Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated), page 141
G. What on earth has that to do with my case? The man must ha’ been mad, or his wife as bad as they make ‘em.
M. (Aside.) ‘No fault of yours if either weren’t all you say. You’ve forgotten the tune when you were insane about the Herriott woman. You always were a good hand at forgetting. (Aloud.) Not more mad than men who go to the other extreme. Be reasonable, Gaddy. Your roof-beams are sound enough.
G. That was only a way of speaking. I’ve been uneasy and worried about the Wife ever since that awful business three years ago — when — I nearly lost her. Can you wonder?
M. Oh, a shell never falls twice in the same place. You’ve paid your toll to misfortune — why should your wife be picked out more than anybody else’s?
G. I can talk just as reasonably as you can, but you don’t understand — you don’t understand. And then there’s The Butcha. Deuce knows where the Ayah takes him to sit in the evening! He has a bit of a cough. Haven’t you noticed it?
M. Bosh! The Brigadier’s jumping out of his skin with pure condition.
He’s got a muzzle like a rose-leaf and the chest of a two-year-old.
What’s demoralised you?
G. Funk. That’s the long and the short of it. Funk!
M. But what is there to funk?
G. Everything. It’s ghastly.
M. Ah! I see.
You don’t want to fight,
And by Jingo when we do,
You’ve got the kid, you’ve got the Wife,
You’ve got the money, too.
That’s about the case, eh?
G. I suppose that’s it. But it’s not for myself. It’s because of them.
At least I think it is.
M. Are you sure? Looking at the matter in a cold-blooded light, the Wife is provided for even if you were wiped out to-night. She has an ancestral home to go to, money, and the Brigadier to carry on the illustrious name.
G. Then it is for myself or because they are part of me. You don’t see it. My life’s so good, so pleasant, as it is, that I want to make it quite safe. Can’t you understand?
M. Perfectly. ‘Shelter-pit for the Orf’cer’s charger,’ as they say in the Line.
G. And I have everything to my hand to make it so. I’m sick of the strain and the worry for their sakes out here; and there isn’t a single real difficulty to prevent my dropping it altogether. It’ll only cost me — Jack, I hope you’ll never know the shame that I’ve been going through for the past six months.
M. Hold on there! I don’t wish to be told. Every man has his moods and tenses sometimes.
G. (Laughing bitterly.) Has he? What do you call craning over to see where your near-fore lands?
M. In my case it means that I have been on the Considerable Bend, and have come to parade with a Head and a Hand. It passes in three strides.
G. (Lowering voice.) It never passes with me, Jack. I’m always thinking about it. Phil Gadsby funking a fall on parade! Sweet picture, isn’t it! Draw it for me.
M. (Gravely.) Heaven forbid! A man like you can’t be as bad as that.
A fall is no nice thing, but one never gives it a thought.
G. Doesn’t one? Wait till you’ve got a wife and a youngster of your own, and then you’ll know how the roar of the squadron behind you turns you cold all up the back.
M. (Aside.) And this man led at Amdheran after Bagal-Deasin went under, and we were all mixed up together, and he came out of the show dripping like a butcher. (Aloud.) Skittles! The men can always open out, and you can always pick your way more or less. We haven’t the dust to bother us, as the men have, and whoever heard of a horse stepping on a man?
G. Never — as long as he can see. But did they open out for poor
Errington?
M. Oh, this is childish!
G. I know it is, worse than that. I don’t care. You’ve ridden Van Loo. Is he the sort of brute to pick his way — ’specially when we’re coming up in column of troop with any pace on?
M. Once in a Blue Moon do we gallop in column of troop, and then only to save time. Aren’t three lengths enough for you?
G. Yes — quite enough. They just allow for the full development of the smash. I’m talking like a cur, I know: but I tell you that, for the past three months, I’ve felt every hoof of the squadron in the small of my back every time that I’ve led.
M. But, Gaddy, this is awful!
G. Isn’t it lovely? Isn’t it royal? A Captain of the Pink Hussars watering up his charger before parade like the blasted boozing Colonel of a Black Regiment!
