The Project Gutenberg eBook o Indian Ta!e"# b$ Rud$ard Ki%!

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Indian Tales, by Rudyard Kipling

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INDI N T !"#
BY RUDYARD KIPLING

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The -ro)e%t Guten*erg e#ook of !ndian Tales1 *y Rudyard 'i&ling

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CONTENTS
"The Finest Story in the World" With the Main Guard Wee Willie Winkie The Rout of the White Hussars At Twenty-two The Courting of Dinah Shadd The Story of Muha !n Flood Ti e My "wn True Ghost Story The #ig Drunk Draf$ #y Word of Mouth The Dru s of the Fore and Aft The Sending of Dana Da "n the City Wall The #roken-link Handi%a& "n Greenhow Hill To #e Filed for Referen%e The Man Who Would #e 'ing The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows The !n%arnation of 'rishna Mul(aney His Ma)esty the 'ing The Strange Ride of Morrow*ie +ukes !n the House of Suddhoo #la%k +a%k The Taking of ,ungtung&en ad Din

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The Phantom Rickshaw On the Strength of a Likeness Private Learoyd's Story Wressley of the Foreign Office The Solid Muldoon The Three Musketeers eyond the Pale The !od from the Machine The "aughter of the Regiment The Madness of Private Ortheris L'#nvoi

"THE FINEST STORY IN THE WORLD"

$Or ever the knightly years were gone With the old world to the grave% & was a king in a'ylon (nd you were a )hristian slave%$ *W.E. Henley+

,is name was )harlie Mears- he was the only son of his mother who was a widow% and he lived in the north of London% coming into the )ity every day to work in a 'ank+ ,e was twenty years old and suffered from as.irations+ & met him in a .u'lic 'illiard/saloon where the marker called him 'y his given name% and he called the marker $ ullseyes+$ )harlie e0.lained% a little nervously% that he had only come to the .lace to look on% and since looking on at games of skill is not a chea. amusement for the young% & suggested that )harlie should go 'ack to his mother+ That was our first ste. toward 'etter ac1uaintance+ ,e would call on me sometimes in the evenings instead of running a'out London with his fellow/clerks- and 'efore long% s.eaking of himself as a young man must% he told me of his as.irations% which were all literary+ ,e desired to make himself an undying name chiefly through verse% though he was not a'ove sending stories of love and death to the dro./a/.enny/in/the/slot 2ournals+ &t was my fate to sit still while )harlie read me .oems of many hundred lines% and 'ulky fragments of .lays that would surely shake the world+ My reward was his unreserved confidence% and the self/revelations and trou'les of a young man are almost as holy as those of a maiden+ )harlie had never fallen in love% 'ut was an0ious to do so on the first o..ortunity- he 'elieved in all things good and all things honora'le% 'ut% at the same time% was curiously careful to let me see that he knew his way a'out the world as 'efitted a 'ank clerk on twenty/five shillings a week+ ,e rhymed $dove$ with $love$ and $moon$ with $3une%$ and devoutly 'elieved that they had never so 'een rhymed 'efore+ The long lame ga.s in

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his plays he filled up with hasty words of apology and description and swept on, seeing all that he intended to do so clearly that he esteemed it already done, and turned to me for applause. I fancy that his mother did not encourage his aspirations, and I know that his writing-table at home was the edge of his washstand. This he told me almost at the outset of our acquaintance; when he was ravaging my bookshelves, and a little before I was implored to speak the truth as to his chances of "writing something really great, you know." aybe I encouraged him too much, for, one night, he called on me, his eyes flaming with e!citement, and said breathlessly" "#o you mind$can you let me stay here and write all this evening% I won&t interrupt you, I won&t really. There&s no place for me to write in at my mother&s." "'hat&s the trouble%" I said, knowing well what that trouble was. "I&ve a notion in my head that would make the most splendid story that was ever written. #o let me write it out here. It&s such a notion(" There was no resisting the appeal. I set him a table; he hardly thanked me, but plunged into the work at once. )or half an hour the pen scratched without stopping. Then *harlie sighed and tugged his hair. The scratching grew slower, there were more erasures, and at last ceased. The finest story in the world would not come forth. "It looks such awful rot now," he said, mournfully. "+nd yet it seemed so good when I was thinking about it. 'hat&s wrong%" I could not dishearten him by saying the truth. ,o I answered" "-erhaps you don&t feel in the mood for writing." ".es I do$e!cept when I look at this stuff. /gh(" "0ead me what you&ve done," I said. "1e read, and it was wondrous bad, and he paused at all the specially turgid sentences, e!pecting a little approval; for he was proud of those sentences, as I knew he would be. "It needs compression," I suggested, cautiously. "I hate cutting my things down. I don&t think you could alter a word here without spoiling the sense. It reads better aloud than when I was writing it." "*harlie, you&re suffering from an alarming disease afflicting a numerous class. -ut the thing by, and tackle it again in a week." "I want to do it at once. 'hat do you think of it%" "1ow can I 2udge from a half-written tale% Tell me the story as it lies in your head." *harlie told, and in the telling there was everything that his ignorance had so carefully prevented from escaping into the written word. I looked at him, and wondering whether it were possible that he did not know the originality, the power of the notion that had come in his way% It was distinctly a 3otion among notions. en had been puffed up with pride by notions not a tithe as e!cellent and practicable. 4ut *harlie babbled on serenely, interrupting the current of pure fancy with samples of horrible sentences that he purposed to use. I heard him out to the end. It would be folly to allow his idea to remain in his own inept hands, when I could do so much with it. 3ot all that could be done indeed; but, oh so much(

