Book: The Works of Rudyard Kipling One Volume Edition

R >> Rudyard Kipling >> The Works of Rudyard Kipling One Volume Edition




"Nitrate of strontia," he shouted; "baryta, bone-meal, etcetera!
Thousand cubic feet smoke per cubic inch. Not a germ could
live--
not a germ, Y' Excellency!"

But His Excellency had fled, and was coughing at the foot of the
stairs, while all Peterhoff hummed like a hive. Red Lancers came
in, and the Head Chaprassi, who speaks English, came in, and
mace-
bearers came in, and ladies ran downstairs screaming "fire;" for the
smoke was drifting through the house and oozing out of the
windows,
and bellying along the verandahs, and wreathing and writhing
across
the gardens. No one could enter the room where Mellish was
lecturing on his Fumigatory, till that unspeakable powder had
burned
itself out.

Then an Aide-de-Camp, who desired the V. C., rushed through the
rolling clouds and hauled Mellish into the hall. The Viceroy was
prostrate with laughter, and could only waggle his hands feebly at
Mellish, who was shaking a fresh bagful of powder at him.

"Glorious! Glorious!" sobbed his Excellency. "Not a germ, as you
justly observe, could exist! I can swear it. A magnificent
success!"

Then he laughed till the tears came, and Wonder, who had caught
the
real Mellishe snorting on the Mall, entered and was deeply
shocked
at the scene. But the Viceroy was delighted, because he saw that
Wonder would presently depart. Mellish with the Fumigatory was
also
pleased, for he felt that he had smashed the Simla Medical "Ring."

. . . . . . . . .

Few men could tell a story like His Excellency when he took the
trouble, and the account of "my dear, good Wonder's friend with
the
powder" went the round of Simla, and flippant folk made Wonder
unhappy by their remarks.

But His Excellency told the tale once too often--for Wonder. As
he
meant to do. It was at a Seepee Picnic. Wonder was sitting just
behind the Viceroy.

"And I really thought for a moment," wound up His Excellency,
"that
my dear, good Wonder had hired an assassin to clear his way to the
throne!"

Every one laughed; but there was a delicate subtinkle in the
Viceroy's tone which Wonder understood. He found that his health
was giving way; and the Viceroy allowed him to go, and presented
him
with a flaming "character" for use at Home among big people.

"My fault entirely," said His Excellency, in after seasons, with a
twinkling in his eye. "My inconsistency must always have been
distasteful to such a masterly man."

KIDNAPPED.

There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken any way you please, is bad,
And strands them in forsaken guts and creeks
No decent soul would think of visiting.

You cannot stop the tide; but now and then,
You may arrest some rash adventurer
Who--h'm--will hardly thank you for your pains.

Vibart's Moralities.

We are a high-caste and enlightened race, and infant-marriage is
very shocking and the consequences are sometimes peculiar; but,
nevertheless, the Hindu notion--which is the Continental notion--
which is the aboriginal notion--of arranging marriages irrespective
of the personal inclinations of the married, is sound. Think for a
minute, and you will see that it must be so; unless, of course, you
believe in "affinities." In which case you had better not read this
tale. How can a man who has never married; who cannot be
trusted to
pick up at sight a moderately sound horse; whose head is hot and
upset with visions of domestic felicity, go about the choosing of a
wife? He cannot see straight or think straight if he tries; and the
same disadvantages exist in the case of a girl's fancies. But when
mature, married and discreet people arrange a match between a
boy
and a girl, they do it sensibly, with a view to the future, and the
young couple live happily ever afterwards. As everybody knows.

Properly speaking, Government should establish a Matrimonial
Department, efficiently officered, with a Jury of Matrons, a Judge
of the Chief Court, a Senior Chaplain, and an Awful Warning, in
the
shape of a love-match that has gone wrong, chained to the trees in
the courtyard. All marriages should be made through the
Department,
which might be subordinate to the Educational Department, under
the
same penalty as that attaching to the transfer of land without a
stamped document. But Government won't take suggestions. It
pretends that it is too busy. However, I will put my notion on
record, and explain the example that illustrates the theory.

Once upon a time there was a good young man--a first-class officer
in his own Department--a man with a career before him and,
possibly,
a K. C. G. E. at the end of it. All his superiors spoke well of
him, because he knew how to hold his tongue and his pen at the
proper times. There are to-day only eleven men in India who
possess
this secret; and they have all, with one exception, attained great
honor and enormous incomes.

