Book: The Works of Rudyard Kipling One Volume Edition

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There was never any scandal--she had not generous impulses
enough
for that. She was the exception which proved the rule that Anglo-
Indian ladies are in every way as nice as their sisters at Home.

She spent her life in proving that rule.

Mrs. Hauksbee and she hated each other fervently. They heard far
too much to clash; but the things they said of each other were
startling--not to say original. Mrs. Hauksbee was honest--honest
as her own front teeth--and, but for her love of mischief, would
have been a woman's woman. There was no honesty about Mrs.
Reiver;
nothing but selfishness. And at the beginning of the season, poor
little Pluffles fell a prey to her. She laid herself out to that
end, and who was Pluffles, to resist? He went on trusting to his
judgment, and he got judged.

I have seen Hayes argue with a tough horse--I have seen a tonga-
driver coerce a stubborn pony--I have seen a riotous setter broken
to gun by a hard keeper--but the breaking-in of Pluffles of the
"Unmentionables" was beyond all these. He learned to fetch and
carry like a dog, and to wait like one, too, for a word from Mrs.

Reiver. He learned to keep appointments which Mrs. Reiver had
no
intention of keeping. He learned to take thankfully dances which
Mrs. Reiver had no intention of giving him. He learned to shiver
for an hour and a quarter on the windward side of Elysium while
Mrs. Reiver was making up her mind to come for a ride. He
learned
to hunt for a 'rickshaw, in a light dress-suit under a pelting
rain, and to walk by the side of that 'rickshaw when he had found
it. He learned what it was to be spoken to like a coolie and
ordered about like a cook. He learned all this and many other
things besides. And he paid for his schooling.

Perhaps, in some hazy way, he fancied that it was fine and
impressive, that it gave him a status among men, and was
altogether
the thing to do. It was nobody's business to warn Pluffles that he
was unwise. The pace that season was too good to inquire; and
meddling with another man's folly is always thankless work.

Pluffles' Colonel should have ordered him back to his regiment
when
he heard how things were going. But Pluffles had got himself
engaged to a girl in England the last time he went home; and if
there was one thing more than another which the Colonel detested,
it was a married subaltern. He chuckled when he heard of the
education of Pluffles, and said it was "good training for the boy."
But it was not good training in the least. It led him into
spending money beyond his means, which were good: above that,
the
education spoilt an average boy and made it a tenth-rate man of an
objectionable kind. He wandered into a bad set, and his little
bill at Hamilton's was a thing to wonder at.

Then Mrs. Hauksbee rose to the occasion. She played her game
alone, knowing what people would say of her; and she played it for
the sake of a girl she had never seen. Pluffles' fiancee was to
come out, under the chaperonage of an aunt, in October, to be
married to Pluffles.

At the beginning of August, Mrs. Hauksbee discovered that it was
time to interfere. A man who rides much knows exactly what a
horse
is going to do next before he does it. In the same way, a woman of
Mrs. Hauksbee's experience knows accurately how a boy will
behave
under certain circumstances--notably when he is infatuated with
one
of Mrs. Reiver's stamp. She said that, sooner or later, little
Pluffles would break off that engagement for nothing at all--simply
to gratify Mrs. Reiver, who, in return, would keep him at her feet
and in her service just so long as she found it worth her while.

She said she knew the signs of these things. If she did not, no
one else could.

Then she went forth to capture Pluffles under the guns of the
enemy; just as Mrs. Cusack-Bremmil carried away Bremmil under
Mrs.

Hauksbee's eyes.

This particular engagement lasted seven weeks--we called it the
Seven Weeks' War--and was fought out inch by inch on both sides.
A
detailed account would fill a book, and would be incomplete then.

Any one who knows about these things can fit in the details for
himself. It was a superb fight--there will never be another like
it as long as Jakko stands--and Pluffles was the prize of victory.

People said shameful things about Mrs. Hauksbee. They did not
know
what she was playing for. Mrs. Reiver fought, partly because
Pluffles was useful to her, but mainly because she hated Mrs.

Hauksbee, and the matter was a trial of strength between them. No
one knows what Pluffles thought. He had not many ideas at the
best
of times, and the few he possessed made him conceited. Mrs.

Hauksbee said:--"The boy must be caught; and the only way of
catching him is by treating him well."

So she treated him as a man of the world and of experience so long
as the issue was doubtful. Little by little, Pluffles fell away
from his old allegiance and came over to the enemy, by whom he
was
made much of. He was never sent on out-post duty after
'rickshaws
any more, nor was he given dances which never came off, nor
were
the drains on his purse continued. Mrs. Hauksbee held him on the
snaffle; and after his treatment at Mrs. Reiver's hands, he
appreciated the change.