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"What do you think?" he said, at last. "I fancy I shall call it 'The Story of a Ship.'" "I think the idea's pretty good; but you won't be able to handle it for e er so long. !ow I""" "Would it be of any use to you? Would you care to take it? I should be proud," said #harlie, pro$ptly. There are few things sweeter in this world than the guileless, hot%headed, inte$perate, open ad$iration of a &unior. ' en a wo$an in her blindest de otion does not fall into the gait of the $an she adores, tilt her bonnet to the angle at which he wears his hat, or interlard her speech with his pet oaths. (nd #harlie did all these things. Still it was necessary to sal e $y conscience before I possessed $yself of #harlie's thoughts. ")et's $ake a bargain. I'll gi e you a fi er for the notion," I said. #harlie beca$e a bank%clerk at once. "*h, that's i$possible. +etween two pals, you know, if I $ay call you so, and speaking as a $an of the world, I couldn't. Take the notion if it's any use to you. I' e heaps $ore." ,e had"none knew this better than I"but they were the notions of other $en. ")ook at it as a $atter of business"between $en of the world," I returned. "-i e pounds will buy you any nu$ber of poetry%books. +usiness is business, and you $ay be sure I shouldn't gi e that price unless""" "*h, if you put it that way," said #harlie, isibly $o ed by the thought of the books. The bargain was clinched with an agree$ent that he should at unstated inter als co$e to $e with all the notions that he possessed, should ha e a table of his own to write at, and un.uestioned right to inflict upon $e all his poe$s and frag$ents of poe$s. Then I said, "!ow tell $e how you ca$e by this idea." "It ca$e by itself," #harlie's eyes opened a little. "/es, but you told $e a great deal about the hero that you $ust ha e read before so$ewhere." "I ha en't any ti$e for reading, e0cept when you let $e sit here, and on Sundays I'$ on $y bicycle or down the ri er all day. There's nothing wrong about the hero, is there?" "Tell $e again and I shall understand clearly. /ou say that your hero went pirating. ,ow did he li e?" ",e was on the lower deck of this ship%thing that I was telling you about." "What sort of ship?" "It was the kind rowed with oars, and the sea spurts through the oar%holes and the $en row sitting up to their knees in water. Then there's a bench running down between the two lines of oars and an o erseer with a whip walks up and down the bench to $ake the $en work." ",ow do you know that?" "It's in the tale. There's a rope running o erhead, looped to the upper deck, for the o erseer to catch hold of when the ship rolls. When the o erseer $isses the rope once and falls a$ong the

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rowers, remember the hero laughs at him and gets licked for it. He's chained to his oar of coursethe hero." "How is he chained?" "With an iron band round his waist fixed to the bench he sits on, and a sort of handcuff on his left wrist chaining him to the oar. He's on the lower deck where the worst men are sent, and the only light comes from the hatchways and through the oar-holes. an't you imagine the sunlight !ust s"uee#ing through between the handle and the hole and wobbling about as the shi$ mo%es?" "& can, but & can't imagine your imagining it." "How could it be any other way? 'ow you listen to me. (he long oars on the u$$er deck are managed by four men to each bench, the lower ones by three, and the lowest of all by two. )emember, it's "uite dark on the lowest deck and all the men there go mad. When a man dies at his oar on that deck he isn't thrown o%erboard, but cut u$ in his chains and stuffed through the oarhole in little $ieces." "Why?" & demanded, ama#ed, not so much at the information as the tone of command in which it was flung out. "(o sa%e trouble and to frighten the others. &t needs two o%erseers to drag a man's body u$ to the to$ deck* and if the men at the lower deck oars were left alone, of course they'd sto$ rowing and try to $ull u$ the benches by all standing u$ together in their chains." "+ou'%e a most $ro%ident imagination. Where ha%e you been reading about galleys and galleysla%es?" "'owhere that & remember. & row a little when & get the chance. ,ut, $erha$s, if you say so, & may ha%e read something." He went away shortly afterward to deal with booksellers, and & wondered how a bank clerk aged twenty could $ut into my hands with a $rofligate abundance of detail, all gi%en with absolute assurance, the story of extra%agant and bloodthirsty ad%enture, riot, $iracy, and death in unnamed seas. He had led his hero a des$erate dance through re%olt against the o%erseers, to command of a shi$ of his own, and ultimate establishment of a kingdom on an island "somewhere in the sea, you know"* and, delighted with my $altry fi%e $ounds, had gone out to buy the notions of other men, that these might teach him how to write. & had the consolation of knowing that this notion was mine by right of $urchase, and & thought that & could make something of it. When next he came to me he was drunkroyally drunk on many $oets for the first time re%ealed to him. His $u$ils were dilated, his words tumbled o%er each other, and he wra$$ed himself in "uotations. -ost of all was he drunk with .ongfellow. "&sn't it s$lendid? &sn't it su$erb?" he cried, after hasty greetings. ".isten to this "'Wouldst thou,'so the helmsman answered, '/now the secret of the sea? 0nly those who bra%e its dangers om$rehend its mystery.'" ,y gum1 "'0nly those who bra%e its dangers om$rehend its mystery,'"

