Book: The Works of Rudyard Kipling One Volume Edition

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'Ouf!' said he. 'That's heavenly! Well?'

'Why in the world didn't you come to me?'

'Couldn't; I owe you too much already, old man. Besides I had a
sort of
superstition that this temporary starvation--that's what it was, and
it
hurt--would bring me luck later. It's over and done with now, and
none
of the syndicate know how hard up I was. Fire away. What's the
exact
state of affairs as regards myself?'

'You had my wire? You've caught on here. People like your work
immensely. I don't know why, but they do. They say you have a
fresh
touch and a new way of drawing things. And, because they're
chiefly
home-bred English, they say you have insight. You're wanted by
half a
dozen papers; you're wanted to illustrate books.'

Dick grunted scornfully.

'You're wanted to work up your smaller sketches and sell them to
the
dealers. They seem to think the money sunk in you is a good
investment.

Good Lord! who can account for the fathomless folly of the
public?'

'They're a remarkably sensible people.'

'They are subject to fits, if that's what you mean; and you happen
to be
the object of the latest fit among those who are interested in what
they
call Art. Just now you're a fashion, a phenomenon, or whatever you
please. I appeared to be the only person who knew anything about
you
here, and I have been showing the most useful men a few of the
sketches
you gave me from time to time. Those coming after your work on
the
Central Southern Syndicate appear to have done your business.
You're
in luck.'

'Huh! call it luck! Do call it luck, when a man has been kicking
about the
world like a dog, waiting for it to come! I'll luck 'em later on. I
want a
place to work first.'

'Come here,' said Torpenhow, crossing the landing. 'This place is a
big
box room really, but it will do for you. There's your skylight, or
your
north light, or whatever window you call it, and plenty of room to
thrash
about in, and a bedroom beyond. What more do you need?'

'Good enough,' said Dick, looking round the large room that took
up a
third of a top story in the rickety chambers overlooking the
Thames. A
pale yellow sun shone through the skylight and showed the much
dirt of
the place. Three steps led from the door to the landing, and three
more to
Torpenhow's room. The well of the staircase disappeared into
darkness,
pricked by tiny gas-jets, and there were sounds of men talking and
doors
slamming seven flights below, in the warm gloom.

'Do they give you a free hand here?' said Dick, cautiously. He was
Ishmael enough to know the value of liberty.

'Anything you like; latch-keys and license unlimited. We are
permanent
tenants for the most part here. 'Tisn't a place I would recommend
for a
Young Men's Christian Association, but it will serve. I took these
rooms
for you when I wired.'

'You're a great deal too kind, old man.'

'You didn't suppose you were going away from me, did you?'
Torpenhow
put his hand on Dick's shoulder, and the two walked up and down
the
room, henceforward to be called the studio, in sweet and silent
communion. They heard rapping at Torpenhow's door. 'That's some
ruffian come up for a drink,' said Torpenhow; and he raised his
voice
cheerily. There entered no one more ruffianly than a portly
middle-aged
gentleman in a satin-faced frockcoat. His lips were parted and
pale, and
there were deep pouches under the eyes.

'Weak heart,' said Dick to himself, and, as he shook hands, 'very
weak
heart. His pulse is shaking his fingers.'

The man introduced himself as the head of the Central Southern
Syndicate and 'one of the most ardent admirers of your work, Mr.

Heldar. I assure you, in the name of the syndicate, that we are
immensely
indebted to you; and I trust, Mr. Heldar, you won't forget that we
were
largely instrumental in bringing you before the public.' He panted
because of the seven flights of stairs.

Dick glanced at Torpenhow, whose left eyelid lay for a moment
dead on
his cheek.

'I shan't forget,' said Dick, every instinct of defence roused in him.

'You've paid me so well that I couldn't, you know. By the way,
when I
am settled in this place I should like to send and get my sketches.
There
must be nearly a hundred and fifty of them with you.'

'That is er--is what I came to speak about. I fear we can't allow it
exactly, Mr. Heldar. In the absence of any specified agreement, the
sketches are our property, of course.'

'Do you mean to say that you are going to keep them?'

'Yes; and we hope to have your help, on your own terms, Mr.
Heldar, to
assist us in arranging a little exhibition, which, backed by our
name and
the influence we naturally command among the press, should be of
material service to you. Sketches such as yours----'

'Belong to me. You engaged me by wire, you paid me the lowest
rates you
dared. You can't mean to keep them! Good God alive, man, they're
all
I've got in the world!'

Torpenhow watched Dick's face and whistled.