This good young man was quiet and self-contained--too old for his
years by far. Which always carries its own punishment. Had a
Subaltern, or a Tea-Planter's Assistant, or anybody who enjoys life
and has no care for to-morrow, done what he tried to do not a soul
would have cared. But when Peythroppe--the estimable, virtuous,
economical, quiet, hard-working, young Peythroppe--fell, there
was a
flutter through five Departments.

The manner of his fall was in this way. He met a Miss Castries--
d'Castries it was originally, but the family dropped the d' for
administrative reasons--and he fell in love with her even more
energetically that he worked. Understand clearly that there was
not
a breath of a word to be said against Miss Castries--not a shadow
of
a breath. She was good and very lovely--possessed what innocent
people at home call a "Spanish" complexion, with thick blue-black
hair growing low down on her forehead, into a "widow's peak,"
and
big violet eyes under eyebrows as black and as straight as the
borders of a Gazette Extraordinary when a big man dies.
But--but--
but--. Well, she was a VERY sweet girl and very pious, but for
many
reasons she was "impossible." Quite so. All good Mammas know
what
"impossible" means. It was obviously absurd that Peythroppe
should
marry her. The little opal-tinted onyx at the base of her finger-
nails said this as plainly as print. Further, marriage with Miss
Castries meant marriage with several other Castries--Honorary
Lieutenant Castries, her Papa, Mrs. Eulalie Castries, her Mamma,
and
all the ramifications of the Castries family, on incomes ranging
from Rs. 175 to Rs. 470 a month, and THEIR wives and
connections
again.

It would have been cheaper for Peythroppe to have assaulted a
Commissioner with a dog-whip, or to have burned the records of a
Deputy Commissioner's Office, than to have contracted an alliance
with the Castries. It would have weighted his after-career less--
even under a Government which never forgets and NEVER
forgives.

Everybody saw this but Peythroppe. He was going to marry Miss
Castries, he was--being of age and drawing a good income--and
woe
betide the house that would not afterwards receive Mrs. Virginie
Saulez Peythroppe with the deference due to her husband's rank.

That was Peythroppe's ultimatum, and any remonstrance drove
him
frantic.

These sudden madnesses most afflict the sanest men. There was a
case once--but I will tell you of that later on. You cannot account
for the mania, except under a theory directly contradicting the one
about the Place wherein marriages are made. Peythroppe was
burningly anxious to put a millstone round his neck at the outset of
his career and argument had not the least effect on him. He was
going to marry Miss Castries, and the business was his own
business.

He would thank you to keep your advice to yourself. With a man
in
this condition, mere words only fix him in his purpose. Of course
he cannot see that marriage out here does not concern the
individual
but the Government he serves.

Do you remember Mrs. Hauksbee--the most wonderful woman in
India?
She saved Pluffles from Mrs. Reiver, won Tarrion his appointment
in
the Foreign Office, and was defeated in open field by Mrs. Cusack-
Bremmil. She heard of the lamentable condition of Peythroppe,
and
her brain struck out the plan that saved him. She had the wisdom
of
the Serpent, the logical coherence of the Man, the fearlessness of
the Child, and the triple intuition of the Woman. Never--no,
never--
as long as a tonga buckets down the Solon dip, or the couples go a-
riding at the back of Summer Hill, will there be such a genius as
Mrs. Hauksbee. She attended the consultation of Three Men on
Peythroppe's case; and she stood up with the lash of her
riding-whip
between her lips and spake.

. . . . . . . . .

Three weeks later, Peythroppe dined with the Three Men, and the
Gazette of India came in. Peythroppe found to his surprise that he
had been gazetted a month's leave. Don't ask me how this was
managed. I believe firmly that if Mrs. Hauksbee gave the order,
the
whole Great Indian Administration would stand on its head.

The Three Men had also a month's leave each. Peythroppe put the
Gazette down and said bad words. Then there came from the
compound
the soft "pad-pad" of camels--"thieves' camels," the bikaneer breed
that don't bubble and howl when they sit down and get up.

After that I don't know what happened. This much is certain.

Peythroppe disappeared--vanished like smoke--and the long
foot-rest
chair in the house of the Three Men was broken to splinters. Also
a
bedstead departed from one of the bedrooms.

Mrs. Hauksbee said that Mr. Peythroppe was shooting in
Rajputana
with the Three Men; so we were compelled to believe her.