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he repeated twenty times, walking up and down the room and forgetting me. "But I can understand it too," he said to himself. "I don't know how to thank you for that fiver, And this; listen "'I remem er the lack wharves and the ships And the sea!tides tossing free, And the "panish sailors with earded lips, And the eauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea.'" I haven't raved any dangers, ut I feel as if I knew all a out it." "#ou certainly seem to have a grip of the sea. $ave you ever seen it%" "&hen I was a little chap I went to Brighton once; we used to live in 'oventry, though, efore we came to (ondon. I never saw it, "'&hen descends on the Atlantic )he gigantic "torm!wind of the *+uino,.'" $e shook me y the shoulder to make me understand the passion that was shaking himself. "&hen that storm comes," he continued, "I think that all the oars in the ship that I was talking a out get roken, and the rowers have their chests smashed in y the ucking oar!heads. By the way, have you done anything with that notion of mine yet%" "-o. I was waiting to hear more of it from you. )ell me how in the world you're so certain a out the fittings of the ship. #ou know nothing of ships." "I don't know. It's as real as anything to me until I try to write it down. I was thinking a out it only last night in ed, after you had loaned me ')reasure Island'; and I made up a whole lot of new things to go into the story." "&hat sort of things%" "A out the food the men ate; rotten figs and lack eans and wine in a skin ag, passed from ench to ench." "&as the ship uilt so long ago as that%" "As what% I don't know whether it was long ago or not. It's only a notion, ut sometimes it seems .ust as real as if it was true. /o I other you with talking a out it%" "-ot in the least. /id you make up anything else%" "#es, ut it's nonsense." 'harlie flushed a little. "-ever mind; let's hear a out it." "&ell, I was thinking over the story, and after awhile I got out of ed and wrote down on a piece of paper the sort of stuff the men might e supposed to scratch on their oars with the edges of their handcuffs. It seemed to make the thing more lifelike. It is so real to me, y'know." "$ave you the paper on you%"

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"Ye-es, but what's the use of showing it? It's only a lot of scratches. All the same, we might have 'em reproduced in the boo on the front page." "I'll attend to those details. !how me what your men wrote." "e pulled out of his poc et a sheet of note-paper, with a single line of scratches upon it, and I put this carefully away. "#hat is it supposed to mean in $nglish?" I said. "%h, I don't now. &erhaps it means 'I'm beastly tired.' It's great nonsense," he repeated, "but all those men in the ship seem as real as people to me. 'o do something to the notion soon( I should li e to see it written and printed." ")ut all you've told me would ma e a long boo ." "*a e it then. You've only to sit down and write it out." "+ive me a little time. "ave you any more notions?" ",ot -ust now. I'm reading all the boo s I've bought. .hey're splendid." #hen he had left I loo ed at the sheet of note-paper with the inscription upon it. .hen I too my head tenderly between both hands, to ma e certain that it was not coming off or turning round. .hen ... but there seemed to be no interval between /uitting my rooms and finding myself arguing with a policeman outside a door mar ed Private in a corridor of the )ritish *useum. All I demanded, as politely as possible, was "the +ree anti/uity man." .he policeman new nothing e0cept the rules of the *useum, and it became necessary to forage through all the houses and offices inside the gates. An elderly gentleman called away from his lunch put an end to my search by holding the note-paper between finger and thumb and sniffing at it scornfully. "#hat does this mean? "'mm," said he. "!o far as I can ascertain it is an attempt to write e0tremely corrupt +ree on the part"1here he glared at me with intention1"of an e0tremely illiterate1ah1person." "e read slowly from the paper, "Pollock, Erckmann, Tauchnitz, Henniker"-four names familiar to me. "2an you tell me what the corruption is supposed to mean1the gist of the thing?" I as ed. "I have been1many times1overcome with weariness in this particular employment. .hat is the meaning." "e returned me the paper, and I fled without a word of than s, e0planation, or apology. I might have been e0cused for forgetting much. .o me of all men had been given the chance to write the most marvelous tale in the world, nothing less than the story of a +ree galley-slave, as told by himself. !mall wonder that his dreaming had seemed real to 2harlie. .he 3ates that are so careful to shut the doors of each successive life behind us had, in this case, been neglectful, and 2harlie was loo ing, though that he did not now, where never man had been permitted to loo with full nowledge since .ime began. Above all, he was absolutely ignorant of the nowledge sold to me for five pounds( and he would retain that ignorance, for ban -cler s do not understand metempsychosis, and a sound commercial education does not include +ree . "e would supply me1here I capered among the dumb gods of $gypt and laughed in their battered faces1with material to ma e my tale sure1so sure that the world would hail it as an impudent and vamped fiction. And I1I alone would now that it was absolutely and literally true. I1I alone held this -ewel to my hand for the cutting and polishing. .herefore I danced again among the gods till a policeman saw me and too steps in my direction.

