Rudyard Kipling.

The story of the Gadsbys and Under the deodars online

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B 3 55D 7M5








Authorized Edition



GL,J^J^^^ XcJ^

Copyright 1891,




/- ^^

This edition of my collected writings is issued in
America with my cordial sanction.

London, March, i8pi»





Duke of Derrfs {Pink) Hussars,

Dear Mafflin, — You will remember that
I wrote this story as an Awful Warning.
None the less you have seen fit to disregard
it and have followed Gadsby's example —
as I betted you would. I acknowledge
that you paid the money at once, but you
have prejudiced the mind of Mrs. Mafflin
against myself, for though I am almost the
only respectable friend of your bachelor days,
she has been darwaza band to me through-
out the season. Further, she caused you to
invite me to dinner at the Club, where you
called me '* a wild ass of the desert," and



went home at half-past ten, after discoursing
for twenty minutes on the responsibiHties of
house-keeping. You now drive a mail-phae-
ton and sit under a Church of England cler-
gyman. 1 am not angry, Jack. It is your
kismet, as it was Caddy's, and his kismet who
can avoid ? Do not think that I am moved
by a spirit of revenge as I write, thus pub-
licly, that you and you alone are responsible
for this book. In other and more expansive
days, when you could look at a magnum with-
out flushing and at a cheroot without turning
white, you supplied me with most of the
material. Take it back again — would that I
could have preserved your fetterless speech
In the telling — take It back, and by your
slippered hearth read It to the late Miss
Deercourt. She will not be any the more
willing to receive my cards, but she will
admire you immensely, and you, I feel sure,
will love me. You may even Invite me to
another very bad dinner — at the Club,
which, as you and your wife know, Is a safe
neutral ground for the entertainment of wild


asses. Then, my very dear hypocrite, we
shall be quits.

Yours always,


P.S, — On second thoughts I should rec-
ommend you to keep the book away from
Mrs. Mafflin.




Poor Dear Mamma 9

The World Without 29

The Tents of Kedar 49

With any Amazement 70

The Garden of Eden 89

Fatima 108

The Valley of the Shadow 133

The Swelling of Jordan 152


The Education of Otis Yeere 179

At the Pit's Mouth 226

A Wayside Comedy 239

The Hiv. of Illusion 264

A Second-Rate Woman 284


The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,

The deer to the wholesome wold,
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,

As it was in the days of old,

Gypsy Song,

Scene. — Interior ^/Miss Minnie Threegan's
bedroom at Simla. Miss Threegan, in win-
dow-seat, turning over a drawer/ul of chif-
fons. Miss Emma Deercourt, bosom-friend,
who has come to spend the day, sitting on
the bed, manipulating the bodice of a ball-
room frock and a bunch of artificial lilies
of the valley, Ti^ne 5.30 p.m., on a hot
May afternoon.

Miss Deercourt. — And he said : — "I
shall never forget this dance," and, of course,
I said : — ** Oh ! How can you be so silly ! "
Do you think he meant anything, dear ?



Miss Threegan. — {Extracting long lav-
ender silk stocking from the rubbish^ You
know him better than / do.

Miss D. — Oh, do be sympathetic, Minnie !
I'm sure he does. At least I would be sure
if he wasn't always riding with that odious
Mrs. Hagan.

Miss T. — I suppose so. How does one
manage to dance through one's heels first ?
Look at this — isn't it shameful ? {Spreads
stocking-heel on open hand for inspection?)

Miss D. — Never mind that! You can't
mend It. Help me with this hateful bodice.
I've run the string so, and I've run the string
so, and I cant make the fulness come right.
Where would you put this ? ( Waves lilies
of the valley?)

Miss T. — As high up on the shoulder as

Miss D. — Am I quite tall enough? I
know It makes May Olger look lop-sided.

Miss T. — Yes, but May hasn't your shoul-
ders. Hers are like a hock-bottle.

Bearer. — {Rapping at door?) Captain
Sahib ay a.


Miss D. — {Jumping up wildly, and
hunting for body, which she has discarded
owing to the heat of the day.) Captain
Sahib ! What Captain Sahib ? Oh, good
gracious, and I'm only half dressed ! Well,
I sha n't bother.