Dick walked up and down, thinking. He saw the whole of his little
stock
in trade, the first weapon of his equipment, annexed at the outset
of his
campaign by an elderly gentleman whose name Dick had not
caught
aright, who said that he represented a syndicate, which was a thing
for
which Dick had not the least reverence. The injustice of the
proceedings
did not much move him; he had seen the strong hand prevail too
often in
other places to be squeamish over the moral aspects of right and
wrong.

But he ardently desired the blood of the gentleman in the
frockcoat, and
when he spoke again, and when he spoke again it was with a
strained
sweetness that Torpenhow knew well for the beginning of strife.

'Forgive me, sir, but you have no--no younger man who can
arrange this
business with me?'

'I speak for the syndicate. I see no reason for a third party to----'

'You will in a minute. Be good enough to give back my sketches.'

The man stared blankly at Dick, and then at Torpenhow, who was
leaning against the wall. He was not used to ex-employees who
ordered
him to be good enough to do things.

'Yes, it is rather a cold-blooded steal,' said Torpenhow, critically;
'but
I'm afraid, I am very much afraid, you've struck the wrong man. Be
careful, Dick; remember, this isn't the Soudan.'

'Considering what services the syndicate have done you in putting
your
name before the world----'

This was not a fortunate remark; it reminded Dick of certain
vagrant
years lived out in loneliness and strife and unsatisfied desires. The
memory did not contrast well with the prosperous gentleman who
proposed to enjoy the fruit of those years.

'I don't know quite what to do with you,' began Dick, meditatively.
'Of
course you're a thief, and you ought to be half killed, but in your
case
you'd probably die. I don't want you dead on this floor, and,
besides, it's
unlucky just as one's moving in. Don't hit, sir; you'll only excite
yourself.'

He put one hand on the man's forearm and ran the other down the
plump
body beneath the coat. 'My goodness!' said he to Torpenhow, 'and
this
gray oaf dares to be a thief! I have seen an Esneh camel-driver
have the
black hide taken off his body in strips for stealing half a pound of
wet
dates, and he was as tough as whipcord. This things' soft all
over--like a
woman.'

There are few things more poignantly humiliating than being
handled by
a man who does not intend to strike. The head of the syndicate
began to
breathe heavily. Dick walked round him, pawing him, as a cat
paws a soft
hearth-rug. Then he traced with his forefinger the leaden pouches
underneath the eyes, and shook his head. 'You were going to steal
my
things,--mine, mine, mine!--you, who don't know when you may
die.

Write a note to your office,--you say you're the head of it,--and
order
them to give Torpenhow my sketches,--every one of them. Wait a
minute:
your hand's shaking. Now!' He thrust a pocket-book before him.
The note
was written. Torpenhow took it and departed without a word,
while Dick
walked round and round the spellbound captive, giving him such
advice
as he conceived best for the welfare of his soul. When Torpenhow
returned with a gigantic portfolio, he heard Dick say, almost
soothingly,
'Now, I hope this will be a lesson to you; and if you worry me
when I
have settled down to work with any nonsense about actions for
assault,
believe me, I'll catch you and manhandle you, and you'll die. You
haven't
very long to live, anyhow. Go! Imshi, Vootsak,--get out!' The man
departed, staggering and dazed. Dick drew a long breath: 'Phew!
what a
lawless lot these people are! The first thing a poor orphan meets is
gang
robbery, organised burglary! Think of the hideous blackness of that
man's mind! Are my sketches all right, Torp?'

'Yes; one hundred and forty-seven of them. Well, I must say, Dick,
you've
begun well.'

'He was interfering with me. It only meant a few pounds to him,
but it
was everything to me. I don't think he'll bring an action. I gave him
some
medical advice gratis about the state of his body. It was cheap at
the little
flurry it cost him. Now, let's look at my things.'

Two minutes later Dick had thrown himself down on the floor and
was
deep in the portfolio, chuckling lovingly as he turned the drawings
over
and thought of the price at which they had been bought.

The afternoon was well advanced when Torpenhow came to the
door and
saw Dick dancing a wild saraband under the skylight.

'I builded better than I knew, Torp,' he said, without stopping the
dance.

'They're good! They're damned good! They'll go like flame! I shall
have
an exhibition of them on my own brazen hook. And that man
would have
cheated me out of it! Do you know that I'm sorry now that I didn't
actually hit him?'

'Go out,' said Torpenhow,--'go out and pray to be delivered from
the sin
of arrogance, which you never will be. Bring your things up from
whatever place you're staying in, and we'll try to make this barn a
little
more shipshape.'

'And then--oh, then,' said Dick, still capering, 'we will spoil the
Egyptians!'