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It remained now only to encourage Charlie to talk, and here there was no difficulty. But I had forgotten those accursed books of poetry. He came to me time after time, as useless as a surcharged phonographdrunk on Byron, Shelley, or Keats. Knowing now what the boy had been in his past li es, and desperately an!ious not to lose one word of his babble, I could not hide from him my respect and interest. He misconstrued both into respect for the present soul of Charlie "ears, to whom life was as new as it was to #dam, and interest in his readings$ and stretched my patience to breaking point by reciting poetrynot his own now, but that of others. I wished e ery %nglish poet blotted out of the memory of mankind. I blasphemed the mightiest names of song because they had drawn Charlie from the path of direct narrati e, and would, later, spur him to imitate them$ but I choked down my impatience until the first flood of enthusiasm should ha e spent itself and the boy returned to his dreams. &'hat(s the use of my telling you what I think, when these chaps wrote things for the angels to read)& he growled, one e ening. &'hy don(t you write something like theirs)& &I don(t think you(re treating me *uite fairly,& I said, speaking under strong restraint. &I( e gi en you the story,& he said, shortly, replunging into &+ara.& &But I want the details.& &,he things I make up about that damned ship that you call a galley) ,hey(re *uite easy. -ou can .ust make (em up yourself. ,urn up the gas a little, I want to go on reading.& I could ha e broken the gas globe o er his head for his ama/ing stupidity. I could indeed make up things for myself did I only know what Charlie did not know that he knew. But since the doors were shut behind me I could only wait his youthful pleasure and stri e to keep him in good temper. 0ne minute(s want of guard might spoil a priceless re elation$ now and again he would toss his books asidehe kept them in my rooms, for his mother would ha e been shocked at the waste of good money had she seen themand launched into his sea dreams, #gain I cursed all the poets of %ngland. ,he plastic mind of the bank1clerk had been o erlaid, colored and distorted by that which he had read, and the result as deli ered was a confused tangle of other oices most like the muttered song through a City telephone in the busiest part of the day. He talked of the galleyhis own galley had he but known itwith illustrations borrowed from the &Bride of #bydos.& He pointed the e!periences of his hero with *uotations from &,he Corsair,& and threw in deep and desperate moral reflections from &Cain& and &"anfred,& e!pecting me to use them all. 0nly when the talk turned on +ongfellow were the .arring cross1currents dumb, and I knew that Charlie was speaking the truth as he remembered it. &'hat do you think of this)& I said one e ening, as soon as I understood the medium in which his memory worked best, and, before he could e!postulate, read him the whole of &,he Saga of King 0laf2& He listened open1mouthed, flushed, his hands drumming on the back of the sofa where he lay, till I came to the Song of %inar ,amberskel er and the erse3 &%inar then, the arrow taking 4rom the loosened string, #nswered3 (,hat was 5orway breaking (5eath thy hand, 0 King.(& He gasped with pure delight of sound.

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&,hat(s better than Byron, a little,& I entured. &Better) 'hy it(s true! How could he ha e known)& I went back and repeated3 &'hat was that)( said 0laf, standing 0n the *uarter1deck, (Something heard I like the stranding 0f a shattered wreck)(& &How could he ha e known how the ships crash and the oars rip out and go z-zzp all along the line) 'hy only the other night.... But go back please and read (,he Skerry of Shrieks( again.& &5o, I(m tired. +et(s talk. 'hat happened the other night)& &I had an awful nightmare about that galley of ours. I dreamed I was drowned in a fight. -ou see we ran alongside another ship in harbor. ,he water was dead still e!cept where our oars whipped it up. -ou know where I always sit in the galley)& He spoke haltingly at first, under a fine %nglish fear of being laughed at, &5o. ,hat(s news to me,& I answered, meekly, my heart beginning to beat. &0n the fourth oar from the bow on the right side on the upper deck. ,here were four of us at that oar, all chained. I remember watching the water and trying to get my handcuffs off before the row began. ,hen we closed up on the other ship, and all their fighting men .umped o er our bulwarks, and my bench broke and I was pinned down with the three other fellows on top of me, and the big oar .ammed across our backs.& &'ell)& Charlie(s eyes were ali e and alight. He was looking at the wall behind my chair. &I don(t know how we fought. ,he men were trampling all o er my back, and I lay low. ,hen our rowers on the left sidetied to their oars, you knowbegan to yell and back water. I could hear the water si//le, and we spun round like a cockchafer and I knew, lying where I was, that there was a galley coming up bow1on, to ram us on the left side. I could .ust lift up my head and see her sail o er the bulwarks. 'e wanted to meet her bow to bow, but it was too late. 'e could only turn a little bit because the galley on our right had hooked herself on to us and stopped our mo ing. ,hen, by gum2 there was a crash2 0ur left oars began to break as the other galley, the mo ing one y(know, stuck her nose into them. ,hen the lower1deck oars shot up through the deck planking, butt first, and one of them .umped clean up into the air and came down again close to my head.& &How was that managed)& &,he mo ing galley(s bow was plunking them back through their own oar1holes, and I could hear the de il of a shindy in the decks below. ,hen her nose caught us nearly in the middle, and we tilted sideways, and the fellows in the right1hand galley unhitched their hooks and ropes, and threw things on to our upper deckarrows, and hot pitch or something that stung, and we went up and up and up on the left side, and the right side dipped, and I twisted my head round and saw the water stand still as it topped the right bulwarks, and then it curled o er and crashed down on the whole lot of us on the right side, and I felt it hit my back, and I woke.& &0ne minute, Charlie. 'hen the sea topped the bulwarks, what did it look like)& I had my reasons for asking. # man of my ac*uaintance had once gone down with a leaking ship in a still sea, and had seen the water1le el pause for an instant ere it fell on the deck.

