Book: The Works of Rudyard Kipling One Volume Edition

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Dick had instinctively sought running water for a comfort to his
mood of
mind. He was leaning over the Embankment wall, watching the
rush of
the Thames through the arches of Westminster Bridge. He began
by
thinking of Torpenhow's advice, but, as of custom, lost himself in
the
study of the faces flocking past. Some had death written on their
features, and Dick marvelled that they could laugh. Others, clumsy
and
coarse-built for the most part, were alight with love; others were
merely
drawn and lined with work; but there was something, Dick knew,
to be
made out of them all. The poor at least should suffer that he might
learn,
and the rich should pay for the output of his learning. Thus his
credit in
the world and his cash balance at the bank would be increased. So
much
the better for him. He had suffered. Now he would take toll of the
ills of
others.

The fog was driven apart for a moment, and the sun shone, a
blood-red
wafer, on the water. Dick watched the spot till he heard the voice
of the
tide between the piers die down like the wash of the sea at low
tide. A girl
hard pressed by her lover shouted shamelessly, 'Ah, get away, you
beast!'

and a shift of the same wind that had opened the fog drove across
Dick's
face the black smoke of a river-steamer at her berth below the
wall. He
was blinded for the moment, then spun round and found himself
face to
face with--Maisie.

There was no mistaking. The years had turned the child to a
woman, but
they had not altered the dark-gray eyes, the thin scarlet lips, or the
firmly modelled mouth and chin; and, that all should be as it was
of old,
she wore a closely fitting gray dress.

Since the human soul is finite and not in the least under its own
command, Dick, advancing, said 'Halloo!' after the manner of
schoolboys, and Maisie answered, 'Oh, Dick, is that you?' Then,
against
his will, and before the brain newly released from considerations
of the
cash balance had time to dictate to the nerves, every pulse of
Dick's body
throbbed furiously and his palate dried in his mouth. The fog shut
down
again, and Maisie's face was pearl-white through it. No word was
spoken, but Dick fell into step at her side, and the two paced the
Embankment together, keeping the step as perfectly as in their
afternoon
excursions to the mud-flats. Then Dick, a little hoarsely--
'What has happened to Amomma?'

'He died, Dick. Not cartridges; over-eating. He was always greedy.
Isn't
it funny?'

'Yes. No. Do you mean Amomma?'

'Ye--es. No. This. Where have you come from?'

'Over there,' He pointed eastward through the fog. 'And you?'

'Oh, I'm in the north,--the black north, across all the Park. I am
very
busy.'

'What do you do?'

'I paint a great deal. That's all I have to do.'

'Why, what's happened? You had three hundred a year.'

'I have that still. I am painting; that's all.'

'Are you alone, then?'

'There's a girl living with me. Don't walk so fast, Dick; you're out
of
step.'

'Then you noticed it too?'

'Of course I did. You're always out of step.'

'So I am. I'm sorry. You went on with the painting?'

'Of course. I said I should. I was at the Slade, then at Merton's in
St.

John's Wood, the big studio, then I pepper-potted,--I mean I went
to the
National,--and now I'm working under Kami.'

'But Kami is in Paris surely?'

'No; he has his teaching studio in Vitry-sur-Marne. I work with
him in
the summer, and I live in London in the winter. I'm a householder.'

'Do you sell much?'

'Now and again, but not often. There is my 'bus. I must take it or
lose
half an hour. Good-bye, Dick.'

'Good-bye, Maisie. Won't you tell me where you live? I must see
you
again; and perhaps I could help you. I--I paint a little myself.'

'I may be in the Park to-morrow, if there is no working light. I walk
from
the Marble Arch down and back again; that is my little excursion.
But of
course I shall see you again.' She stepped into the omnibus and was
swallowed up by the fog.

'Well--I--am--damned!' exclaimed Dick, and returned to the
chambers.

Torpenhow and the Nilghai found him sitting on the steps to the
stgudio
door, repeating the phrase with an awful gravity.