At the end of the month, Peythroppe was gazetted twenty days'

extension of leave; but there was wrath and lamentation in the
house
of Castries. The marriage-day had been fixed, but the bridegroom
never came; and the D'Silvas, Pereiras, and Ducketts lifted their
voices and mocked Honorary Lieutenant Castries as one who had
been
basely imposed upon. Mrs. Hauksbee went to the wedding, and
was
much astonished when Peythroppe did not appear. After seven
weeks,
Peythroppe and the Three Men returned from Rajputana.
Peythroppe
was in hard, tough condition, rather white, and more self-contained
than ever.

One of the Three Men had a cut on his nose, cause by the kick of a
gun. Twelve-bores kick rather curiously.

Then came Honorary Lieutenant Castries, seeking for the blood of
his
perfidious son-in-law to be. He said things--vulgar and
"impossible" things which showed the raw rough "ranker" below
the
"Honorary," and I fancy Peythroppe's eyes were opened. Anyhow,
he
held his peace till the end; when he spoke briefly. Honorary
Lieutenant Castries asked for a "peg" before he went away to die
or
bring a suit for breach of promise.

Miss Castries was a very good girl. She said that she would have
no
breach of promise suits. She said that, if she was not a lady, she
was refined enough to know that ladies kept their broken hearts to
themselves; and, as she ruled her parents, nothing happened. Later
on, she married a most respectable and gentlemanly person. He
travelled for an enterprising firm in Calcutta, and was all that a
good husband should be.

So Peythroppe came to his right mind again, and did much good
work,
and was honored by all who knew him. One of these days he will
marry; but he will marry a sweet pink-and-white maiden, on the
Government House List, with a little money and some influential
connections, as every wise man should. And he will never, all his
life, tell her what happened during the seven weeks of his
shooting-
tour in Rajputana.

But just think how much trouble and expense--for camel hire is not
cheap, and those Bikaneer brutes had to be fed like humans--might
have been saved by a properly conducted Matrimonial
Department,
under the control of the Director General of Education, but
corresponding direct with the Viceroy.

THE ARREST OF LIEUTENANT GOLIGHTLY.

"'I've forgotten the countersign,' sez 'e.

'Oh! You 'aye, 'ave you?' sez I.

'But I'm the Colonel,' sez 'e.

'Oh! You are, are you?' sez I. 'Colonel nor no Colonel, you waits
'ere till I'm relieved, an' the Sarjint reports on your ugly old
mug. Coop!' sez I.

. . . . . . . . .

An' s'help me soul, 'twas the Colonel after all! But I was a
recruity then."

The Unedited Autobiography of Private Ortheris.

IF there was one thing on which Golightly prided himself more
than
another, it was looking like "an Officer and a gentleman." He said
it was for the honor of the Service that he attired himself so
elaborately; but those who knew him best said that it was just
personal vanity. There was no harm about Golightly--not an
ounce.

He recognized a horse when he saw one, and could do more than
fill a
cantle. He played a very fair game at billiards, and was a sound
man at the whist-table. Everyone liked him; and nobody ever
dreamed
of seeing him handcuffed on a station platform as a deserter. But
this sad thing happened.

He was going down from Dalhousie, at the end of his leave--riding
down. He had cut his leave as fine as he dared, and wanted to
come
down in a hurry.

It was fairly warm at Dalhousie, and knowing what to expect
below,
he descended in a new khaki suit--tight fitting--of a delicate
olive-green; a peacock-blue tie, white collar, and a snowy white
solah helmet. He prided himself on looking neat even when he
was
riding post. He did look neat, and he was so deeply concerned
about
his appearance before he started that he quite forgot to take
anything but some small change with him. He left all his notes at
the hotel. His servants had gone down the road before him, to be
ready in waiting at Pathankote with a change of gear. That was
what
he called travelling in "light marching-order." He was proud of his
faculty of organization--what we call bundobust.

Twenty-two miles out of Dalhousie it began to rain--not a mere
hill-
shower, but a good, tepid monsoonish downpour. Golightly
bustled
on, wishing that he had brought an umbrella. The dust on the
roads
turned into mud, and the pony mired a good deal. So did
Golightly's
khaki gaiters. But he kept on steadily and tried to think how
pleasant the coolth was.

His next pony was rather a brute at starting, and Golightly's hands
being slippery with the rain, contrived to get rid of Golightly at a
corner. He chased the animal, caught it, and went ahead briskly.