Mrs. Reiver had broken him of talking about himself, and made
him
talk about her own merits. Mrs. Hauksbee acted otherwise, and
won
his confidence, till he mentioned his engagement to the girl at
Home, speaking of it in a high and mighty way as a "piece of
boyish
folly." This was when he was taking tea with her one afternoon,
and discoursing in what he considered a gay and fascinating style.

Mrs. Hauksbee had seen an earlier generation of his stamp bud and
blossom, and decay into fat Captains and tubby Majors.

At a moderate estimate there were about three and twenty sides to
that lady's character. Some men say more. She began to talk to
Pluffles after the manner of a mother, and as if there had been
three hundred years, instead of fifteen, between them. She spoke
with a sort of throaty quaver in her voice which had a soothing
effect, though what she said was anything but soothing. She
pointed out the exceeding folly, not to say meanness, of Pluffles'

conduct, and the smallness of his views. Then he stammered
something about "trusting to his own judgment as a man of the
world;" and this paved the way for what she wanted to say next. It
would have withered up Pluffles had it come from any other
woman;
but in the soft cooing style in which Mrs. Hauksbee put it, it only
made him feel limp and repentant--as if he had been in some
superior kind of church. Little by little, very softly and
pleasantly, she began taking the conceit out of Pluffles, as you
take the ribs out of an umbrella before re-covering it. She told
him what she thought of him and his judgment and his knowledge
of
the world; and how his performances had made him ridiculous to
other people; and how it was his intention make love to herself if
she gave him the chance. Then she said that marriage would be
the
making of him; and drew a pretty little picture--all rose and opal--
of the Mrs. Pluffles of the future going through life relying on
the "judgment" and "knowledge of the world" of a husband who
had
nothing to reproach himself with. How she reconciled these two
statements she alone knew. But they did not strike Pluffles as
conflicting.

Hers was a perfect little homily--much better than any clergyman
could have given--and it ended with touching allusions to Pluffles'

Mamma and Papa, and the wisdom of taking his bride Home.

Then she sent Pluffles out for a walk, to think over what she had
said. Pluffles left, blowing his nose very hard and holding
himself very straight. Mrs. Hauksbee laughed.

What Pluffles had intended to do in the matter of the engagement
only Mrs. Reiver knew, and she kept her own counsel to her death.

She would have liked it spoiled as a compliment, I fancy.

Pluffles enjoyed many talks with Mrs. Hauksbee during the next
few
days. They were all to the same end, and they helped Pluffles in
the path of Virtue.

Mrs. Hauksbee wanted to keep him under her wing to the last.

Therefore she discountenanced his going down to Bombay to get
married. "Goodness only knows what might happen by the way!"
she
said. "Pluffles is cursed with the curse of Reuben, and India is
no fit place for him!"

In the end, the fiancee arrived with her aunt; and Pluffles, having
reduced his affairs to some sort of order--here again Mrs.
Hauksbee
helped him--was married.

Mrs. Hauksbee gave a sigh of relief when both the "I wills" had
been said, and went her way.

Pluffies took her advice about going Home. He left the Service,
and is now raising speckled cattle inside green painted fences
somewhere at Home. I believe he does this very judiciously. He
would have come to extreme grief out here.

For these reasons if any one says anything more than usually nasty
about Mrs. Hauksbee, tell him the story of the Rescue of Pluffles.

CUPID'S ARROWS.

Pit where the buffalo cooled his hide,
By the hot sun emptied, and blistered and dried;
Log in the reh-grass, hidden and alone;
Bund where the earth-rat's mounds are strown:
Cave in the bank where the sly stream steals;
Aloe that stabs at the belly and heels,
Jump if you dare on a steed untried--
Safer it is to go wide--go wide!
Hark, from in front where the best men ride:--
"Pull to the off, boys! Wide! Go wide!"

The Peora Hunt.

Once upon a time there lived at Simla a very pretty girl, the
daughter of a poor but honest District and Sessions Judge. She
was
a good girl, but could not help knowing her power and using it.

Her Mamma was very anxious about her daughter's future, as all
good
Mammas should be.