M. You never did!
G. Once only. He squelched like a mussuck, and the
Troop-Sergeant-Major cocked his eye at me. You know old Haffy’s eye.
I was afraid to do it again.
M. I should think so. That was the best way to rupture old Van Loo’s tummy, and make him crumple you up. You knew that.
G. I didn’t care. It took the edge off him.
M. ‘Took the edge off him’? Gaddy, you — you — you mustn’t, you know!
Think of the men.
G. That’s another thing I am afraid of. D’you s’pose they know?
M. Let’s hope not; but they’re deadly quick to spot skrim — little things of that kind. See here, old man, send the Wife Home for the hot weather and come to Kashmir with me. We’ll start a boat on the Dal or cross the Rhotang — shoot ibex or loaf — which you please. Only come! You’re a bit off your oats and you’re talking nonsense. Look at the Colonel — swag-bellied rascal that he is. He has a wife and no end of a bow-window of his own. Can any one of us ride round him — chalk-stones and all? I can’t, and I think I can shove a crock along a bit.
G. Some men are different. I haven’t the nerve. Lord help me, I haven’t the nerve! I’ve taken up a hole and a half to get my knees well under the wallets. I can’t help it. I’m so afraid of anything happening to me. On my soul, I ought to be broke in front of the squadron, for cowardice.
M. Ugly word, that. I should never have the courage to own up.
G. I meant to lie about my reasons when I began, but — I’ve got out of the habit of lying to you, old man. Jack, you won’t? — But I know you won’t.
M. Of course not. (Half aloud.) The Pinks are paying dearly for their
Pride.
G. Eh! Wha-at?
M. Don’t you know? The men have called Mrs. Gadsby the Pride of the
Pink Hussars ever since she came to us.
G. ‘Tisn’t her fault. Don’t think that. It’s all mine.
M. What does she say?
G. I haven’t exactly put it before her. She’s the best little woman in the world, Jack, and all that — but she wouldn’t counsel a man to stick to his calling if it came between him and her. At least, I think —
M. Never mind. Don’t tell her what you told me. Go on the Peerage and
Landed-Gentry tack.
G. She’d see through it. She’s five times cleverer than I am.
M. (Aside.) Then she’ll accept the sacrifice and think a little bit worse of him for the rest of her days.
G. (Absently.) I say, do you despise me?
M. ‘Queer way of putting it. Have you ever been asked that question?
Think a minute. What answer used you to give?
G. So bad as that? I’m not entitled to expect anything more, but it’s a bit hard when one’s best friend turns round and —
M. So I have found. But you will have consolations — Bailiffs and Drains and Liquid Manure and the Primrose League, and, perhaps, if you’re lucky, the Colonelcy of a Yeomanry Cav-al-ry Regiment — all uniform and no riding, I believe. How old are you?
G. Thirty-three. I know it’s —
M. At forty you’ll be a fool of a J.P. landlord. At fifty you’ll own a bath-chair, and The Brigadier, if he takes after you, will be fluttering the dovecotes of — what’s the particular dunghill you’re going to? Also, Mrs. Gadsby will be fat.
G. (Limply.) This is rather more than a joke.
M. D’you think so? Isn’t cutting the Service a joke? It generally takes a man fifty years to arrive at it. You’re quite right, though. It is more than a joke. You’ve managed it in thirty-three.
G. Don’t make me feel worse than I do. Will it satisfy you if I own that I am a shirker, a skrim-shanker, and a coward?
M. It will not, because I’m the only man in the world who can talk to you like this without being knocked down. You mustn’t take all that I’ve said to heart in this way. I only spoke — a lot of it at least — out of pure selfishness, because, because — Oh, damn it all, old man, — I don’t know what I shall do without you. Of course, you’ve got the money and the place and all that — and there are two very good reasons why you should take care of yourself.
G. ‘Doesn’t make it any the sweeter. I’m backing out — I know I am. I always had a soft drop in me somewhere — and I daren’t risk any danger to them.
M. Why in the world should you? You’re bound to think of your family — bound to think. Er-hmm. If I wasn’t a younger son I’d go too — be shot if I wouldn’t!