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"It looked just like a banjo-string drawn tight, and it seemed to stay there for years," said Charlie. Exactly! he other man had said! "It looked like a sil"er wire laid down along the bulwarks, and I thought it was ne"er going to break." #e had $aid e"erything exce$t the bare life for this little "alueless $iece of knowledge, and I had tra"eled ten thousand weary miles to meet him and take his knowledge at second hand. %ut Charlie, the bank-clerk on twenty-fi"e shillings a week, he who had ne"er been out of sight of a &ondon omnibus, knew it all. It was no consolation to me that once in his li"es he had been forced to die for his gains. I also must ha"e died scores of times, but behind me, because I could ha"e used my knowledge, the doors were shut. "'nd then(" I said, trying to $ut away the de"il of en"y. " he funny thing was, though, in all the mess I didn)t feel a bit astonished or frightened. It seemed as if I)d been in a good many fights, because I told my next man so when the row began. %ut that cad of an o"erseer on my deck wouldn)t unloose our chains and gi"e us a chance. #e always said that we)d all be set free after a battle, but we ne"er were* we ne"er were." Charlie shook his head mournfully. "+hat a scoundrel!" "I should say he was. #e ne"er ga"e us enough to eat, and sometimes we were so thirsty that we used to drink salt-water. I can taste that salt-water still." ",ow tell me something about the harbor where the fight was fought." "I didn)t dream about that. I know it was a harbor, though* because we were tied u$ to a ring on a white wall and all the face of the stone under water was co"ered with wood to $re"ent our ram getting chi$$ed when the tide made us rock." " hat)s curious. -ur hero commanded the galley, didn)t he(" ".idn)t he just! #e stood by the bows and shouted like a good )un. #e was the man who killed the o"erseer." "%ut you were all drowned together, Charlie, weren)t you(" "I can)t make that fit /uite," he said, with a $u00led look. " he galley must ha"e gone down with all hands, and yet I fancy that the hero went on li"ing afterward. 1erha$s he climbed into the attacking shi$. I wouldn)t see that, of course. I was dead, you know." #e shi"ered slightly and $rotested that he could remember no more. I did not $ress him further, but to satisfy myself that he lay in ignorance of the workings of his own mind, deliberately introduced him to 2ortimer Collins)s " ransmigration," and ga"e him a sketch of the $lot before he o$ened the $ages. "+hat rot it all is!" he said, frankly, at the end of an hour. "I don)t understand his nonsense about the 3ed 1lanet 2ars and the 4ing, and the rest of it. Chuck me the &ongfellow again." I handed him the book and wrote out as much as I could remember of his descri$tion of the seafight, a$$ealing to him from time to time for confirmation of fact or detail. #e would answer without raising his eyes from the book, as assuredly as though all his knowledge lay before him on the $rinted $age. I s$oke under the normal key of my "oice that the current might not be broken, and I know that he was not aware of what he was saying, for his thoughts were out on the sea with &ongfellow.

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"Charlie," I asked, "when the rowers on the gallies mutinied how did they kill their overseers?" "Tore up the benches and brained 'em. That happened when a heavy sea was running. An overseer on the lower deck slipped rom the centre plank and ell among the rowers. They choked him to death against the side o the ship with their chained hands !uite !uietly, and it was too dark or the other overseer to see what had happened. "hen he asked, he was pulled down too and choked, and the lower deck ought their way up deck by deck, with the pieces o the broken benches banging behind 'em. #ow they howled$" "And what happened a ter that?" "I don't know. The hero went away%red hair and red beard and all. That was a ter he had captured our galley, I think." The sound o my voice irritated him, and he motioned slightly with his le t hand as a man does when interruption &ars. "'ou never told me he was red(headed be ore, or that he captured your galley," I said, a ter a discreet interval. Charlie did not raise his eyes. "#e was as red as a red bear," said he, abstractedly. "#e came rom the north) they said so in the galley when he looked or rowers%not slaves, but ree men. A terward%years and years a terward%news came rom another ship, or else he came back"% #is lips moved in silence. #e was rapturously retasting some poem be ore him. ""here had he been, then?" I was almost whispering that the sentence might come gentle to whichever section o Charlie's brain was working on my behal . "To the *eaches%the +ong and "onder ul *eaches$" was the reply, a ter a minute o silence. "To ,urdurstrandi?" I asked, tingling rom head to oot. "'es, to ,urdurstrandi," he pronounced the word in a new ashion. "And I too saw"%%The voice ailed. "-o you know what you have said?" I shouted, incautiously. #e li ted his eyes, ully roused now, ".o$" he snapped. "I wish you'd let a chap go on reading. #ark to this/ "'*ut 0there, the old sea captain, #e neither paused nor stirred Till the king listened, and then 0nce more took up his pen And wrote down every word, "'And to the 1ing o the 2a3ons In witness o the truth, 4aising his noble head, #e stretched his brown hand and said, "*ehold this walrus tooth."'