'You'll be more damned when I'm done with you,' said the Nilghai,
upheaving his bulk from behind Torpenhow's shoulder and waving
a
sheaf of half-dry manuscript. 'Dick, it is of common report that you
are
suffering from swelled head.'

'Halloo, Nilghai. Back again? How are the Balkans and all the little
Balkans? One side of your face is out of drawing, as usual.'

'Never mind that. I am commissioned to smite you in print.
Torpenhow
refuses from false delicacy. I've been overhauling the pot-boilers in
your
studio. They are simply disgraceful.'

'Oho! that's it, is it? If you think you can slate me, you're wrong.
You
can only describe, and you need as much room to turn in, on paper,
as a
P. and O. cargo-boat. But continue, and be swift. I'm going to bed.'

'H'm! h'm! h'm! The first part only deals with your pictures. Here's
the
peroration: "For work done without conviction, for power wasted
on
trivialities, for labour expended with levity for the deliberate
purpose of
winning the easy applause of a fashion-driven public----"
'That's "His Last Shot," second edition. Go on.'

'----"public, there remains but one end,--the oblivion that is
preceded by
toleration and cenotaphed with contempt. From that fate Mr.
Heldar has
yet to prove himself out of danger.'

'Wow--wow--wow--wow--wow!' said Dick, profanely. 'It's a clumsy
ending
and vile journalese, but it's quite true. And yet,'--he sprang to his
feet
and snatched at the manuscript,--'you scarred, deboshed, battered
old
gladiator! you're sent out when a war begins, to minister to the
blind,
brutal, British public's bestial thirst for blood. They have no arenas
now,
but they must have special correspondents. You're a fat gladiator
who
comes up through a trap-door and talks of what he's seen. You
stand on
precisely the same level as an energetic bishop, an affable actress,
a
devastating cyclone, or--mine own sweet self. And you presume to
lecture
me about my work! Nilghai, if it were worth while I'd caricature
you in
four papers!'

The Nilghai winced. He had not thought of this.

'As it is, I shall take this stuff and tear it small--so!' The manuscript
fluttered in slips down the dark well of the staircase. 'Go home,
Nilghai,'

said Dick; 'go home to your lonely little bed, and leave me in
peace. I am
about to turn in till to-morrow.'

'Why, it isn't seven yet!' said Torpenhow, with amazement.

'It shall be two in the morning, if I choose,' said Dick, backing to
the
studio door. 'I go to grapple with a serious crisis, and I shan't want
any
dinner.'

The door shut and was locked.

'What can you do with a man like that?' said the Nilghai.

'Leave him alone. He's as mad as a hatter.'

At eleven there was a kicking on the studio door. 'Is the Nilghai
with you
still?' said a voice from within. 'Then tell him he might have
condensed
the whole of his lumbering nonsense into an epigram: "Only the
free are
bond, and only the bond are free." Tell him he's an idiot, Torp, and
tell
him I'm another.'

'All right. Come out and have supper. You're smoking on an empty
stomach.'

There was no answer.

CHAPTER V

'I have a thousand men,' said he,
'To wait upon my will,
And towers nine upon the Tyne,
And three upon the Till.'

'And what care I for you men,' said she,
'Or towers from Tyne to Till,
Sith you must go with me,' she said,
'To wait upon my will?'
-Sir Hoggie and the Fairies

NEXT morning Torpenhow found Dick sunk in deepest repose of
tobacco.

'Well, madman, how d'you feel?'

'I don't know. I'm trying to find out.'

'You had much better do some work.'

'Maybe; but I'm in no hurry. I've made a discovery. Torp, there's
too
much Ego in my Cosmos.'

'Not really! Is this revelation due to my lectures, or the Nilghai's?'

'It came to me suddenly, all on my own account. Much too much
Ego;
and now I'm going to work.'

He turned over a few half-finished sketches, drummed on a new
canvas,
cleaned three brushes, set Binkie to bite the toes of the lay figure,
rattled
through his collection of arms and accoutrements, and then went
out
abruptly, declaring that he had done enough for the day.

