Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (660 page)

‘What do you base that verdict on?’ said King stiffly.

‘He came to me after prayers — with all his conscience.’

‘Poor old Pater. Was it the mouse?’ said little Hartopp.

‘That, and what he called his uncontrollable temper, and his responsibilities as sub-prefect.’

‘And you?’

‘If we had had what is vulgarly called a pi-jaw he’d have had hysterics. So I recommended a dose of Epsom salts. He’ll take it, too — conscientiously. Don’t eat me, King. Perhaps, he’ll be a K.C.B.’

Ten o’clock struck and the Army class boys in the further studies coming to their houses after an hour’s extra work passed along the gravel path below. Some one was chanting, to the tune of ‘White sand and grey sand,’
Dis te minorem quod geris imperas
. He stopped outside Mullins’ study. They heard Mullins’ window slide up and then Stalky’s voice:

‘Ah! Good-evening, Mullins, my
barbarus tortor
. We’re the waits. We have come to inquire after the local Berserk. Is he doin’ as well as can be expected in his new caree-ah?’

‘Better than you will, in a sec, Stalky,’ Mullins grunted.

‘Glad of that. We thought he’d like to know that Paddy has been carried to the sick-house in ravin’ delirium. They think it’s concussion of the brain.’

‘Why, he was all right at prayers,’ Winton began earnestly, and they heard a laugh in the background as Mullins slammed down the window.

‘‘Night, Regulus,’ Stalky sang out, and the light footsteps went on.

‘You see. It sticks. A little of it sticks among the barbarians,’ said King.

‘Amen,’ said the Reverend John. ‘Go to bed.’

A Translation

HORACE, Bk. V.
Ode 3

There are whose study is of smells,

And to attentive schools rehearse

How something mixed with something else

Makes something worse.

Some cultivate in broths impure

The clients of our body — these,

Increasing without Venus, cure,

Or cause, disease.

Others the heated wheel extol,

And all its offspring, whose concern

Is how to make it farthest roll

And fastest turn.

Me, much incurious if the hour

Present, or to be paid for, brings

Me to Brundusium by the power

Of wheels or wings;

Me, in whose breast no flame hath burned

Life-long, save that by Pindar lit,

Such lore leaves cold: I am not turned

Aside to it

More than when, sunk in thought profound

Of what the unaltering Gods require,

My steward (friend but slave) brings round

Logs for my fire.

The Edge of the Evening

(1913)

Ah! What avails the classic bent,

And what the chosen word,

Against the undoctored incident

That actually occurred?

And what is Art whereto we press

Through paint and prose and rhyme —

When Nature in her nakedness

Defeats us every time?

‘Hi! Hi! Hold your horses! Stop!... Well! Well!’ A lean man in a sable-lined overcoat leaped from a private car and barred my way up Pall Mall. ‘You don’t know me? You’re excusable. I wasn’t wearing much of anything last time we met — in South Africa.’

The scales fell from my eyes, and I saw him once more in a sky-blue army shirt, behind barbed wire, among Dutch prisoners bathing at Simonstown, more than a dozen years ago. ‘Why, it’s Zigler — Laughton O. Zigler!’ I cried. ‘Well, I
am
glad to see you.’

 ‘The Captive’:
Traffics and Discoveries
.

‘Oh no! You don’t work any of your English on me. “So glad to see you, doncher know — an’ ta-ta!” Do you reside in this village?’

‘No. I’m up here buying stores.’

‘Then you take my automobile. Where to?... Oh, I know
them
! My Lord Marshalton is one of the Directors. Pigott, drive to the Army and Navy Cooperative Supply Association Limited, Victoria Street, Westminister.’

He settled himself on the deep dove-colour pneumatic cushions, and his smile was like the turning on of all the electrics. His teeth were whiter than the ivory fittings. He smelt of rare soap and cigarettes — such cigarettes as he handed me from a golden box with an automatic lighter. On my side of the car was a gold-mounted mirror, card and toilette case. I looked at him inquiringly.

‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘two years after I quit the Cape. She’s not an Ohio girl, though. She’s in the country now. Is that right? She’s at our little place in the country. We’ll go there as soon as you’re through with your grocery-list. Engagements? The only engagement you’ve got is to grab your grip — get your bag from your hotel, I mean — and come right along and meet her. You are the captive of
my
bow and spear now.’

‘I surrender,’ I said meekly. ‘Did the Zigler automatic gun do all this?’ I pointed to the car fittings.

‘Psha! Think of your rememberin’ that! Well, no. The Zigler is a great gun — the greatest ever — but life’s too short, an’ too interestin’, to squander on pushing her in military society. I’ve leased my rights in her to a Pennsylvanian-Transylvanian citizen full of mentality and moral uplift. If those things weigh with the Chancelleries of Europe, he will make good and — I shall be surprised. Excuse me!’

He bared his head as we passed the statue of the Great Queen outside Buckingham Palace.

‘A very great lady!’ said he. ‘I have enjoyed her hospitality. She represents one of the most wonderful institutions in the world. The next is the one we are going to. Mrs. Zigler uses ‘em, and they break her up every week on returned empties.’

‘Oh, you mean the Stores?’ I said.

‘Mrs. Zigler means it more. They are quite ambassadorial in their outlook. I guess I’ll wait outside and pray while you wrestle with ‘em.’

My business at the Stores finished, and my bag retrieved from the hotel, his moving palace slid us into the country.

‘I owe it to you,’ Zigler began as smoothly as the car, ‘to tell you what I am now. I represent the business end of the American Invasion. Not the blame cars themselves — I wouldn’t be found dead in one — but the tools that make ‘em. I am the Zigler Higher-Speed Tool and Lathe Trust. The Trust, sir, is entirely my own — in my own inventions. I am the Renzalaer ten-cylinder aërial — the lightest aeroplane-engine on the market — one price, one power, one guarantee. I am the Orlebar Paper-welt, Pulp-panel Company for aeroplane bodies; and I am the Rush Silencer for military aeroplanes — absolutely silent — which the Continent leases under royalty. With three exceptions, the British aren’t wise to it yet. That’s all I represent at present. You saw me take off my hat to your late Queen? I owe every cent I have to that great an’ good Lady. Yes, sir, I came out of Africa, after my eighteen months’ rest-cure and open-air treatment and sea-bathing, as her prisoner of war, like a giant refreshed. There wasn’t anything could hold me, when I’d got my hooks into it, after that experience. And to you as a representative British citizen, I say here and now that I regard you as the founder of the family fortune — Tommy’s and mine.’

‘But I only gave you some papers and tobacco.’

‘What more does any citizen need? The Cullinan diamond wouldn’t have helped me as much then; an’ — talking about South Africa, tell me — ’

We talked about South Africa till the car stopped at the Georgian lodge of a great park.

‘We’ll get out here. I want to show you a rather sightly view,’ said Zigler.

We walked, perhaps, half a mile, across timber-dotted turf, past a lake, entered a dark rhododendron-planted wood, ticking with the noise of pheasants’ feet, and came out suddenly, where five rides met, at a small classic temple between lichened stucco statues which faced a circle of turf, several acres in extent. Irish yews, of a size that I had never seen before, walled the sunless circle like cliffs of riven obsidian, except at the lower end, where it gave on to a stretch of undulating bare ground ending in a timbered slope half-a-mile away.

‘That’s where the old Marshalton race-course used to be,’ said Zigler. ‘That ice-house is called Flora’s Temple. Nell Gwynne and Mrs. Siddons an’ Taglioni an’ all that crowd used to act plays here for King George the Third. Wasn’t it? Well, George is the only king I play. Let it go at that. This circle was the stage, I guess. The kings an’ the nobility sat in Flora’s Temple. I forget who sculped these statues at the door. They’re the Comic and Tragic Muse. But it’s a sightly view, ain’t it?’