Miss T.— {Calmly,) You needn't. It
isn't for us. That's Captain Gadsby. He is
going for a ride with Mamma. He gener-
ally comes five days out of the seven.

Agonized Voice. — {From, an inner apart-
ment?) Minnie, run out and give Captain
Gadsby some tea, and tell him I shall be
ready in ten minutes ; and, O Minnie, come
to me an instant, there's a dear girl !

Miss T. — O bother! {Aloud.) Very
well, Mamma.

Exit, and reappears, after five minutes^
flushed, and rtibbing her fingers.

Miss D. — You look pink. What has
happened ?

Miss T. — {In a stage whisper!) A
twenty-four-inch waist, and she won't let it
out. Where are my bangles ? {Rmnmages


on the toilet table, and dabs at her hair luith
a brush in the interval?)

Miss D. — Who is this Captain Gadsby?
I don't think I've met him.

Miss T. — You 7nust have. He belongs
to the Harrar set. I've danced with him,
but I've never talked to him. He's a big
yellow man, just like a newly hatched chicken,
with an e-normous mustache. He walks
like this {imitates Cavalry swagger^, and
he goes '' Ha — Hmmm ! " deep down in his
throat when he can't think of anything to
say. Mamma likes him. I don't.

Miss D. — {Abstractedly^ Does he wax
that mustache ?

Miss T. — {Busy with pomder-puff^
Yes, I think so. Why?

Miss D. — {Bending over the bodice and
sewing furiously^ Oh, nothing — only . . .

Miss T. — {Sternly.) Only what ? Out
with it, Emma.

Miss D. — Well, May Olger— she's en-
gaged to Mr. Charteris, you know — said
• . . Promise you won't repeat this ?


Miss T. — Yes, I promise. What did she

Miss D. — That — that being kissed {with
a rush) by a man who didnt wax his mus-
tache was — Hke eating an ^g^ without salt.
Miss T. — (^At her full height, zvith crush-
ing scof^n.) May Olger Is a horrid, nasty
Thing, and you can tell her I said so. I'm
glad she doesn't belong to my set . . .1
must go and feed this man ! Do I look
presentable ?

Miss D. — Yes, perfectly. Be quick and
hand him over to your Mother, and then we
can talk, /shall listen at the door to hear
what you say to him.

Miss T. — 'Sure I don't care. Fm not
afraid of Captain Gadsby.
In proof of this swings into drawing-room
with a mannish stride followed by two short
steps, ivhich produces tJie effect of a restive
horse entering. Misses Captain Gadsby,
who is sitting in the shadow of the windozv-
curtain, and gazes rotmd helplessly.
Cafiain Gadsby. — {Aside.) The filly,


by Jove! Must ha picked up th^t action
from the sire. (^Aloud, rising.) Good-
evening, Miss Threegan.

MissT. — ( Conscious that she is flushing?)
Good-evening, Captain Gadsby. Mamma
told me to say that she will be ready in a
few minutes. Won't you have some tea?
{Aside:) I hope Mamma will be quick.
What am I to say to the creature? {Aloud
and abruptly?) Milk and sugar.

Capt. G. — No sugar, tha-anks, and very
litde milk. Ha-Hmmm.

Miss T. — {Aside?) If he's going to do
that, I'm lost. I shall laugh. I knoiu I
shall !

Capt. G. — {Pidling at his mtistache and
zuatching it sideways doiun his nose?) Ha-
Hmmm. {Aside?) 'Wonder what the little
beast can talk about. 'Must make a shot at it.

Miss T. — {Aside?) Oh, this is agoniz-
ing. I micst say something.

Both Together. — Have you been . . .

Capt. G. — I beg your pardon. You were
going to say —


Miss T. — ( Who has been watching the
mustache with awed fascination^ Won't
you have some eggs ?

Capt. G. — {^Looking bewilder edly at the
tea-table?) Eggs ! (Aside.) Oh, Hades !
She must have a nursery-tea at this hour.
S'pose they've wiped her mouth and sent
her to me while the Mother is getting on her
duds. {Alo2cd.) No, thanks.