When a man is a Commissioner and a bachelor and has the right of
wearing open-work jam-tart jewels in gold and enamel on his
clothes, and of going through a door before every one except a
Member of Council, a Lieutenant-Governor, or a Viceroy, he is
worth
marrying. At least, that is what ladies say. There was a
Commissioner in Simla, in those days, who was, and wore, and
did,
all I have said. He was a plain man--an ugly man--the ugliest man
in Asia, with two exceptions. His was a face to dream about and
try to carve on a pipe-head afterwards. His name was Saggott--
Barr-Saggott--Anthony Barr-Saggott and six letters to follow.

Departmentally, he was one of the best men the Government of
India
owned. Socially, he was like a blandishing gorilla.

When he turned his attentions to Miss Beighton, I believe that Mrs.

Beighton wept with delight at the reward Providence had sent her
in
her old age.

Mr. Beighton held his tongue. He was an easy-going man.

Now a Commissioner is very rich. His pay is beyond the dreams
of
avarice--is so enormous that he can afford to save and scrape in a
way that would almost discredit a Member of Council. Most
Commissioners are mean; but Barr-Saggott was an exception. He
entertained royally; he horsed himself well; he gave dances; he
was
a power in the land; and he behaved as such.

Consider that everything I am writing of took place in an almost
pre-historic era in the history of British India. Some folk may
remember the years before lawn-tennis was born when we all
played
croquet. There were seasons before that, if you will believe me,
when even croquet had not been invented, and archery--which was
revived in England in 1844--was as great a pest as lawn-tennis is
now. People talked learnedly about "holding" and "loosing,"
"steles," "reflexed bows," "56-pound bows," "backed" or "self-yew
bows," as we talk about "rallies," "volleys," "smashes," "returns,"
and "16-ounce rackets."

Miss Beighton shot divinely over ladies' distance--60 yards, that
is--and was acknowledged the best lady archer in Simla. Men
called
her "Diana of Tara-Devi."

Barr-Saggott paid her great attention; and, as I have said, the
heart of her mother was uplifted in consequence. Kitty Beighton
took matters more calmly. It was pleasant to be singled out by a
Commissioner with letters after his name, and to fill the hearts of
other girls with bad feelings. But there was no denying the fact
that Barr-Saggott was phenomenally ugly; and all his attempts to
adorn himself only made him more grotesque. He was not
christened
"The Langur"--which means gray ape--for nothing. It was
pleasant,
Kitty thought, to have him at her feet, but it was better to escape
from him and ride with the graceless Cubbon--the man in a
Dragoon
Regiment at Umballa--the boy with a handsome face, and no
prospects. Kitty liked Cubbon more than a little. He never
pretended for a moment the he was anything less than head over
heels in love with her; for he was an honest boy. So Kitty fled,
now and again, from the stately wooings of Barr-Saggott to the
company of young Cubbon, and was scolded by her Mamma in
consequence. "But, Mother," she said, "Mr. Saggot is such--such
a--
is so FEARFULLY ugly, you know!"

"My dear," said Mrs. Beighton, piously, "we cannot be other than
an
all-ruling Providence has made us. Besides, you will take
precedence of your own Mother, you know! Think of that and be
reasonable."

Then Kitty put up her little chin and said irreverent things about
precedence, and Commissioners, and matrimony. Mr. Beighton
rubbed
the top of his head; for he was an easy-going man.

Late in the season, when he judged that the time was ripe, Barr-
Saggott developed a plan which did great credit to his
administrative powers. He arranged an archery tournament for
ladies, with a most sumptuous diamond-studded bracelet as prize.

He drew up his terms skilfully, and every one saw that the bracelet
was a gift to Miss Beighton; the acceptance carrying with it the
hand and the heart of Commissioner Barr-Saggott. The terms were
a
St. Leonard's Round--thirty-six shots at sixty yards--under the
rules of the Simla Toxophilite Society.

All Simla was invited. There were beautifully arranged tea-tables
under the deodars at Annandale, where the Grand Stand is now;
and,
alone in its glory, winking in the sun, sat the diamond bracelet in
a blue velvet case. Miss Beighton was anxious--almost too
anxious
to compete. On the appointed afternoon, all Simla rode down to
Annandale to witness the Judgment of Paris turned upside down.

Kitty rode with young Cubbon, and it was easy to see that the boy
was troubled in his mind. He must be held innocent of everything
that followed. Kitty was pale and nervous, and looked long at the
bracelet. Barr-Saggott was gorgeously dressed, even more nervous
than Kitty, and more hideous than ever.

Mrs. Beighton smiled condescendingly, as befitted the mother of a
potential Commissioneress, and the shooting began; all the world
standing in a semicircle as the ladies came out one after the
other.