The spill had not improved his clothes or his temper, and he had
lost one spur. He kept the other one employed. By the time that
stage was ended, the pony had had as much exercise as he wanted,
and, in spite of the rain, Golightly was sweating freely. At the
end of another miserable half-hour, Golightly found the world
disappear before his eyes in clammy pulp. The rain had turned the
pith of his huge and snowy solah-topee into an evil-smelling
dough,
and it had closed on his head like a half-opened mushroom. Also
the
green lining was beginning to run.

Golightly did not say anything worth recording here. He tore off
and squeezed up as much of the brim as was in his eyes and
ploughed
on. The back of the helmet was flapping on his neck and the sides
stuck to his ears, but the leather band and green lining kept things
roughly together, so that the hat did not actually melt away where
it flapped.

Presently, the pulp and the green stuff made a sort of slimy mildew
which ran over Golightly in several directions--down his back and
bosom for choice. The khaki color ran too--it was really
shockingly
bad dye--and sections of Golightly were brown, and patches were
violet, and contours were ochre, and streaks were ruddy red, and
blotches were nearly white, according to the nature and
peculiarities of the dye. When he took out his handkerchief to
wipe
his face and the green of the hat-lining and the purple stuff that
had soaked through on to his neck from the tie became thoroughly
mixed, the effect was amazing.

Near Dhar the rain stopped and the evening sun came out and
dried
him up slightly. It fixed the colors, too. Three miles from
Pathankote the last pony fell dead lame, and Golightly was forced
to
walk. He pushed on into Pathankote to find his servants. He did
not know then that his khitmatgar had stopped by the roadside to
get
drunk, and would come on the next day saying that he had sprained
his ankle. When he got into Pathankote, he couldn't find his
servants, his boots were stiff and ropy with mud, and there were
large quantities of dirt about his body. The blue tie had run as
much as the khaki. So he took it off with the collar and threw it
away. Then he said something about servants generally and tried
to
get a peg. He paid eight annas for the drink, and this revealed to
him that he had only six annas more in his pocket--or in the world
as he stood at that hour.

He went to the Station-Master to negotiate for a first-class ticket
to Khasa, where he was stationed. The booking-clerk said
something
to the Station-Master, the Station-Master said something to the
Telegraph Clerk, and the three looked at him with curiosity. They
asked him to wait for half-an-hour, while they telegraphed to
Umritsar for authority. So he waited, and four constables came
and
grouped themselves picturesquely round him. Just as he was
preparing to ask them to go away, the Station-Master said that he
would give the Sahib a ticket to Umritsar, if the Sahib would
kindly
come inside the booking-office. Golightly stepped inside, and the
next thing he knew was that a constable was attached to each of
his
legs and arms, while the Station-Master was trying to cram a
mailbag
over his head.

There was a very fair scuffle all round the booking-office, and
Golightly received a nasty cut over his eye through falling against
a table. But the constables were too much for him, and they and
the
Station-Master handcuffed him securely. As soon as the mail-bag
was
slipped, he began expressing his opinions, and the head-constable
said:--"Without doubt this is the soldier-Englishman we required.

Listen to the abuse!" Then Golightly asked the Station-Master
what
the this and the that the proceedings meant. The Station-Master
told him he was "Private John Binkle of the ---- Regiment, 5 ft. 9
in., fair hair, gray eyes, and a dissipated appearance, no marks on
the body," who had deserted a fortnight ago. Golightly began
explaining at great length; and the more he explained the less the
Station-Master believed him. He said that no Lieutenant could
look
such a ruffian as did Golightly, and that his instructions were to
send his capture under proper escort to Umritsar. Golightly was
feeling very damp and uncomfortable, and the language he used
was
not fit for publication, even in an expurgated form. The four
constables saw him safe to Umritsar in an "intermediate"
compartment, and he spent the four-hour journey in abusing them
as
fluently as his knowledge of the vernaculars allowed.

At Umritsar he was bundled out on the platform into the arms of a
Corporal and two men of the ---- Regiment. Golightly drew
himself
up and tried to carry off matters jauntily. He did not feel too
jaunty in handcuffs, with four constables behind him, and the
blood
from the cut on his forehead stiffening on his left cheek. The
Corporal was not jocular either. Golightly got as far as--"This is
a very absurd mistake, my men," when the Corporal told him to
"stow
his lip" and come along. Golightly did not want to come along.
He
desired to stop and explain. He explained very well indeed, until
the Corporal cut in with:--"YOU a orficer! It's the like o' YOU as
brings disgrace on the likes of US. Bloom-in' fine orficer you are!
I know your regiment. The Rogue's March is the quickstep where
you
come from. You're a black shame to the Service."