Miss T. — ( Crimson with confusion^ Oh !
I didn't mean that. I wasn't thinking of
mu — eggs for an instant. I mean salt.
Won't you have some sa — sweets ? (^Aside.)
He'll think me a raving lunatic. I wish
Mamma would come.

Capt. G. — (Aside.) It ivas a nursery-tea
and she's ashamed of it. By Jove! She
doesn't look half bad when she colors up
like that . (A loud, help ing h imselffrovi the
dish.) Have you seen those new chocolates
at Peliti's ?

Miss T. — No, I made these myself. What
are they like?

Capt. G. — These! Z^^-licious. (Aside.)
And that's a fact.


Miss T. — {Aside) Oh, bother ! He'll
think I'm fishing for compliments. {Aloud?)
No, Pelitl's of course.

Capt. G. — {Enthusiastically) Not to
compare with these. How d'you make them ?
I can't get my khansamah to understand
the simplest thing beyond mutton and

Miss T. — Yes.^^ I'm not a khansamahy
you know. Perhaps you frighten him. You
should never frighten a servant. He loses
his head. It's very bad policy.

Capt. G. — He's so awf'ly stupid.

Miss T. — {Folding her ha^ids in her lap)
You should call him quietly and say: — " O
khansamah jee I "

Capt. G. — {Getting interested) Yes?
{Aside) Fancy that little featherweight
saying, '' O khansamah jee'' to my blood-
thirsty Mir Khan !

Miss T. — Then you should explain the
dinner, dish by dish.

Capt. G, — - But I can't speak the vernac-


Miss T. — (^Patronizingly ?) You should
pass the Higher Standard and try.

Capt. G. — I have, but I don't seem to be
any the wiser. Are you ?

Miss T. — I never passed the Higher
Standard. But the khansamah Is very pa-
tient with me. He doesn't get angry when I
talk about sheep's topees, or order maimds of
grain when I mean seers.

Capt. G. — (^Aside, with intense indigna-
tion?) I'd like to see Mir Khan being rude
to that girl ! Hullo ! Steady the Buffs !
{Aloud,) And do you understand about
horses, too?

Miss T. — A little — not very much. I
can't doctor them, but I know what they ought
to eat, and I am In charge of our stable.

Caff. G. — Indeed ! You might help me
then. What ought a man to give his sais In
the Hills ? My ruffian says eight rupees,
because everything Is so dear.

Miss T. — Six rupees a month, and one
rupee Simla allowance — neither more nor
less. And a grass-cut gets six rupees. That's
better than buying grass In the bazar.


Capt. G. — {Admiringly?) How do you
know ?

Miss T. — I have tried both ways.

Capt. G. — Do you ride much, then ? I've
never seen you on the Mall ?

Miss T. — {Aside?) I haven't passed him
moi'e than fifty times. {Aloud?) Nearly
every day.

Capt. G. — By Jove ! I didn't know that.
Ha-Hmmm ! {Ptills at his mustaches a7id
is silent for forty seconds?)

Miss T. — {Desperately, a7id wondering
ivhat will happen next?) It looks beautiful.
I shouldn't touch it if I were you. {Aside?)
It's all Mamma's fault for not coming before.
I will be rude !

Capt. G. — {Bronzing under the tan, and
bringing down his ha?td very quickly?) Eh !
Wha-at ! Oh, yes ! Ha ! Ha ! {Laughs un-
easily?) {Aside,) Well, of all the dashed
cheek ! I never had a woman say that to me
yet. She must be a cool hand or else . . .
Ah ! that nursery tea !

Voice from the Unknown. — Tchk ! Tchk !


Capt. G. — Good gracious ! What's that ?

Miss T. — The dog, I think. {Aside.)
Emma has been Hstening, and I'll never for-
give her !

Capt. G. — {Aside.) They don't keep
dogs here. {Aloud.) 'Didn't sound like a
dog, did it?

Miss T. — Then it must have been the cat.
Let's go into the veranda. What a lovely
evening it is !

Steps into vermida and looks out across
the hills into sunset. The Captain fol-

Capt. G. — {Aside?) Superb eyes ! I
v^onder that I never noticed them before !
{Aloud?) There's going to be a dance at
Viceregal Lodge on Wednesday. Can you
spare me one ?