Nothing is so tedious as an archery competition. They shot, and
they shot, and they kept on shooting, till the sun left the valley,
and little breezes got up in the deodars, and people waited for
Miss Beighton to shoot and win. Cubbon was at one horn of the
semicircle round the shooters, and Barr-Saggott at the other. Miss
Beighton was last on the list. The scoring had been weak, and the
bracelet, PLUS Commissioner Barr-Saggott, was hers to a
certainty.

The Commissioner strung her bow with his own sacred hands. She
stepped forward, looked at the bracelet, and her first arrow went
true to a hair--full into the heart of the "gold"--counting nine
points.

Young Cubbon on the left turned white, and his Devil prompted
Barr-
Saggott to smile. Now horses used to shy when Barr-Saggott
smiled.

Kitty saw that smile. She looked to her left-front, gave an almost
imperceptible nod to Cubbon, and went on shooting.

I wish I could describe the scene that followed. It was out of the
ordinary and most improper. Miss Kitty fitted her arrows with
immense deliberation, so that every one might see what she was
doing. She was a perfect shot; and her 46-pound bow suited her to
a nicety. She pinned the wooden legs of the target with great care
four successive times. She pinned the wooden top of the target
once, and all the ladies looked at each other. Then she began
some
fancy shooting at the white, which, if you hit it, counts exactly
one point. She put five arrows into the white. It was wonderful
archery; but, seeing that her business was to make "golds" and win
the bracelet, Barr-Saggott turned a delicate green like young
water-grass. Next, she shot over the target twice, then wide to
the left twice--always with the same deliberation--while a chilly
hush fell over the company, and Mrs. Beighton took out her
handkerchief. Then Kitty shot at the ground in front of the
target, and split several arrows. Then she made a red--or seven
points--just to show what she could do if she liked, and finished
up her amazing performance with some more fancy shooting at the
target-supports. Here is her score as it was picked off:--

Gold. Red. Blue. Black. White. Total Hits. Total
Score
Miss Beighton 1 1 0 0 5 7 21

Barr-Saggott looked as if the last few arrowheads had been driven
into his legs instead of the target's, and the deep stillness was
broken by a little snubby, mottled, half-grown girl saying in a
shrill voice of triumph: "Then I'VE won!"

Mrs. Beighton did her best to bear up; but she wept in the presence
of the people. No training could help her through such a
disappointment. Kitty unstrung her bow with a vicious jerk, and
went back to her place, while Barr-Saggott was trying to pretend
that he enjoyed snapping the bracelet on the snubby girl's raw, red
wrist. It was an awkward scene--most awkward. Every one tried
to
depart in a body and leave Kitty to the mercy of her Mamma.

But Cubbon took her away instead, and--the rest isn't worth
printing.

HIS CHANCE IN LIFE.

Then a pile of heads be laid--
Thirty thousand heaped on high--
All to please the Kafir maid,
Where the Oxus ripples by.

Grimly spake Atulla Khan:--
"Love hath made this thing a Man."

Oatta's Story.

If you go straight away from Levees and Government House Lists,
past Trades' Balls--far beyond everything and everybody you ever
knew in your respectable life--you cross, in time, the Border line
where the last drop of White blood ends and the full tide of Black
sets in. It would be easier to talk to a new made Duchess on the
spur of the moment than to the Borderline folk without violating
some of their conventions or hurting their feelings. The Black and
the White mix very quaintly in their ways. Sometimes the White
shows in spurts of fierce, childish pride--which is Pride of Race
run crooked--and sometimes the Black in still fiercer abasement
and
humility, half heathenish customs and strange, unaccountable
impulses to crime. One of these days, this people--understand they
are far lower than the class whence Derozio, the man who imitated
Byron, sprung--will turn out a writer or a poet; and then we shall
know how they live and what they feel. In the meantime, any
stories about them cannot be absolutely correct in fact or
inference.

Miss Vezzis came from across the Borderline to look after some
children who belonged to a lady until a regularly ordained nurse
could come out. The lady said Miss Vezzis was a bad, dirty nurse
and inattentive. It never struck her that Miss Vezzis had her own
life to lead and her own affairs to worry over, and that these
affairs were the most important things in the world to Miss Vezzis.

Very few mistresses admit this sort of reasoning. Miss Vezzis was
as black as a boot, and to our standard of taste, hideously ugly.

She wore cotton-print gowns and bulged shoes; and when she lost
her
temper with the children, she abused them in the language of the
Borderline--which is part English, part Portuguese, and part
Native. She was not attractive; but she had her pride, and she
preferred being called "Miss Vezzis."