'This is positively indecent,' said Torpenhow, 'and the first time
that
Dick has ever broken up a light morning. Perhaps he has found out
that
he has a soul, or an artistic temperament, or something equally
valuable.

That comes of leaving him alone for a month. Perhaps he has been
going
out of evenings. I must look to this.' He rang for the bald-headed
old
housekeeper, whom nothing could astonish or annoy.

'Beeton, did Mr. Heldar dine out at all while I was out of town?'

'Never laid 'is dress-clothes out once, sir, all the time. Mostly 'e
dined in;
but 'e brought some most remarkable young gentlemen up 'ere after
theatres once or twice. Remarkable fancy they was. You
gentlemen on
the top floor does very much as you likes, but it do seem to me, sir,
droppin' a walkin'-stick down five flights o' stairs an' then goin'
down
four abreast to pick it up again at half-past two in the mornin',
singin'

"Bring back the whiskey, Willie darlin,'"--not once or twice, but
scores
o' times,--isn't charity to the other tenants. What I say is, "Do as
you
would be done by." That's my motto.'

'Of course! of course! I'm afraid the top floor isn't the quietest in
the
house.'

'I make no complaints, sir. I have spoke to Mr. Heldar friendly, an'
he
laughed, an' did me a picture of the missis that is as good as a
coloured
print. It 'asn't the high shine of a photograph, but what I say is,
"Never
look a gift-horse in the mouth." Mr. Heldar's dress-clothes 'aven't
been
on him for weeks.'

'Then it's all right,' said Torpenhow to himself. 'Orgies are healthy,
and
Dick has a head of his own, but when it comes to women making
eyes I'm
not so certain,--Binkie, never you be a man, little dorglums.
They're
contrary brutes, and they do things without any reason.'

Dick had turned northward across the Park, but he was walking in
the
spirit on the mud-flats with Maisie. He laughed aloud as he
remembered
the day when he had decked Amomma's horns with the ham-frills,
and
Maisie, white with rage, had cuffed him. How long those four
years
seemed in review, and how closely Maisie was connected with
every hour
of them! Storm across the sea, and Maisie in a gray dress on the
beach,
sweeping her drenched hair out of her eyes and laughing at the
homeward race of the fishing-smacks; hot sunshine on the
mud-flats, and
Maisie sniffing scornfully, with her chin in the air; Maisie flying
before
the wind that threshed the foreshore and drove the sand like small
shot
about her ears; Maisie, very composed and independent, telling
lies to
Mrs. Jennett while Dick supported her with coarser perjuries;
Maisie
picking her way delicately from stone to stone, a pistol in her hand
and
her teeth firm-set; and Maisie in a gray dress sitting on the grass
between the mouth of a cannon and a nodding yellow sea-poppy.
The
pictures passed before him one by one, and the last stayed the
longest.

Dick was perfectly happy with a quiet peace that was as new to his
mind
as it was foreign to his experiences. It never occurred to him that
there
might be other calls upon his time than loafing across the Park in
the
forenoon.

'There's a good working light now,' he said, watching his shadow
placidly. 'Some poor devil ought to be grateful for this. And there's
Maisie.'

She was walking towards him from the Marble Arch, and he saw
that no
mannerism of her gait had been changed. It was good to find her
still
Maisie, and, so to speak, his next-door neighbour. No greeting
passed
between them, because there had been none in the old days.

'What are you doing out of your studio at this hour?' said Dick, as
one
who was entitled to ask.

'Idling. Just idling. I got angry with a chin and scraped it out. Then
I left
it in a little heap of paint-chips and came away.'

'I know what palette-knifing means. What was the piccy?'

'A fancy head that wouldn't come right,--horrid thing!'

'I don't like working over scraped paint when I'm doing flesh. The
grain
comes up woolly as the paint dries.'

'Not if you scrape properly.' Maisie waved her hand to illustrate
her
methods. There was a dab of paint on the white cuff. Dick
laughed.