Miss T. — {Shortly?) No ! I don't want
any of your charity-dances. You only ask
me because Mamma told you to. I hop and
I bump. You know I do !

Capt. G. — {Aside?) That's true, but little
girls shouldn't understand these things.


(^Aloud.) No, on my word, I don*t. You
dance beautifully.

Miss T. — Then why do you always stand
out after half a dozen turns ? I thought offi-
cers In the Army didn't tell fibs.

Capt. G. — It wasn't a fib, believe me. I
really do want the pleasure of a dance with

Miss T. — {Wickedly.) Why? Won't
Mamma dance with you any more ?

Capt. G. — {Moi^e earnestly than the neces-
sity demands?) I wasn't thinking of your
Mother. {Aside ^ You little vixen !

Miss T. — {Still looking out of the nvin-
dow.) Eh? Oh, I beg your pardon. I was
thinking of something else.

Capt. G. — {Aside.) Well ! I wonder
what she'll say next. I've never known a
woman treat me like this before. I might be
— Dash it, I might be an Infantry subaltern !
{Aloud.) Oh, _^/^<3;5'^ don't trouble. I'm not
worth thinking about. Isn't your Mother
ready yet ?

Miss T. — I should think so ; but promise


me, Captain Gadsby, you won't take poor
dear Mamma twice round Jakko any more.
It tires her so.

Capt. G. She says that no exercise tires her.

Miss T. — Yes, but she suffers afterwards.
You don't know what rheumatism is, and you
oughtn't to keep her out so late, when it gets
chilly in the evenings.

Capt. G. — (^Aside?) Rheumatism ! I
thought she came off her horse rather in a
bunch. Whew ! One lives and learns.
{Aloud.) Vm sorry to hear that. She
hasn't mentioned it to me.

Miss T. (^Flurried ^ Of course not ! Poor
dear Mamma never would. And you mustn't
say that I told you either. Promise me that
you won't. Oh, Captain Gadsby, promise me
you won't !

Capt. G. — I am dumli, or — I shall be as
soon as you've given me that dance, and an-
other . . . if you can trouble yourself to think
about me for a minute.

Miss T. — But you won't like it one little
bit. You'll be awfully sorry afterwards.


Capt. G. — I shall like it above all things,
and I shall only be sorry that I didn't get
more. (^Aside.) Now what in the world am
I saying?

Miss T. — Very well. You will have only
yourself to thank if your toes are trodden on.
Shall we say Seven ?

Capt. G. — And Eleven. (Aside), She
can't be more than eight stone, but, even then,
it*s an absurdly small foot. {Looks at his
own riding boots.) •

Miss T. — They're beautifully shiny. I can
almost see my face in them.

Capt. G. — I was thinking whether I should
have to go on crutches for the rest of my Y\{t
if you trod on my toes.

Miss T. — Very likely. Why not change
Eleven for a square ?

Capt. G. — No, please ! I want them botl
waltzes. Won't you write them down ?

Miss T. — / don't get so many dances tha
I shall confuse them. You will be the of

Capt. G. — Wait and see! {Aside?) She
doesn't dance perfectly, perhaps, but . . .


Miss T. — Your tea must have got cold by
this time. Won't you have another cup ?

Capi\ G. — No, thanks. Don't you think
it's pleasanter out in the veranda? (^Aside.)
I never saw hair take that color In the sun-
shine before. (^Aloud.) It's like one of Dick-
see's pictures.

Miss T. — Yes ! It's a wonderful sunset,
isn't It ? {Bhrntly.) But what do yoii know
about Dicksee's pictures ?

Capt. G. — I go Home occasionally. And
I used to know the Galleries. (^Nci^votcsly.)
You mustn't think me only a Philistine with
... a mustache.

Miss T. — Don't ! Please don't ! I'm so
sorry for what I said then. I was horribly
rude. It slipped out before I thought. Don't
you know the temptation to say frightful and
shocking things just for the mere sake of
saying them ? I'm afraid I gave way to it.

Capt. G. — ( Watching the girl as she
flushes^ I thifik I know the feeling. It
would be terrible if we all yielded to it,
wouldn't it ? For instance, I might say . . .