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'he 8ro1ect )utenberg eBook of ndian 'ales, by <udyard +ipling

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By Jove, what chaps those must have been, to go sailing all over the shop never knowing where they'd fetch the land! Hah!" "Charlie," pleaded, "if you'll only be sensible for a minute or two 'll make our hero in our tale every inch as good as !there"" "#mph! $ongfellow wrote that poem" don't care about writing things any more" want to read"" He was thoroughly out of tune now, and raging over my own ill%luck, left him" Conceive yourself at the door of the world's treasure%house guarded by a child&an idle irresponsible child playing knuckle%bones&on whose favor depends the gift of the key, and you will imagine one half my torment" 'ill that evening Charlie had spoken nothing that might not lie within the e(periences of a )reek galley%slave" But now, or there was no virtue in books, he had talked of some desperate adventure of the *ikings, of 'horfin +arlsefne's sailing to ,ineland, which is -merica, in the ninth or tenth century" 'he battle in the harbor he had seen. and his own death he had described" But this was a much more startling plunge into the past" ,as it possible that he had skipped half a do/en lives and was then dimly remembering some episode of a thousand years later0 t was a maddening 1umble, and the worst of it was that Charlie 2ears in his normal condition was the last person in the world to clear it up" could only wait and watch, but went to bed that night full of the wildest imaginings" 'here was nothing that was not possible if Charlie's detestable memory only held good" might rewrite the 3aga of 'horfin +arlsefne as it had never been written before, might tell the story of the first discovery of -merica, myself the discoverer" But was entirely at Charlie's mercy, and so long as there was a three%and%si(%penny Bohn volume within his reach Charlie would not tell" dared not curse him openly. hardly dared 1og his memory, for was dealing with the e(periences of a thousand years ago, told through the mouth of a boy of to%day. and a boy of to%day is affected by every change of tone and gust of opinion, so that he lies even when he desires to speak the truth" saw no more of him for nearly a week" ,hen ne(t met him it was in )racechurch 3treet with a billhook chained to his waist" Business took him over $ondon Bridge and accompanied him" He was very full of the importance of that book and magnified it" -s we passed over the 'hames we paused to look at a steamer unloading great slabs of white and brown marble" - barge drifted under the steamer's stern and a lonely cow in that barge bellowed" Charlie's face changed from the face of the bank%clerk to that of an unknown and&though he would not have believed this&a much shrewder man" He flung out his arm across the parapet of the bridge and laughing very loudly, said4 ",hen they heard our bulls bellow the 3kroelings ran away!" waited only for an instant, but the barge and the cow had disappeared under the bows of the steamer before answered" "Charlie, what do you suppose are 3kroelings0" "5ever heard of 'em before" 'hey sound like a new kind of seagull" ,hat a chap you are for asking 6uestions!" he replied" " have to go to the cashier of the !mnibus Company yonder" ,ill you wait for me and we can lunch somewhere together0 've a notion for a poem"" "5o, thanks" 'm off" 7ou're sure you know nothing about 3kroelings0" "5ot unless he's been entered for the $iverpool Handicap"" He nodded and disappeared in the crowd"

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'he 8ro1ect )utenberg eBook of ndian 'ales, by <udyard +ipling