'You're as untidy as ever.'

'That comes well from you. Look at your own cuff.'

'By Jove, yes! It's worse than yours. I don't think we've much
altered in
anything. Let's see, though.' He looked at Maisie critically. The
pale blue
haze of an autumn day crept between the tree-trunks of the Park
and
made a background for the gray dress, the black velvet toque
above the
black hair, and the resolute profile.

'No, there's nothing changed. How good it is! D'you remember
when I
fastened your hair into the snap of a hand-bag?'

Maisie nodded, with a twinkle in her eyes, and turned her full face
to
Dick.

'Wait a minute,' said he. 'That mouth is down at the corners a little.

Who's been worrying you, Maisie?'

'No one but myself. I never seem to get on with my work, and yet I
try
hard enough, and Kami says----'

'"Continuez, mesdemoiselles. Continuez toujours, mes enfants."
Kami is
depressing. I beg your pardon.'

'Yes, that's what he says. He told me last summer that I was doing
better
and he'd let me exhibit this year.'

'Not in this place, surely?'

'Of course not. The Salon.'

'You fly high.'

'I've been beating my wings long enough. Where do you exhibit,
Dick?'

'I don't exhibit. I sell.'

'What is your line, then?'

'Haven't you heard?' Dick's eyes opened. Was this thing possible?
He
cast about for some means of conviction. They were not far from
the
Marble Arch. 'Come up Oxford Street a little and I'll show you.'

A small knot of people stood round a print-shop that Dick knew
well.

'Some reproduction of my work inside,' he said, with suppressed
triumph. Never before had success tasted so sweet upon the
tongue. 'You
see the sort of things I paint. D'you like it?'

Maisie looked at the wild whirling rush of a field-battery going
into
action under fire. Two artillery-men stood behind her in the crowd.

'They've chucked the off lead-'orse' said one to the other. ''E's tore
up
awful, but they're makin' good time with the others. That
lead-driver
drives better nor you, Tom. See 'ow cunnin' 'e's nursin' 'is 'orse.'

'Number Three'll be off the limber, next jolt,' was the answer.

'No, 'e won't. See 'ow 'is foot's braced against the iron? 'E's all
right.'

Dick watched Maisie's face and swelled with joy--fine, rank,
vulgar
triumph. She was more interested in the little crowd than in the
picture.

That was something that she could understand.

'And I wanted it so! Oh, I did want it so!' she said at last, under her
breath.

'Me,--all me!' said Dick, placidly. 'Look at their faces. It hits 'em.
They
don't know what makes their eyes and mouths open; but I know.
And I
know my work's right.'

'Yes. I see. Oh, what a thing to have come to one!'

'Come to one, indeed! I had to go out and look for it. What do you
think?'

'I call it success. Tell me how you got it.'

They returned to the Park, and Dick delivered himself of the saga
of his
own doings, with all the arrogance of a young man speaking to a
woman.

From the beginning he told the tale, the I--I--I's flashing through
the
records as telegraph-poles fly past the traveller. Maisie listened
and
nodded her head. The histories of strife and privation did not move
her a
hair's-breadth. At the end of each canto he would conclude, 'And
that
gave me some notion of handling colour,' or light, or whatever it
might
be that he had set out to pursue and understand. He led her
breathless
across half the world, speaking as he had never spoken in his life
before.

And in the flood-tide of his exaltation there came upon him a great
desire
to pick up this maiden who nodded her head and said, 'I
understand. Go
on,'--to pick her up and carry her away with him, because she was
Maisie, and because she understood, and because she was his right,
and a
woman to be desired above all women.

Then he checked himself abruptly. 'And so I took all I wanted,' he
said,
'and I had to fight for it. Now you tell.'