Poor dear Mamma. — (^Entering, habited,
hat fed, and booted.) Ah, Captain Gadsby !
'Sorry to keep you waiting. 'Hope you haven't
been bored. 'My little girl been talking to
you ?

Miss T. — (Aside.) I'm not sorry I spoke
about the rheumatism. Fm not! I'm not!
I only wish I'd mentioned the corns too.

Capt. G. — (Aside,) What a shame ! I
wonder how old she Is. It never occurred to
me before. (Aloud.) We've been discuss-
ing " Shakespeare and the musical glasses "
In the veranda.

Miss T. — (Aside.) Nice man ! He knows
that quotation. He isnt a Philistine with
a mustache. (Aloud.) Good-by, Captain
Gadsby. (Aside.) What a huge hand and
what a squeeze ! I don't suppose he meant
it, but he has driven the rings into my fingers.

Poor dear Mamma. — Has Vermilion come
round yet ? Oh, yes ! Captain Gadsby, don't
you think that the saddle is too far forward ?
(They pass into the front veranda!)

Capt. G. — (Aside.) How the dickens


should I know what she prefers ? She told
me that she doted on horses. (^Alotid.) I
think it Is.

Miss T. — ( Coming out into front veran-
da^ Oh ! Bad Buldoo ! I must speak to
him for this. He has taken up the curb two
links, and Vermilion hates that. {Passes out
and to horse s head.)

Capt. G. — Let me do It !

Miss T. — No, Vermilion understands me.
Don't you, old man? {Looses curb-chain
skilfully, and pats horse on nose and throttle.)
Poor Vermilion ! Did they want to cut his
chin off ? There !

Captain Gadsby watches the interlude with
undisguised admiration.

Poor dear Mamma. — {Tartly to Miss T.)
You've forgotten your guest, I think, dear.

Miss T. — Good gracious ! So I have !
Good-by. {Retreats indoors hastily?)

Poor dear Mamma. — {Bunching reins in
fingers hampered by too tight gauntlets?)
Captain Gadsby !

Capt. Gadsby stoops a7id makes the foot-rest.


Poor dear Mamma blunders, halts too long,
and breaks through it.

Captain G. — (Aside.) Can't hold up
eleven stone forever. It's all your rheuma-
tism. (Aloud.) Can't imagine why I was
so clumsy. (Aside.) Now Little Feather-
weight would have gone up like a bird.

They ride out of the garden. The Captain
falls back.

Capt. G. — (Aside^ How that habit
catches her under the arms ! Ugh !

Poor dear Mamma. — ( With the worn
smile of sixteen seasons, the worse for ex-
change.) You're dull this afternoon, Cap-
tain Gadsby.

Capt. G. — (Spurring up wearily.) Why
did you keep me waiting so long?

£t c cetera, et c cetera, et c cetera,

(an interval of three weeks.)

Gilded Youth. — (Sitting ofi railings op-
posite Town Hall.) Hullo, Gaddy ! 'Been
trotting out the Gorgonzola ? We all thought
it was the Gorgon you're mashing.


Capt. G. — ( With withering emphasis^
You young cub ! What the does it mat-
ter to you ?

Proceeds to read Gilded Youth a lecture
on discretion and deportment, which crumples
latter like a Chinese Lantern. Departs fum-

(further interval of five weeks.)

Scene. — Exterior of New Library on a
foggy evening. Miss Threegan and Miss
Deercourt meet among the 'rickshaws. Miss
T. is carrying a bundle of books under her
left arm.

Miss D. — (^L^evel intonation^ Well ?

Miss T. — {Ascending intonation^ Well ?

Miss D. — {Capturing her friend's left
arm, taking away all the books, placing books
in 'rickshaw, returning to arm, securing hand
by the third finger and investigating^ Well !
You bad girl ! And you never told me.

Miss T. — {Demurely.^ He — he — he
only spoke yesterday afternoon.

Miss D. — Bless you, dear ! And I'm to


be bridesmaid, aren't I ? You know you
promised ever so long ago.

Miss T. — Of course. I'll tell you all
about it to-morrow. (^Gets into 'rickshaw?)
Oh, Emma!

Miss D. — ( With intense interest^ Yes,

Miss T. — {Piano.) It's quite true . . .
about . . . the . . .