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5ow it is written in the 3aga of Aric the <ed or that of 'horfin +arlsefne, that nine hundred years ago when +arlsefne's galleys came to $eif's booths, which $eif had erected in the unknown land called 2arkland, which may or may not have been <hode sland, the 3kroelings&and the $ord He knows who these may or may not have been&came to trade with the *ikings, and ran away because they were frightened at the bellowing of the cattle which 'horfin had brought with him in the ships" But what in the world could a )reek slave know of that affair0 wandered up and down among the streets trying to unravel the mystery, and the more considered it, the more baffling it grew" !ne thing only seemed certain, and that certainty took away my breath for the moment" f came to full knowledge of anything at all it would not be one life of the soul in Charlie 2ears's body, but half a do/en&half a do/en several and separate e(istences spent on blue water in the morning of the world! 'hen walked round the situation" !bviously if used my knowledge should stand alone and unapproachable until all men were as wise as myself" 'hat would be something, but manlike was ungrateful" t seemed bitterly unfair that Charlie's memory should fail me when needed it most" )reat 8owers above& looked up at them through the fog smoke&did the $ords of $ife and Beath know what this meant to me0 5othing less than eternal fame of the best kind, that comes from !ne, and is shared by one alone" would be content&remembering Clive, stood astounded at my own moderation,&with the mere right to tell one story, to work out one little contribution to the light literature of the day" f Charlie were permitted full recollection for one hour&for si(ty short minutes&of e(istences that had e(tended over a thousand years& would forego all profit and honor from all that should make of his speech" would take no share in the commotion that would follow throughout the particular corner of the earth that calls itself "the world"" 'he thing should be put forth anonymously" 5ay, would make other men believe that they had written it" 'hey would hire bull%hided self% advertising Anglishmen to bellow it abroad" 8reachers would found a fresh conduct of life upon it, swearing that it was new and that they had lifted the fear of death from all mankind" Avery !rientalist in Aurope would patroni/e it discursively with 3anskrit and 8ali te(ts" 'errible women would invent unclean variants of the men's belief for the elevation of their sisters" Churches and religions would war over it" Between the hailing and re%starting of an omnibus foresaw the scuffles that would arise among half a do/en denominations all professing "the doctrine of the 'rue 2etempsychosis as applied to the world and the 5ew Ara". and saw, too, the respectable Anglish newspapers shying, like frightened kine, over the beautiful simplicity of the tale" 'he mind leaped forward a hundred&two hundred&a thousand years" saw with sorrow that men would mutilate and garble the story. that rival creeds would turn it upside down till, at last, the western world which clings to the dread of death more closely than the hope of life, would set it aside as an interesting superstition and stampede after some faith so long forgotten that it seemed altogether new" #pon this changed the terms of the bargain that would make with the $ords of $ife and Beath" !nly let me know, let me write, the story with sure knowledge that wrote the truth, and would burn the manuscript as a solemn sacrifice" Cive minutes after the last line was written would destroy it all" But must be allowed to write it with absolute certainty" 'here was no answer" 'he flaming colors of an -6uarium poster caught my eye and wondered whether it would be wise or prudent to lure Charlie into the hands of the professional mesmerist, and whether, if he were under his power, he would speak of his past lives" f he did, and if people believed him """ but Charlie would be frightened and flustered, or made conceited by the interviews" n either case he would begin to lie, through fear or vanity" He was safest in my own hands, "'hey are very funny fools, your Anglish," said a voice at my elbow, and turning round recogni/ed a casual ac6uaintance, a young Bengali law student, called )rish Chunder, whose father had sent him to Angland to become civili/ed" 'he old man was a retired native official, and

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he 5ro9ect Gutenberg eBook of Indian ales, by :udyard ;ipling

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on an income of five pounds a month contrived to allow his son two hundred pounds a year, and the run of his teeth in a city where he could pretend to be the cadet of a royal house, and tell stories of the brutal Indian bureaucrats who ground the faces of the poor. Grish Chunder was a young, fat, full-bodied Bengali dressed with scrupulous care in frock coat, tall hat, light trousers and tan gloves. But I had known him in the days when the brutal Indian Government paid for his university education, and he contributed cheap sedition to Sachi Durpan, and intrigued with the wives of his schoolmates. " hat is very funny and very foolish," he said, nodding at the poster. "I am going down to the !orthbrook Club. "ill you come too#" I walked with him for some time. "$ou are not well," he said. ""hat is there in your mind# $ou do not talk." "Grish Chunder, you%ve been too well educated to believe in a God, haven%t you#" "&ah, yes, here! But when I go home I must conciliate popular superstition, and make ceremonies of purification, and my women will anoint idols." "'nd hang up tulsi and feast the purohit, and take you back into caste again and make a good khuttri of you again, you advanced social (ree-thinker. 'nd you%ll eat desi food, and like it all, from the smell in the courtyard to the mustard oil over you." "I shall very much like it," said Grish Chunder, unguardedly, "&nce a )indu*always a )indu. But I like to know what the +nglish think they know." "I%ll tell you something that one +nglishman knows. It%s an old tale to you." I began to tell the story of Charlie in +nglish, but Grish Chunder put a ,uestion in the vernacular, and the history went forward naturally in the tongue best suited for its telling. 'fter all it could never have been told in +nglish. Grish Chunder heard me, nodding from time to time, and then came up to my rooms where I finished the tale. "Beshak," he said, philosophically. "Lekin darwaza band hai. -"ithout doubt, but the door is shut.. I have heard of this remembering of previous e/istences among my people. It is of course an old tale with us, but, to happen to an +nglishman*a cow-fed Malechh*an outcast. By 0ove, that is most peculiar1" "&utcast yourself, Grish Chunder1 $ou eat cow-beef every day. 2et%s think the thing over. he boy remembers his incarnations." "3oes he know that#" said Grish Chunder, ,uietly, swinging his legs as he sat on my table. )e was speaking in +nglish now. ")e does not know anything. "ould I speak to you if he did# Go on1" " here is no going on at all. If you tell that to your friends they will say you are mad and put it in the papers. 4uppose, now, you prosecute for libel." "2et%s leave that out of the ,uestion entirely. Is there any chance of his being made to speak#" " here is a chance. &ah, yess1 But if he spoke it would mean that all this world would end now*instanto*fall down on your head. hese things are not allowed, you know. 's I said, the door is shut."

