Rudyard Kipling : The Complete Novels and Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

sat down in the broken chair, and demanded absolute silence; how, at the end of fifteen minutes’ portentous meditation and fingering of a thin moustache, he sighed heavily as is the custom of Englishmen when they have eaten that which disagrees with them, waved the operator aside, called up the next office, and clicked off a message with a haughty and high-stepping action of the hands. How he lingered long and lovingly over the last click, applied his ear to the instrument as though it could answer, and turning with a large sweet smile said,— ‘Finis, Babu. Make a note of that,’ and swept forth chanting the war-cry of his State

      It is not wealth nor rank nor state,

      But get-up-and-git that makes men great.

      · · · · · · ·

      The bullock-cart creaked down the road to Rawut junction in the first flush of a purple evening, and the low ranges of the Aravallis showed as many coloured cloud banks against the turquoise sky-line. Behind it the red rock of Rhatore burned angrily on the yellow floors of the desert, speckled with the shadows of the browsing camels. Overhead the crane and the wild duck were flocking back to their beds in the reeds, and grey monkeys, family by family, sat on the roadside, their arms round one another’s necks. The evening star came up from behind a jagged peak of rock and brushwood, so that its reflection might swim undisturbed at the bottom of an almost dried reservoir, buttressed with time-yellowed marble and flanked with silver plume-grass. Between the star and the earth wheeled huge fox-headed bats and night-jars hawking for the feather-winged moths. The buffaloes had left their water-holes, and the cattle were lying down for the night. Then villagers in far-away huts began to sing, and the hillsides were studded with home lights. The bullocks grunted as the driver twisted their tails, and the high grass by the roadside brushed with the wash of a wave of the open beach against the slow-turning tyres.

      The first breath of a cold-weather night made Kate wrap her rugs about her more closely. Tarvin was sitting at the back of the cart, swinging his legs and staring at Rhatore before the bends of the roads should hide it, The realisation of defeat, remorse, and the torture of an over well-trained conscience were yet to come to Kate. In that hour, luxuriously disposed upon many cushions, she realised nothing more than a woman’s complete contentment with the fact that there was a man in the world to do things for her, though she had not yet learned to lose her interest in how they were done.

      The reiterated and passionate farewells of the women in the palace, and the cyclonic sweep of a wedding at which Nick had refused to efface himself as a bridegroom should, but had flung all their world forward on the torrent of his own vitality, had worn her out. The yearning of homesickness—she had seen it in Mrs. Estes’ wet eyes at the missionary’s house an hour before—lay strong upon her, and she would fain have remembered her plunge into the world’s evil as a dream of the night, but—

      ‘Nick,’ she said, softly.

      ‘What is it, little woman?’

      ‘Oh, nothing: I was thinking. Nick, what did you do about the Maharaj Kunwar?’

      ‘He’s fixed, or I’m mistaken. Don’t worry your head about that. After I’d explained a thing or two to old man Nolan he seemed to think well of inviting that young man to board with him until he starts for the Mayo College. Tumble?’

      ‘His poor mother! If only I could have——’

      ‘But you couldn’t, little woman. Hi! Look quick, Kate! There she goes! The last of Rhatore.’

      A string of coloured lights, high up on the hanging gardens of the palace; was being blotted out behind the velvet blackness of a hill shoulder. Tarvin leaped to his feet, caught the side of the cart, and bowed profoundly after the Oriental manner.

      The lights disappeared one by one, even as the glories of a necklace had slidden into a Kabuli grape-box, till there remained only the flare from a window on a topmost bastion—a point of light as red and as remote as the blaze of the Black Diamond. That passed too, and the soft darkness rose out of the earth fold upon fold wrapping the man and the woman.

      ‘After all,’ said Tarvin, addressing the newlighted firmament, ‘that was distinctly a side issue.’

      ▲▲▲

      ‘Captains Courageous’

      A Story of the Grand Banks

      by Rudyard Kipling

      with illustrations by I. W. Taber

      Macmillan and Co. Limited, London

       The Macmillan Company, New York 1897

      [The text follows the first edition.]

      ‘captains courageous’

      ▲▲▲

       Chapter 1

       Chapter 2

       Chapter 3

       Chapter 4

       Chapter 5

       Chapter 6

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

Chapter 1

      The weather door of the smoking-room had been left open to the North Atlantic fog, as the big liner rolled and lifted, whistling to warn the fishing-fleet.

      ‘That Cheyne boy’s the biggest nuisance aboard,’ said a man in a frieze overcoat, shutting the door with a bang. ‘He isn’t wanted here. He’s too fresh.’

      A white-haired German reached for a sandwich, and grunted between bites: ‘I know der breed. Ameriga is full of dot kind. I dell you you should imbort ropes’ ends free under your dariff.’

      ‘Pshaw! There isn’t any real harm to him. He’s more to be pitied than anything,’ a man from New York drawled, as he lay at full length along the cushions under the wet skylight. ‘They’ve dragged him around from hotel to hotel ever since he was a kid. I was talking to his mother this morning. She’s a lovely lady, but she don’t pretend to manage him. He’s going to Europe to finish his education.’

      ‘Education isn’t begun yet.’ This was a Philadelphian, curled up in a corner. ‘That boy gets two hundred a month pocket-money, he told me. He isn’t sixteen either.’

      harvey.

      ‘Railroads, his father, aind’t it?’ said the German.

      ‘Yep. That and mines and lumber and shipping. Built one place at San Diego, the old man has; another at Los Angeles; owns half a dozen railroads, half the lumber on the Pacific slope, and lets his wife spend the money,’ the Philadelphian went on lazily. ‘The West don’t suit her, she says.