Miss D. — What ^gg}

Miss T. — {Pianissimo prestissimo^ The
^gg without the salt. {Forte.) Chalo ghar
ko jaldi, jhampani I



" Certain people of importance."

Scene. — Smoking-room of the Degchi Club.
Time 10.30 v.m, of a stuffy 7iight in the
Rains. Four men dispersed in picturesque
attitudes and easy-chairs. To these enter
Blayne of the Irregular Moguls, in evening

Blayne. — Phew ! The Judge ought to be
hanged In his own store-godown. Hi, khit-
vtatgar ! Poora whiskey-peg, to take the
taste out of my mouth.

CuRTiss — {Royal Artillery.) That's it,
is it ? What the deuce made you dine at the
Judge's ? You know his bandobust.

Blayne. — Thought it couldn't be worse
than the Club ; but I'll swear lie buys ullaged
qliuor and doctors it with gin and ink (look-



ing round the room.) Is this all of you
to-night ?

DooNE. — (P. W. D.) Anthony was
called out at dinner. Mingle had a pain in
his tummy.

CuRTiss. — Miggy dies of cholera once a
week in the Rains, and gets drunk on chloro-
dyne in between. 'Good little chap, though.
Any one at the Judge's, Blayne ?

Blayne. — Cockley and his memsahib
looking awfully white and fagged. 'Female
girl — couldn't catch the name — on her way
to the Hills, under the Cockleys' charge —
the Judge, and Markyn fresh from Simla —
disgustingly fit.

CuRTiss. — Good Lord, how truly magnifi-
cent ! Was there enough ice ? When I
mangled garbage there I got one whole
lump — nearly as big as a walnut. What
had Markyn to say for himself?

Blayne. — 'Seems that every one is having
a fairly good time up there in spite of the
rain. By Jove, that reminds me ! I know I
hadn't come across just for the pleasure of


your society. News ! Great news ! Mar-
kyn told me.

DooNE. — Who's dead now ?

Blayne. — No one that I know of ; but
Caddy's hooked at last !

Dropping Chorus. — How much ? The
Devil ! Markyn was pulling your leg. Not
Caddy !

Blayne. — "Yea, verily, verily, verily!
Verily, verily, I say unto thee." Theodore,
the gift o' Cod ! Our Phillup ! It's been
given out up above.

Mackesy. — (^Barrister-at-Law.) Huh !
Women will give out anything. What does
accused say ?

Blayne. — Markyn told me that he con-
gratulated him warily — one hand held out,
t'other ready to guard. Caddy turned pink
and said it was so.

CuRTiss. — Poor old Caddy ! They all do
it. Who's she ? Let's hear the details.

Blayne. — She's a girl — daughter of a
Colonel Somebody.

Doone. — Simla's stiff with Colonels'
daughters. Be more explicit.^


Blayne. — Wait a shake. What was her
name ? Three — something. Three —

CuRTiss. — Stars, perhaps. Gaddy knows
that brand.

Blayne. — Threegan — Minnie Threegan.

Mackesy. — Threegan ! Isn't she a Httle
bit of a girl with red hair ?

Blayne. — 'Bout that — from what Mar-
kyn said.

Mackesy. — Then I've met her. She was
at Lucknow last season. 'Owned a perma-
nently juvenile Mamma, and danced dam-
nably. I say, Jervoise, you knew the Three-
gans, didn't you ?

Jervoise. — ( Civilian of twenty-five years
service, waking up fro7n his doze?) Eh !
What's that? Knew who? How? I
thought I was at Home, confound you !

Mackesy. — The Threegan girl's engaged,
so Blayne says.

Jervoise. — {Slowly.) Engaged — en-
gaged ! Bless my soul ! I'm getting an old
man ! Little Minnie Threegan engaged ! It
was only the other day I went home with


them In the Sural — no, the Massilia — and
she was crawHng about on her hands and
knees among- the ayahs. 'Used to call me
the '' 7/Vy^ Tack Sahib'' because I showed
her my watch. And that was in Sixty-Seven
— no, Seventy. Good God, how time flies !
I'm an old man. I remember when Threegan
married Miss Derwent — daughter of old

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