Golightly kept his temper, and began explaining all over again
from
the beginning. Then he was marched out of the rain into the
refreshment-room and told not to make a qualified fool of himself.

The men were going to run him up to Fort Govindghar. And
"running
up" is a performance almost as undignified as the Frog March.

Golightly was nearly hysterical with rage and the chill and the
mistake and the handcuffs and the headache that the cut on his
forehead had given him. He really laid himself out to express what
was in his mind. When he had quite finished and his throat was
feeling dry, one of the men said:--"I've 'eard a few beggars in the
click blind, stiff and crack on a bit; but I've never 'eard any one
to touch this 'ere 'orficer.'" They were not angry with him. They
rather admired him. They had some beer at the refreshment-room,
and
offered Golightly some too, because he had "swore won'erful."
They
asked him to tell them all about the adventures of Private John
Binkle while he was loose on the countryside; and that made
Golightly wilder than ever. If he had kept his wits about him he
would have kept quiet until an officer came; but he attempted to
run.

Now the butt of a Martini in the small of your back hurts a great
deal, and rotten, rain-soaked khaki tears easily when two men are
jerking at your collar.

Golightly rose from the floor feeling very sick and giddy, with his
shirt ripped open all down his breast and nearly all down his back.

He yielded to his luck, and at that point the down-train from
Lahore
came in carrying one of Golightly's Majors.

This is the Major's evidence in full:--

"There was the sound of a scuffle in the second-class refreshment-
room, so I went in and saw the most villainous loafer that I ever
set eyes on. His boots and breeches were plastered with mud and
beer-stains. He wore a muddy-white dunghill sort of thing on his
head, and it hung down in slips on his shoulders, which were a
good
deal scratched. He was half in and half out of a shirt as nearly in
two pieces as it could be, and he was begging the guard to look at
the name on the tail of it. As he had rucked the shirt all over his
head, I couldn't at first see who he was, but I fancied that he was
a man in the first stage of D. T. from the way he swore while he
wrestled with his rags. When he turned round, and I had made
allowance for a lump as big as a pork-pie over one eye, and some
green war-paint on the face, and some violet stripes round the
neck,
I saw that it was Golightly. He was very glad to see me," said the
Major, "and he hoped I would not tell the Mess about it. I didn't,
but you can if you like, now that Golightly has gone Home."

Golightly spent the greater part of that summer in trying to get the
Corporal and the two soldiers tried by Court-Martial for arresting
an "officer and a gentleman." They were, of course, very sorry for
their error. But the tale leaked into the regimental canteen, and
thence ran about the Province.

THE HOUSE OF SUDDHOO

A stone's throw out on either hand
From that well-ordered road we tread,
And all the world is wild and strange;
Churel and ghoul and Djinn and sprite
Shall bear us company to-night,
For we have reached the Oldest Land
Wherein the Powers of Darkness range.

From the Dusk to the Dawn.

The house of Suddhoo, near the Taksali Gate, is two-storied, with
four carved windows of old brown wood, and a flat roof. You may
recognize it by five red hand-prints arranged like the Five of
Diamonds on the whitewash between the upper windows.
Bhagwan Dass,
the bunnia, and a man who says he gets his living by seal-cutting,
live in the lower story with a troop of wives, servants, friends,
and retainers. The two upper rooms used to be occupied by Janoo
and
Azizun and a little black-and-tan terrier that was stolen from an
Englishman's house and given to Janoo by a soldier. To-day, only
Janoo lives in the upper rooms. Suddhoo sleeps on the roof
generally, except when he sleeps in the street. He used to go to
Peshawar in the cold weather to visit his son, who sells curiosities
near the Edwardes' Gate, and then he slept under a real mud roof.

Suddhoo is a great friend of mine, because his cousin had a son
who
secured, thanks to my recommendation, the post of
head-messenger to
a big firm in the Station. Suddhoo says that God will make me a
Lieutenant-Governor one of these days. I daresay his prophecy
will
come true. He is very, very old, with white hair and no teeth worth
showing, and he has outlived his wits--outlived nearly everything
except his fondness for his son at Peshawar. Janoo and Azizun are
Kashmiris, Ladies of the City, and theirs was an ancient and more
or
less honorable profession; but Azizun has since married a medical
student from the North-West and has settled down to a most
respectable life somewhere near Bareilly. Bhagwan Dass is an
extortionate and an adulterator. He is very rich. The man who is
supposed to get his living by seal-cutting pretends to be very poor.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.