CHAPTER IV

The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn,
When the smoke of the cooking hung gray:
He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn,
And he looked to his strength for his prey.

But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away.

And he turned from his meal in the villager's close,
And he bayed to the moon as she rose.
In Seonee-

'WELL, and how does success taste?' said Torpenhow, some three
months later. He had just returned to chambers after a holiday in
the
country.

'Good,' said Dick, as he sat licking his lips before the easel in the
studio.

'I want more,--heaps more. The lean years have passed, and I
approve of
these fat ones.'

'Be careful, old man. That way lies bad work.'

Torpenhow was sprawling in a long chair with a small fox-terrier
asleep
on his chest, while Dick was preparing a canvas. A dais, a
background,
and a lay-figure were the only fixed objects in the place. They rose
from
a wreck of oddments that began with felt-covered water-bottles,
belts,
and regimental badges, and ended with a small bale of
second-hand
uniforms and a stand of mixed arms. The mark of muddy feet on
the dais
showed that a military model had just gone away. The watery
autumn
sunlight was falling, and shadows sat in the corners of the studio.

'Yes,' said Dick, deliberately, 'I like the power; I like the fun; I like
the
fuss; and above all I like the money. I almost like the people who
make
the fuss and pay the money. Almost. But they're a queer gang,--an
amazingly queer gang!'

'They have been good enough to you, at any rate. Than tin-pot
exhibition
of your sketches must have paid. Did you see that the papers called
it the
"Wild Work Show"?'

'Never mind. I sold every shred of canvas I wanted to; and, on my
word,
I believe it was because they believed I was a self-taught flagstone
artist.

I should have got better prices if I worked my things on wool or
scratched them on camel-bone instead of using mere black and
white and
colour. Verily, they are a queer gang, these people. Limited isn't
the
word to describe 'em. I met a fellow the other day who told me that
it
was impossible that shadows on white sand should be
blue,--ultramarine,--as they are. I found out, later, that the man had
been
as far as Brighton beach; but he knew all about Art, confound him.
He
gave me a lecture on it, and recommended me to go to school to
learn
technique. I wonder what old Kami would have said to that.'

'When were you under Kami, man of extraordinary beginnings?'

'I studied with him for two years in Paris. He taught by personal
magnetism. All he ever said was, "Continuez, mes enfants," and
you had
to make the best you could of that. He had a divine touch, and he
knew
something about colour. Kami used to dream colour; I swear he
could
never have seen the genuine article; but he evolved it; and it was
good.'

'Recollect some of those views in the Soudan?' said Torpenhow,
with a
provoking drawl.

Dick squirmed in his place. 'Don't! It makes me want to get out
there
again. What colour that was! Opal and umber and amber and claret
and
brick-red and sulphur--cockatoo-crest--sulphur--against brown,
with a
nigger-black rock sticking up in the middle of it all, and a
decorative
frieze of camels festooning in front of a pure pale turquoise sky.'
He
began to walk up and down. 'And yet, you know, if you try to give
these
people the thing as God gave it, keyed down to their
comprehension and
according to the powers He has given you----'

'Modest man! Go on.'

'Half a dozen epicene young pagans who haven't even been to
Algiers
will tell you, first, that your notion is borrowed, and, secondly, that
it
isn't Art.

''This comes of my leaving town for a month. Dickie, you've been
promenading among the toy-shops and hearing people talk.'

'I couldn't help it,' said Dick, penitently. 'You weren't here, and it
was
lonely these long evenings. A man can't work for ever.'

'A man might have gone to a pub, and got decently drunk.'

'I wish I had; but I forgathered with some men of sorts. They said
they
were artists, and I knew some of them could draw,--but they
wouldn't
draw. They gave me tea,--tea at five in the afternoon!--and talked
about
Art and the state of their souls. As if their souls mattered. I've
heard
more about Art and seen less of her in the last six months than in
the
whole of my life. Do you remember Cassavetti, who worked for
some
continental syndicate, out with the desert column? He was a
regular
Christmas-tree of contraptions when he took the field in full fig,
with his
water-bottle, lanyard, revolver, writing-case, housewife, gig-lamps,
and
the Lord knows what all. He used to fiddle about with 'em and
show us
how they worked; but he never seemed to do much except fudge
his
reports from the Nilghai. See?'

'Dear old Nilghai! He's in town, fatter than ever. He ought to be up
here
this evening. I see the comparison perfectly. You should have kept
clear
of all that man-millinery. Serves you right; and I hope it will
unsettle
your mind.'

'It won't. It has taught me what Art--holy sacred Art--means.'

'You've learnt something while I've been away. What is Art?'

