Rudyard Kipling: 440+ Short Stories in One Edition (Illustrated). Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

softly.) My boy of boys! Shall I tell you something?

      CAPT. G. Yes, if it's not dreadful—about other men.

      MRS. G. It's about my own bad little self.

      CAPT. G. Then it must be good. Go on, dear.

      MRS. G. (Slowly.) I don't know why I'm telling you, Pip; but if ever you marry again—(Interlude.) Take your hand from my mouth or I'll bite! In the future, then remember—I don't know quite how to put it!

      CAPT. G. (Snorting indignantly.) Don't try. 'Marry again,' indeed!

      MRS. G. I must. Listen, my husband. Never, never, never tell your wife anything that you do not wish her to remember and think over all her life. Because a woman—yes, I am a woman—can't forget.

      CAPT. G. By Jove, how do you know that?

      MRS. G. (Confusedly.) I don't. I'm only guessing. I am—I was—a silly little girl; but I feel that I know so much, oh, so very much more than you, dearest. To begin with, I'm your wife.

      CAPT. G. So I have been led to believe.

      MRS. G. And I shall want to know every one of your secrets—to share everything you know with you. (Stares round desperately.)

      CAPT. G. So you shall, dear, so you shall—but don't look like that.

      MRS. G. For your own sake don't stop me, Phil. I shall never talk to you in this way again. You must not tell me! At least, not now. Later on, when I'm an old matron it won't matter, but if you love me, be very good to me now; for this part of my life I shall never forget! Have I made you understand?

      CAPT. G. I think so, child. Have I said anything yet that you disapprove of?

      MRS. G. Will you be very angry? That—that voice, and what you said about the engagement—

      CAPT. G. But you asked to be told that, darling.

      MRS. G. And that's why you shouldn't have told me! You must be the judge, and, oh, Pip, dearly as I love you, I shan't be able to help you! I shall hinder you, and you must judge in spite of me!

      CAPT. G. (Meditatively.) We have a great many things to find out together, God help us both—say so, Pussy—but we shall understand each other better every day; and I think I'm beginning to see now. How in the world did you come to know just the importance of giving me just that lead?

      MRS. G. I've told you that I don't know. Only somehow it seemed that, in all this new life, I was being guided for your sake as well as my own.

      CAPT. G. (Aside.) Then Mafflin was right! They know, and we—we're blind—all of us. (Lightly.) 'Getting a little beyond our depth, dear, aren't we? I'll remember, and, if I fail, let me be punished as I deserve.

      MRS. G. There shall be no punishment. We'll start into life together from here—you and I—and no one else.

      CAPT. G. And no one else. (A pause.) Your eyelashes are all wet, Sweet? Was there ever such a quaint little Absurdity?

      MRS. G. Was there ever such nonsense talked before?

      CAPT. G. (Knocking the ashes out of his pipe.) 'Tisn't what we say, it's what we don't say, that helps. And it's all the profoundest philosophy. But no one would understand—even if it were put into a book.

      MRS. G. The idea! No—only we ourselves, or people like ourselves—if there are any people like us.

      CAPT. G. (Magisterially.) All people, not like ourselves, are blind idiots.

      MRS. G. (Wiping her eyes.) Do you think, then, that there are any people as happy as we are?

      CAPT. G. 'Must be—unless we've appropriated all the happiness in the world.

      MRS. G. (Looking towards Simla.) Poor dears! Just fancy if we have!

      CAPT. G. Then we'll hang on to the whole show, for it's a great deal too jolly to lose—eh, wife o' mine?

      MRS. G. O Pip! Pip! How much of you is a solemn, married man and how much a horrid, slangy schoolboy?

      CAPT. G. When you tell me how much of you was eighteen last birthday and how much is as old as the Sphinx and twice as mysterious, perhaps I'll attend to you. Lend me that banjo. The spirit moveth me to yowl at the sunset.

      MRS. G. Mind! It's not tuned. Ah! How that jars.

      CAPT. G. (Turning pegs.) It's amazingly difficult to keep a banjo to proper pitch.

      MRS. G. It's the same with all musical instruments. What shall it be?

      CAPT. G. 'Vanity,' and let the hills hear. (Sings through the first and half of the second verse. Turning to MRS. G.) Now, chorus! Sing, Pussy!

      BOTH TOGETHER. (Con brio, to the horror of the monkeys who are settling for the night.)—

      'Vanity, all is Vanity,' said Wisdom, scorning me—

       I clasped my true Love's tender hand and answered

       frank and free—ee:—

       'If this be Vanity who'd be wise?

       If this be Vanity who'd be wise?

       If this be Vanity who'd be wi—ise?

       (Crescendo.) Vanity let it be!'

      MRS. G. (Defiantly to the gray of the evening sky.) 'Vanity let it be!'

      ECHO. (From the Fagoo spur.) Let it be!

Fatima

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      And you may go into every room of the house and see everything that is there, but into the Blue Room you must not go.—The Story of Blue Beard.

      SCENE.—The GADSBYS' bungalow in the Plains. Time, 11 A. M. on a Sunday morning. CAPTAIN GADSBY, in his shirt-sleeves, is bending over a complete set of Hussar's equipment, from saddle to picketing-rope, which is neatly spread over the floor of his study. He is smoking an unclean briar, and his forehead is puckered with thought.

      CAPT. G. (To himself, fingering a headstall.) Jack's an ass. There's enough brass on this to load a mule—and, if the Americans know anything about anything, it can be cut down to a bit only. 'Don't want the watering-bridle, either. Humbug!—Half a dozen sets of chains and pulleys for one horse! Rot! (Scratching his head.) Now, let's consider it all over from the beginning. By Jove, I've forgotten the scale of weights! Ne'er mind. 'Keep the bit only, and eliminate every boss from the crupper to breastplate. No breastplate at all. Simple leather strap across the breast—like the Russians. Hi! Jack never thought of that!

      MRS. G. (Entering hastily, her hand bound in a cloth.) Oh, Pip, I've scalded my hand over that horrid, horrid Tiparee jam!

      CAPT. G. (Absently.) Eh! Wha-at?

      MRS. G. (With round-eyed reproach.) I've scalded it aw-fully! Aren't you sorry? And I did so want that jam to jam properly.

      CAPT. G. Poor little woman! Let me kiss the place and make it well. (Unrolling bandage.) You small sinner! Where's that scald? I can't see it.

      MRS. G. On the top of the little finger. There!—It's a most 'normous big burn!

      CAPT. G. (Kissing little finger.) Baby! Let Hyder look after the jam. You know I don't care for sweets.

      MRS. G. In-deed?—Pip!

      CAPT. G. Not of that kind, anyhow. And now run along, Minnie, and leave me to my own base devices. I'm busy.

      MRS. G. (Calmly settling herself in long chair.)