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The 3ro7ect "utenberg e&ook of ndian Tales, by 2udyard 8i%ling

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"Not a ghost of a chance?" "How can there be? You are a Christian, and it is forbidden to eat, in your books, of the Tree of Life, or else you would never die. How shall you all fear death if you all know what your friend does not know that he knows? a! afraid to be kicked, but a! not afraid to die, because know what know. You are not afraid to be kicked, but you are afraid to die. f you were not, by "od# you $nglish would be all over the sho% in an hour, u%setting the balances of %ower, and !aking co!!otions. t would not be good. &ut no fear. He will re!e!ber a little and a little less, and he will call it drea!s. Then he will forget altogether. 'hen %assed !y (irst )rts $*a!ination in Calcutta that was all in the cra!+book on 'ordsworth. Trailing clouds of glory, you know." "This see!s to be an e*ce%tion to the rule." "There are no e*ce%tions to rules. ,o!e are not so hard+looking as others, but they are all the sa!e when you touch. f this friend of yours said so+and+so and so+and+so, indicating that he re!e!bered all his lost lives, or one %iece of a lost life, he would not be in the bank another hour. He would be what you called sack because he was !ad, and they would send hi! to an asylu! for lunatics. You can see that, !y friend." "-f course can, but wasn.t thinking of hi!. His na!e need never a%%ear in the story," ")h# see. That story will never be written. You can try," " a! going to." "(or your own credit and for the sake of !oney, of course?" "No. (or the sake of writing the story. -n !y honor that will be all." "$ven then there is no chance. You cannot %lay with the "ods. t is a very %retty story now. )s they say, Let it go on that/ !ean at that. &e 0uick1 he will not last long." "How do you !ean?" "'hat say. He has never, so far, thought about a wo!an." "Hasn.t he, though#" re!e!bered so!e of Charlie.s confidences. " !ean no wo!an has thought about hi!. 'hen that co!es1 bus/hogya/all u%# know. There are !illions of wo!en here. House!aids, for instance." winced at the thought of !y story being ruined by a house!aid. )nd yet nothing was !ore %robable. "rish Chunder grinned. "Yes/also %retty girls/cousins of his house, and %erha%s not of his house. -ne kiss that he gives back again and re!e!bers will cure all this nonsense, or else"/ "-r else what? 2e!e!ber he does not know that he knows." " know that. -r else, if nothing ha%%ens he will beco!e i!!ersed in the trade and the financial s%eculations like the rest. t !ust be so. You can see that it !ust be so. &ut the wo!an will co!e first, I think."

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There was a rap at the door, and Charlie charged in impetuously. He had been released from office, and by the look in his eyes I could see that he had come over for a long talk; most probably with poems in his pockets. Charlie's poems were very wearying, but sometimes they led him to talk about the galley. rish Chunder looked at him keenly for a minute. !I beg your pardon,! Charlie said, uneasily; !I didn't know you had any one with you.! !I am going,! said rish Chunder, He drew me into the lobby as he departed. !That is your man,! he said, "uickly. !I tell you he will never speak all you wish. That is rot#bosh. $ut he would be most good to make to see things. %uppose now we pretend that it was only play!#I had never seen rish Chunder so e&cited#!and pour the ink'pool into his hand. (h, what do you think) I tell you that he could see anything that a man could see. *et me get the ink and the camphor. He is a seer and he will tell us very many things.! !He may be all you say, but I'm not going to trust him to your gods and devils.! !It will not hurt him. He will only feel a little stupid and dull when he wakes up. +ou have seen boys look into the ink'pool before.! !That is the reason why I am not going to see it any more. +ou'd better go, rish Chunder.! He went, declaring far down the staircase that it was throwing away my only chance of looking into the future. This left me unmoved, for I was concerned for the past, and no peering of hypnoti,ed boys into mirrors and ink'pools would help me to that. $ut I recogni,ed rish Chunder's point of view and sympathi,ed with it. !-hat a big black brute that was.! said Charlie, when I returned to him. !-ell, look here, I've /ust done a poem; did it instead of playing dominoes after lunch. 0ay I read it)! !*et me read it to myself.! !Then you miss the proper e&pression. $esides, you always make my things sound as if the rhymes were all wrong.! !1ead it aloud, then. +ou're like the rest of 'em.! Charlie mouthed me his poem, and it was not much worse than the average of his verses. He had been reading his books faithfully, but he was not pleased when I told him that I preferred my *ongfellow undiluted with Charlie. Then we began to go through the 0%. line by line; Charlie parrying every ob/ection and correction with2 !+es, that may be better, but you don't catch what I'm driving at.! Charles was, in one way at least, very like one kind of poet. There was a pencil scrawl at the back of the paper and !-hat's that)! I said.

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!<h that's not poetry at all. It's some rot I wrote last night before I went to bed and it was too much bother to hunt for rhymes; so I made it a sort of blank verse instead.! Here is Charlie's !blank verse!2 !-e pulled for you when the wind was against us and the sails were low. Will you never let us go? -e ate bread and onions when you took towns or ran aboard "uickly when you were beaten back by the foe, The captains walked up and down the deck in fair weather singing songs, but we were below, -e fainted with our chins on the oars and you did not see that we were idle for we still swung to and fro. Will

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