Maisie's tale was almost as gray as her dress. It covered years of
patient
toil backed by savage pride that would not be broken thought
dealers
laughed, and fogs delayed work, and Kami was unkind and even
sarcastic, and girls in other studios were painfully polite. It had a
few
bright spots, in pictures accepted at provincial exhibitions, but it
wound
up with the oft repeated wail, 'And so you see, Dick, I had no
success,
though I worked so hard.'

Then pity filled Dick. Even thus had Maisie spoken when she
could not
hit the breakwater, half an hour before she had kissed him. And
that had
happened yesterday.

'Never mind,' he said. 'I'll tell you something, if you'll believe it.'
The
words were shaping themselves of their own accord. 'The whole
thing,
lock, stock, and barrel, isn't worth one big yellow sea-poppy below
Fort
Keeling.'

Maisie flushed a little. 'It's all very well for you to talk, but you've
had
the success and I haven't.'

'Let me talk, then. I know you'll understand. Maisie, dear, it sounds
a bit
absurd, but5 those ten years never existed, and I've come back
again. It
really is just the same. Can't you see? You're alone now and I'm
alone.

What's the use of worrying? Come to me instead, darling.'

Maisie poked the gravel with her parasol. They were sitting on a
bench.

'I understand,' she said slowly. 'But I've got my work to do, and I
must
do it.'

'Do it with me, then, dear. I won't interrupt.'

'No, I couldn't. It's my work,--mine,--mine,--mine! I've been alone
all my
life in myself, and I'm not going to belong to anybody except
myself. I
remember things as well as you do, but that doesn't count. We
were
babies then, and we didn't know what was before us. Dick, don't be
selfish. I think I see my way to a little success next year. Don't take
it
away from me.'

'I beg your pardon, darling. It's my fault for speaking stupidly. I
can't
expect you to throw up all your life just because I'm back. I'll go to
my
own place and wait a little.'

'But, Dick, I don't want you to--go--out of--my life, now you've just
come
back.'

'I'm at your orders; forgive me.' Dick devoured the troubled little
face
with his eyes. There was triumph in them, because he could not
conceive
that Maisie should refuse sooner or later to love him, since he
loved her.

'It's wrong of me,' said Maisie, more slowly than before; 'it's wrong
and
selfish; but, oh, I've been so lonely! No, you misunderstand. Now
I've
seen you again,--it's absurd, but I want to keep you in my life.'

'Naturally. We belong.'

'We don't; but you always understood me, and there is so much in
my
work that you could help me in. You know things and the ways of
doing
things. You must.'

'I do, I fancy, or else I don't know myself. Then you won't care to
lose
sight of me altogether, and--you want me to help you in your
work?'

'Yes; but remember, Dick, nothing will ever come of it. That's why
I feel
so selfish. Can't things stay as they are? I do want your help.'

'You shall have it. But let's consider. I must see your pics first, and
overhaul your sketches, and find out about your tendencies. You
should
see what the papers say about my tendencies! Then I'll give you
good
advice, and you shall paint according. Isn't that it, Maisie?'

Again there was triumph in Dick's eye.

'It's too good of you,--much too good. Because you are consoling
yourself
with what will never happen, and I know that, and yet I want to
keep
you. Don't blame me later, please.'

'I'm going into the matter with my eyes open. Moreover the Queen
can
do no wrong. It isn't your selfishness that impresses me. It's your
audacity in proposing to make use of me.'

'Pooh! You're only Dick,--and a print-shop.'

'Very good: that's all I am. But, Maisie, you believe, don't you, that
I love
you? I don't want you to have any false notions about brothers and
sisters.'

Maisie looked up for a moment and dropped her eyes.

'It's absurd, but--I believe. I wish I could send you away before you
get
angry with me. But--but the girl that lives with me is red-haired,
and an
impressionist, and all our notions clash.'

'So do ours, I think. Never mind. Three months from to-day we
shall be
laughing at this together.'

Maisie shook her head mournfully. 'I knew you wouldn't
understand,
and it will only hurt you more when you find out. Look at my face,
Dick,
and tell me what you see.'