G. Thank you, Jack. It’s a kind lie, but it’s the blackest you’ve told for some time. I know what I’m doing, and I’m going into it with my eyes open. Old man, I can’t help it. What would you do if you were in my place?
M. (Aside.) ‘Couldn’t conceive any woman getting permanently between me and the Regiment. (Aloud.) ‘Can’t say. ‘Very likely I should do no better. I’m sorry for you — awf’ly sorry — but ‘if them’s your sentiments,’ I believe, I really do, that you are acting wisely.
G. Do you? I hope you do. (In a whisper.) Jack, be very sure of yourself before you marry. I’m an ungrateful ruffian to say this, but marriage — even as good a marriage as mine has been — hampers a man’s work, it cripples his sword-arm, and oh, it plays Hell with his notions of duty! Sometimes — good and sweet as she is — sometimes I could wish that I had kept my freedom — No, I don’t mean that exactly.
MRS. G. (Coming down the veranda.) What are you wagging your head over, Pip?
M. (Turning quickly.) Me, as usual. The old sermon. Your husband is recommending me to get married. ‘Never saw such a one-ideaed man!
MRS. G. Well, why don’t you? I daresay you would make some woman very happy.
G. There’s the Law and the Prophets, Jack. Never mind the Regiment.
Make a woman happy. (Aside.) O Lord!
M. We’ll see. I must be off to make a Troop Cook desperately unhappy. I won’t have the wily Hussar fed on Government Bullock Train shinbones — (Hastily.) Surely black ants can’t be good for The Brigadier. He’s picking ‘em off the matting and eating ‘em. Here, Senor Commandante Don Grubbynose, come and talk to me. (Lifts G. JUNIOR in his arms.) ‘Want my watch? You won’t be able to put it into your mouth, but you can try. (G. JUNIOR drops watch, breaking dial and hands.)
MRS. G. Oh, Captain Mafflin, I am so sorry! Jack, you bad, bad little villain. Ahhh!
M. It’s not the least consequence, I assure you. He’d treat the world in the same way if he could get it into his hands. Everything’s made to be played with and broken, isn’t it, young ‘un?
* * * * *
MRS. G. Mafflin didn’t at all like his watch being broken, though he was too polite to say so. It was entirely his fault for giving it to the child. Dem little puds are werry, werry feeble, aren’t dey, my Jack-in-de-box? (To G.) What did he want to see you for?
G. Regimental shop as usual.
MRS. G. The Regiment! Always the Regiment. On my word, I sometimes feel jealous of Mafflin.
G. (Wearily.) Poor old Jack? I don’t think you need. Isn’t it time for The Butcha to have his nap? Bring a chair out here, dear. I’ve got something to talk over with you.
AND THIS IS THE END OF THE STORY OF THE GADSBYS.
L’ENVOI
What is the moral? Who rides may read.
When the night is thick and the tracks are blind.
A friend at a pinch is a friend indeed;
But a fool to wait for the laggard behind:
Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne
He travels the fastest who travels alone.
White hands cling to the tightened rein,
Slipping the spur from the booted heel,
Tenderest voices cry, ‘Turn again,’
Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel,
High hopes faint on a warm hearth-stone —
He travels the fastest who travels alone.
One may fall but he falls by himself —
Falls by himself with himself to blame;
One may attain and to him is the pelf,
Loot of the city in Gold of Fame;
Plunder of earth shall be all his own
Who travels the fastest and travels alone.
Wherefore the more ye be holpen and stayed —
Stayed by a friend in the hour of toil,
Sing the heretical song I have made —
His be the labour and yours be the spoil.
Win by his aid and the aid of disown —
He travels the fastest who travels alone.
DRAY WARA YOW DEE
For jealousy is the rage of a man: therefore he will not spare in the day of vengeance. — Prov. vi. 34.
Almonds and raisins, Sahib? Grapes from Kabul? Or a pony of the rarest if the Sahib will only come with me. He is thirteen three, Sahib, plays polo, goes in a cart, carries a lady and — Holy Kurshed and the Blessed Imams, it is the Sahib himself! My heart is made fat and my eye glad. May you never be tired! As is cold water in the Tirah, so is the sight of a friend in a far place. And what do you in this accursed land? South of Delhi, Sahib, you know the saying — ’Rats are the men and trulls the women.’ It was an order? Ahoo! An order is an order till one is strong enough to disobey. O my brother, O my friend, we have met in an auspicious hour! Is all well in the heart and the body and the house? In a lucky day have we two come together again.