The sunlight was leaving the park. I caught a glint of silver to the southward beyond the wooded ridge.

‘That’s the ocean — the Channel, I mean,’ said Zigler. ‘It’s twenty-three miles as a man flies. A sightly view, ain’t it?’

I looked at the severe yews, the dumb yelling mouths of the two statues, at the blue-green shadows on the unsunned grass, and at the still bright plain in front where some deer were feeding.

‘It’s a most dramatic contrast, but I think it would be better on a summer’s day,’ I said, and we went on, up one of the noiseless rides, a quarter of a mile at least, till we came to the porticoed front of an enormous Georgian pile. Four footmen revealed themselves in a hall hung with pictures.

‘I hired this off of my Lord Marshalton,’ Zigler explained, while they helped us out of our coats under the severe eyes of ruffed and periwigged ancestors. ‘Ya-as. They always look at
me
too, as if I’d blown in from the gutter. Which, of course, I have. That’s Mary, Lady Marshalton. Old man Joshua painted her. Do you see any likeness to my Lord Marshalton? Why, haven’t you ever met up with him? He was Captain Mankeltow — my Royal British Artillery captain that blew up my gun in the war, an’ then tried to bury me against my religious principles. Ya-as. His father died and he got the lordship. That was about all he got by the time that your British death-duties were through with him. So he said I’d oblige him by hiring his ranch. It’s a hell an’ a half of a proposition to handle, but Tommy — Mrs. Laughton — understands it. Come right in to the parlour and be very welcome.’

 “The Captive”:
Traffics and Discoveries
.

He guided me, hand on shoulder, into a babble of high-pitched talk and laughter that filled a vast drawing-room. He introduced me as the founder of the family fortunes to a little, lithe, dark-eyed woman whose speech and greeting were of the soft-lipped South. She in turn presented me to her mother, a black-browed snowy-haired old lady with a cap of priceless Venetian point, hands that must have held many hearts in their time, and a dignity as unquestioned and unquestioning as an empress. She was, indeed, a Burton of Savannah, who, on their own ground, out-rank the Lees of Virginia. The rest of the company came from Buffalo, Cincinnati, Cleveland and Chicago, with here and there a softening southern strain. A party of young folk popped corn beneath a mantelpiece surmounted by a Gainsborough. Two portly men, half hidden by a cased harp, discussed, over sheaves of typewritten documents, the terms of some contract. A knot of matrons talked servants — Irish
versus
German — across the grand piano. A youth ravaged an old bookcase, while beside him a tall girl stared at the portrait of a woman of many loves, dead three hundred years, but now leaping to life and warning under the shaded frame-light. In a corner half-a-dozen girls examined the glazed tables that held the decorations — English and foreign — of the late Lord Marshalton.

‘See heah! Would this be the Ordeh of the Gyartah?’ one said, pointing.

‘I presoom likely. No! The Garter has “
Honey swore
” — I know that much. This is “Tria juncta” something.’

‘Oh, what’s that cunning little copper cross with “For Valurr”?’ a third cried.

‘Say! Look at here!’ said the young man at the bookcase. ‘Here’s a first edition of
Handley Cross
and a Beewick’s
Birds
right next to it — just like so many best sellers. Look, Maidie!’

The girl beneath the picture half turned her body but not her eyes.

‘You don’t tell
me
!’ she said slowly. ‘Their women amounted to something after all.’

‘But Woman’s scope, and outlook was vurry limmutted in those days,’ one of the matrons put in, from the piano.

‘Limmutted? For
her
? If they whurr, I guess she was the limmut. Who was she? Peters, whurr’s the cat’log?’

A thin butler, in charge of two footmen removing the tea-batteries, slid to a table and handed her a blue-and-qilt book. He was button-holed by one of the men behind the harp, who wished to get a telephone call through to Edinburgh.