelashes through the flies av an E.P. tent, they were so long.

  ‘“Fwhat do you do here?” she sez, word by word, “that have taken away my joy in my man this five years gone – that have broken my rest an’ killed my body an’ damned my soul for the sake av seein’ how ’twas done. Did your expayrience aftherwards bring you acrost any woman that give you more than I did? Wud I not ha’ died for you, an’ wid you, Ellis? Ye know that, man! If iver your lyin’ sowl saw truth in uts life ye know that.”

  ‘An’ Love-o’-Women lifted up his head and said, “I knew,” an’ that was all. While she was spakin’ the Power hild him up parade-set in the sun, an’ the sweat dhripped undher his helmet. ’twas more an’ more throuble for him to talk, an’ his mouth was running twistways.

  “Fwhat do you do here?” she sez, an’ her voice wint up. ’twas like bells tollin’ before. “Time was whin you were quick enough wid your words – you that talked me down to Hell. Are ye dumb now?” an’ Love-o’-Women got his tongue, an’ sez simple, like a little child, “May I come in?” he sez.