'Give 'em what they know, and when you've done it once do it
again.'

Dick dragged forward a canvas laid face to the wall. 'Here's a
sample of
real Art. It's going to be a facsimile reproduction for a weekly. I
called it
"His Last Shot." It's worked up from the little water-colour I made
outside El Maghrib. Well, I lured my model, a beautiful rifleman,
up
here with drink; I drored him, and I redrored him, and I redrored
him,
and I made him a flushed, dishevelled, bedevilled scallawag, with
his
helmet at the back of his head, and the living fear of death in his
eye, and
the blood oozing out of a cut over his ankle-bone. He wasn't pretty,
but
he was all soldier and very much man.'

'Once more, modest child!'

Dick laughed. 'Well, it's only to you I'm talking. I did him just as
well as
I knew how, making allowance for the slickness of oils. Then the
art-manager of that abandoned paper said that his subscribers
wouldn't
like it. It was brutal and coarse and violent,--man being naturally
gentle
when he's fighting for his life. They wanted something more
restful, with
a little more colour. I could have said a good deal, but you might
as well
talk to a sheep as an art-manager. I took my "Last Shot" back.
Behold
the result! I put him into a lovely red coat without a speck on it.
That is
Art. I polished his boots,--observe the high light on the toe. That is
Art. I
cleaned his rifle,--rifles are always clean on service,--because that
is Art.

I pipeclayed his helmet,--pipeclay is always used on active service,
and is
indispensable to Art. I shaved his chin, I washed his hands, and
gave him
an air of fatted peace. Result, military tailor's pattern-plate. Price,
thank
Heaven, twice as much as for the first sketch, which was
moderately
decent.'

'And do you suppose you're going to give that thing out as your
work?'

'Why not? I did it. Alone I did it, in the interests of sacred,
home-bred
Art and Dickenson's Weekly.'

Torpenhow smoked in silence for a while. Then came the verdict,
delivered from rolling clouds: 'If you were only a mass of
blathering
vanity, Dick, I wouldn't mind,--I'd let you go to the deuce on your
own
mahl-stick; but when I consider what you are to me, and when I
find that
to vanity you add the twopenny-halfpenny pique of a
twelve-year-old
girl, then I bestir myself in your behalf. Thus!'

The canvas ripped as Torpenhow's booted foot shot through it, and
the
terrier jumped down, thinking rats were about.

'If you have any bad language to use, use it. You have not. I
continue.

You are an idiot, because no man born of woman is strong enough
to take
liberties with his public, even though they be--which they ain't--all
you
say they are.'

'But they don't know any better. What can you expect from
creatures
born and bred in this light?' Dick pointed to the yellow fog. 'If they
want
furniture-polish, let them have furniture-polish, so long as they pay
for it.

They are only men and women. You talk as if they were gods.'

'That sounds very fine, but it has nothing to do with the case. They
are
they people you have to do work for, whether you like it or not.
They are
your masters. Don't be deceived, Dickie, you aren't strong enough
to
trifle with them,--or with yourself, which is more important.

Moreover,--Come back, Binkie: that red daub isn't going
anywhere,--unless you take precious good care, you will fall under
the
damnation of the check-book, and that's worse than death. You
will get
drunk--you-re half drunk already--on easily acquired money. For
that
money and you own infernal vanity you are willing to deliberately
turn
out bad work. You'll do quite enough bad work without knowing
it. And,
Dickie, as I love you and as I know you love me, I am not going to
let you
cut off your nose to spite your face for all the gold in England.
That's
settled. Now swear.'

'Don't know, said Dick. 'I've been trying to make myself angry, but
I
can't, you're so abominably reasonable. There will be a row on
Dickenson's Weekly, I fancy.'

'Why the Dickenson do you want to work on a weekly paper? It's
slow
bleeding of power.'

'It brings in the very desirable dollars,' said Dick, his hands in his
pockets.

Torpenhow watched him with large contempt. 'Why, I thought it
was a
man!' said he. 'It's a child.'

'No, it isn't,' said Dick, wheeling quickly. 'You've no notion owhat
the
certainty of cash means to a man who has always wanted it badly.

Nothing will pay me for some of my life's joys; on that Chinese
pig-boat,
for instance, when we ate bread and jam for every meal, because
Ho-Wang wouldn't allow us anything better, and it all tasted of
pig,--Chinese pig. I've worked for this, I've sweated and I've
starved for
this, line on line and month after month. And now I've got it I am
going
to make the most of it while it lasts. Let them pay--they've no
knowledge.'