I am to go with you? Your favour is great. Will there be picket-room in the compound? I have three horses and the bundles and the horse-boy. Moreover, remember that the police here hold me a horse-thief. What do these Lowland bastards know of horse-thieves? Do you remember that time in Peshawur when Kamal hammered on the gates of Jumrud — mountebank that he was — and lifted the Colonel’s horses all in one night? Kamal is dead now, but his nephew has taken up the matter, and there will be more horses amissing if the Khaiber Levies do not look to it.
The Peace of God and the favour of His Prophet be upon this house and all that is in it! Shafizullah, rope the mottled mare under the tree and draw water. The horses can stand in the sun, but double the felts over the loins. Nay, my friend, do not trouble to look them over. They are to sell to the Officer fools who know so many tilings of the horse. The mare is heavy in foal; the gray is a devil unlicked; and the dun — but you know the trick of the peg. When they are sold I go back to Pubbi, or, it may be, the Valley of Peshawur.
O friend of my heart, it is good to see you again. I have been bowing and lying all day to the Officer-Sahibs in respect to those horses; and my mouth is dry for straight talk. Auggrh! Before a meal tobacco is good. Do not join me, for we are not in our own country. Sit in the veranda and I will spread my cloth here. But first I will drink. In the name of God returning thanks, thrice! This is sweet water, indeed — sweet as the water of Sheoran when it comes from the snows.
They are all well and pleased in the North — Khoda Baksh and the others. Yar Khan has come down with the horses from Kurdistan — six and thirty head only, and a full half pack-ponies — and has said openly in the Kashmir Serai that you English should send guns and blow the Amir into Hell. There are fifteen rolls now on the Kabul road; and at Dakka, when he thought he was clear, Yar Khan was stripped of all his Balkh stallions by the Governor! This is a great injustice, and Yar Khan is hot with rage. And of the others: Mahbub Ali is still at Pubbi, writing God knows what. Tugluq Khan is in jail for the business of the Kohat Police Post. Faiz Beg came down from Ismail-ki-Dhera with a Bokhariot belt for thee, my brother, at the closing of the year, but none knew whither thou hadst gone: there was no news left behind. The Cousins have taken a new run near Pakpattan to breed mules for the Government carts, and there is a story in Bazar of a priest. Oho! Such a salt tale! Listen —
Sahib, why do you ask that? My clothes are fouled because of the dust on the road. My eyes are sad because of the glare of the sun. My feet are swollen because I have washed them in bitter water, and my cheeks are hollow because the food here is bad. Fire burn your money! What do I want with it? I am rich and I thought you were my friend; but you are like the others — a Sahib. Is a man sad? Give him money, say the Sahibs. Is he dishonoured? Give him money, say the Sahibs. Hath he a wrong upon his head? Give him money, say the Sahibs. Such are the Sahibs, and such art thou — even thou.
Nay, do not look at the feet of the dun. Pity it is that I ever taught you to know the legs of a horse. Footsore? Be it so. What of that? The roads are hard. And the mare footsore? She bears a double burden, Sahib.
And now I pray you, give me permission to depart. Great favour and honour has the Sahib done me, and graciously has he shown his belief that the horses are stolen. Will it please him to send me to the Thana? To call a sweeper and have me led away by one of these lizard-men? I am the Sahib’s friend. I have drunk water in the shadow of his house, and he has blackened my face. Remains there anything more to do? Will the Sahib give me eight annas to make smooth the injury and — complete the insult — ?
Forgive me, my brother. I knew not — I know not now — what I say. Yes, I lied to you! I will put dust on my head — and I am an Afridi! The horses have been marched footsore from the Valley to this place, and my eyes are dim, and my body aches for the want of sleep, and my heart is dried up with sorrow and shame. But as it was my shame, so by God the Dispenser of Justice — by Allah-al-Mumit — it shall be my own revenge!