They stood up and faced each other for a moment. The fog was
gathering, and it stifled the roar of the traffic of London beyond
the
railings. Dick brought all his painfully acquired knowledge of
faces to
bear on the eyes, mouth, and chin underneath the black velvet
toque.

'It's the same Maisie, and it's the same me,' he said. 'We've both
nice
little wills of our own, and one or other of us has to be broken.
Now about
the future. I must come and see your pictures some day,--I suppose
when
the red-haired girl is on the premises.'

'Sundays are my best times. You must come on Sundays. There are
such
heaps of things I want to talk about and ask your advice about.
Now I
must get back to work.'

'Try to find out before next Sunday what I am,' said Dick. 'Don't
take my
word for anything I've told you. Good-bye, darling, and bless you.'

Maisie stole away like a little gray mouse. Dick watched her till
she was
out of sight, but he did not hear her say to herself, very soberly,
'I'm a
wretch,--a horrid, selfish wretch. But it's Dick, and Dick will
understand.'

No one has yet explained what actually happens when an
irresistible
force meets the immovable post, though many have thought
deeply, even
as Dick thought. He tried to assure himself that Maisie would be
led in a
few weeks by his mere presence and discourse to a better way of
thinking. Then he remembered much too distinctly her face and all
that
was written on it.

'If I know anything of heads,' he said, 'there's everything in that
face but
love. I shall have to put that in myself; and that chin and mouth
won't be
won for nothing. But she's right. She knows what she wants, and
she's
going to get it. What insolence! Me! Of all the people in the wide
world,
to use me! But then she's Maisie. There's no getting over that fact;
and
it's good to see her again. This business must have been simmering
at the
back of my head for years. . . . She'll use me as I used Binat at Port
Said.

She's quite right. It will hurt a little. I shall have to see her every
Sunday,--like a young man courting a housemaid. She's sure to
come
around; and yet--that mouth isn't a yielding mouth. I shall be
wanting to
kiss her all the time, and I shall have to look at her pictures,--I
don't even
know what sort of work she does yet,--and I shall have to talk
about
Art,--Woman's Art! Therefore, particularly and perpetually, damn
all
varieties of Art. It did me a good turn once, and now it's in my
way. I'll
go home and do some Art.'

Half-way to the studio, Dick was smitten with a terrible thought.
The
figure of a solitary woman in the fog suggested it.

'She's all alone in London, with a red-haired impressionist girl,
who
probably has the digestion of an ostrich. Most red-haired people
have.

Maisie's a bilious little body. They'll eat like lone women,--meals
at all
hours, and tea with all meals. I remember how the students in Paris
used
to pig along. She may fall ill at any minute, and I shan't be able to
help.

Whew! this is ten times worse than owning a wife.'

Torpenhow entered the studio at dusk, and looked at Dick with
eyes full
of the austere love that springs up between men who have tugged
at the
same oar together and are yoked by custom and use and the
intimacies of
toil. This is a good love, and, since it allows, and even encourages,
strife,
recrimination, and brutal sincerity, does not die, but grows, and is
proof
against any absence and evil conduct.

Dick was silent after he handed Torpenhow the filled pipe of
council. He
thought of Maisie and her possible needs. It was a new thing to
think of
anybody but Torpenhow, who could think for himself. Here at last
was
an outlet for that cash balance. He could adorn Maisie barbarically
with
jewelry,--a thick gold necklace round that little neck, bracelets
upon the
rounded arms, and rings of price upon her hands,--thie cool,
temperate,
ringless hands that he had taken between his own. It was an absurd
thought, for Maisie would not even allow him to put one ring on
one
finger, and she would laugh at golden trappings. It would be better
to sit
with her quietly in the dusk, his arm around her neck and her face
on his
shoulder, as befitted husband and wife. Torpenhow's boots creaked
that
night, and his strong voice jarred. Dick's brows contracted and he
murmured an evil word because he had taken all his success as a
right
and part payment for past discomfort, and now he was checked in
his
stride by a woman who admitted all the success and did not
instantly
care for him.

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