Every Sunday she dressed herself wonderfully and went to see her
Mamma, who lived, for the most part, on an old cane chair in a
greasy tussur-silk dressing-gown and a big rabbit-warren of a
house
full of Vezzises, Pereiras, Ribieras, Lisboas and Gansalveses, and
a floating population of loafers; besides fragments of the day's
bazar, garlic, stale incense, clothes thrown on the floor,
petticoats hung on strings for screens, old bottles, pewter
crucifixes, dried immortelles, pariah puppies, plaster images of
the Virgin, and hats without crowns. Miss Vezzis drew twenty
rupees a month for acting as nurse, and she squabbled weekly with
her Mamma as to the percentage to be given towards
housekeeping.

When the quarrel was over, Michele D'Cruze used to shamble
across
the low mud wall of the compound and make love to Miss Vezzis
after
the fashion of the Borderline, which is hedged about with much
ceremony. Michele was a poor, sickly weed and very black; but he
had his pride. He would not be seen smoking a huqa for anything;
and he looked down on natives as only a man with seven-eighths
native blood in his veins can. The Vezzis Family had their pride
too. They traced their descent from a mythical plate-layer who
had
worked on the Sone Bridge when railways were new in India, and
they
valued their English origin. Michele was a Telegraph Signaller on
Rs. 35 a month. The fact that he was in Government employ made
Mrs. Vezzis lenient to the shortcomings of his ancestors.

There was a compromising legend--Dom Anna the tailor brought it
from Poonani--that a black Jew of Cochin had once married into
the
D'Cruze family; while it was an open secret that an uncle of Mrs.

D'Cruze was at that very time doing menial work, connected with
cooking, for a Club in Southern India! He sent Mrs D'Cruze seven
rupees eight annas a month; but she felt the disgrace to the family
very keenly all the same.

However, in the course of a few Sundays, Mrs. Vezzis brought
herself to overlook these blemishes and gave her consent to the
marriage of her daughter with Michele, on condition that Michele
should have at least fifty rupees a month to start married life
upon. This wonderful prudence must have been a lingering touch
of
the mythical plate-layer's Yorkshire blood; for across the
Borderline people take a pride in marrying when they please--not
when they can.

Having regard to his departmental prospects, Miss Vezzis might as
well have asked Michele to go away and come back with the Moon
in
his pocket. But Michele was deeply in love with Miss Vezzis, and
that helped him to endure. He accompanied Miss Vezzis to Mass
one
Sunday, and after Mass, walking home through the hot stale dust
with her hand in his, he swore by several Saints, whose names
would
not interest you, never to forget Miss Vezzis; and she swore by her
Honor and the Saints--the oath runs rather curiously; "In nomine
Sanctissimae--" (whatever the name of the she-Saint is) and so
forth, ending with a kiss on the forehead, a kiss on the left
cheek, and a kiss on the mouth--never to forget Michele.

Next week Michele was transferred, and Miss Vezzis dropped
tears
upon the window-sash of the "Intermediate" compartment as he
left
the Station.

If you look at the telegraph-map of India you will see a long line
skirting the coast from Backergunge to Madras. Michele was
ordered
to Tibasu, a little Sub-office one-third down this line, to send
messages on from Berhampur to Chicacola, and to think of Miss
Vezzis and his chances of getting fifty rupees a month out of
office hours. He had the noise of the Bay of Bengal and a Bengali
Babu for company; nothing more. He sent foolish letters, with
crosses tucked inside the flaps of the envelopes, to Miss Vezzis.

When he had been at Tibasu for nearly three weeks his chance
came.

Never forget that unless the outward and visible signs of Our
Authority are always before a native he is as incapable as a child
of understanding what authority means, or where is the danger of
disobeying it. Tibasu was a forgotten little place with a few
Orissa Mohamedans in it. These, hearing nothing of the Collector-
Sahib for some time, and heartily despising the Hindu Sub-Judge,
arranged to start a little Mohurrum riot of their own. But the
Hindus turned out and broke their heads; when, finding
lawlessness
pleasant, Hindus and Mahomedans together raised an aimless sort
of
Donnybrook just to see how far they could go. They looted each
other's shops, and paid off private grudges in the regular way. It
was a nasty little riot, but not worth putting in the newspapers.

Michele was working in his office when he heard the sound that a
man never forgets all his life--the "ah-yah" of an angry crowd.

[When that sound drops about three tones, and changes to a thick,
droning ut, the man who hears it had better go away if he is
alone.] The Native Police Inspector ran in and told Michele that
the town was in an uproar and coming to wreck the Telegraph
Office.

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