'What does Your Majesty please to want? You can't smoke more
than
you do; you won't drink; you're a gross feeder; and you dress in the
dark, by the look of you. You wouldn't keep a horse the other day
when I
suggested, because, you said, it might fall lame, and whenever you
cross
the street you take a hansom. Even you are not foolish enough to
suppose
that theatres and all the live things you can by thereabouts mean
Life.

What earthly need have you for money?'

'It's there, bless its golden heart,' said Dick. 'It's there all the time.

Providence has sent me nuts while I have teeth to crack 'em with. I
haven't yet found the nut I wish to crack, but I'm keeping my teeth
filed.

Perhaps some day you and I will go for a walk round the wide
earth.'

'With no work to do, nobody to worry us, and nobody to compete
with?
You would be unfit to speak to in a week. Besides, I shouldn't go. I
don't
care to profit by the price of a man's soul,--for that's what it would
mean.

Dick, it's no use arguing. You're a fool.'

'Don't see it. When I was on that Chinese pig-boat, our captain got
credit
for saving about twenty-five thousand very seasick little pigs,
when our
old tramp of a steamer fell foul of a timber-junk. Now, taking
those pigs
as a parallel----'

'Oh, confound your parallels! Whenever I try to improve your soul,
you
always drag in some anecdote from your very shady past. Pigs
aren't the
British public; and self-respect is self-respect the world over. Go
out for
a walk and try to catch some self-respect. And, I say, if the Nilghai
comes
up this evening can I show him your diggings?'

'Surely.' And Dick departed, to take counsel with himself in the
rapidly
gathering London fog.

Half an hour after he had left, the Nilghai laboured up the
staircase. He
was the chiefest, as he was the youngest, of the war
correspondents, and
his experiences dated from the birth of the needle-gun. Saving only
his
ally, Keneu the Great War Eagle, there was no man higher in the
craft
than he, and he always opened his conversation with the news that
there
would be trouble in the Balkans in the spring. Torpenhow laughed
as he
entered.

'Never mind the trouble in the Balkans. Those little states are
always
screeching. You've heard about Dick's luck?'

'Yes; he has been called up to notoriety, hasn't he? I hope you keep
him
properly humble. He wants suppressing from time to time.'

'He does. He's beginning to take liberties with what he thinks is his
reputation.'

'Already! By Jove, he has cheek! I don't know about his reputation,
but
he'll come a cropper if he tries that sort of thing.'

'So I told him. I don't think he believes it.'

'They never do when they first start off. What's that wreck on the
ground there?'

'Specimen of his latest impertinence.' Torpenhow thrust the torn
edges of
the canvas together and showed the well-groomed picture to the
Nilghai,
who looked at it for a moment and whistled.

'It's a chromo,' said he,--'a chromo-litholeomargarine fake! What
possessed him to do it? And yet how thoroughly he has caught the
note
that catches a public who think with their boots and read with their
elbows! The cold-blooded insolence of the work almost saves it;
but he
mustn't go on with this. Hasn't he been praised and cockered up too
much? You know these people here have no sense of proportion.
They'll
call him a second Detaille and a third-hand Meissonier while his
fashion
lasts. It's windy diet for a colt.'

'I don't think it affects Dick much. You might as well call a young
wolf a
lion and expect him to take the compliment in exchange for a
shin-bone.

Dick's soul is in the bank. He's working for cash.'

'Now he has thrown up war work, I suppose he doesn't see that the
obligations of the service are just the same, only the proprietors are
changed.'

'How should he know? He thinks he is his own master.'

'Does he? I could undeceive him for his good, if there's any virtue
in
print. He wants the whiplash.'

'Lay it on with science, then. I'd flay him myself, but I like him too
much.'

'I've no scruples. He had the audacity to try to cut me out with a
woman
at Cairo once. I forgot that, but I remember now.'

'Did he cut you out?'

'You'll see when I have dealt with him. But, after all, what's the
good?
Leave him alone and he'll come home, if he has any stuff in him,
dragging or wagging his tail behind him. There's more in a week of
life
than in a lively weekly. None the less I'll slate him. I'll slate him
ponderously in the Cataclysm.'

'Good luck to you; but I fancy nothing short of a crowbar would
make
Dick wince. His soul seems to have been fired before we came
across him.

He's intensely suspicious and utterly lawless.'

'Matter of temper,' said the Nilghai. 'It's the same with horses.
Some you
wallop and they work, some you wallop and they jib, and some
you
wallop and they go out for a walk with their hands in their
pockets.'

'That's exactly what Dick has done,' said Torpenhow. 'Wait till he
comes
back. In the meantime, you can begin your slating here. I'll show
you
some of his last and worst work in his studio.'

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