Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (257 page)

Everything above the average was in the eyes of His Majesty the King “Calcutta good.” When Miss Biddums had crossed his royal will, he reversed the epithet to vex that estimable lady, and all things evil were, until the tears of repentance swept away spite, “Calcutta bad.”

Now and again Miss Biddums begged for him the rare pleasure of a day in the society of the Commissioner’s child — the wilful four-year-old Patsie, who, to the intense amazement of His Majesty the King, was idolized by her parents. On thinking the question out at length, by roads unknown to those who have left childhood behind, he came to the conclusion that Patsie was petted because she wore a big blue sash and yellow hair.

This precious discovery he kept to himself. The yellow hair was absolutely beyond his power, his own tousled wig being potato-brown; but something might be done toward the blue sash. He tied a large knot in his mosquito-curtains in order to remember to consult Patsie on their next meeting. She was the only child he had ever spoken to, and almost the only one that he had ever seen. The little memory and the very large and ragged knot held good.

“Patsie, lend me your blue wiband,” said His Majesty the King.

“You’ll bewy it,” said Patsie, doubtfully, mindful of certain fearful atrocities committed on her doll.

“No, I won’t — twoofanhonor. It’s for me to wear.”

“Pooh!” said Patsie. “Boys don’t wear sa-ashes. Zey’s only for dirls.”

“I didn’t know.” The face of His Majesty the King fell.

“Who wants ribands? Are you playing horses, chickabiddies?” said the Commissioner’s wife, stepping into the veranda.

“Toby wanted my sash,” explained Patsie.

“I don’t now,” said His Majesty the King, hastily, feeling that with one of these terrible “grown-ups” his poor little secret would be shamelessly wrenched from him, and perhaps — most burning desecration of all — laughed at.

“I’ll give you a cracker-cap,” said the Commissioner’s wife. “Come along with me, Toby, and we’ll choose it.”

The cracker-cap was a stiff, three-pointed vermilion-and-tinsel splendor. His Majesty the King fitted it on his royal brow. The Commissioner’s wife had a face that children instinctively trusted, and her action, as she adjusted the toppling middle spike, was tender.

“Will it do as well?” stammered His Majesty the King.

“As what, little one?”

“As ve wiban?”

“Oh, quite. Go and look at yourself in the glass.”

The words were spoken in all sincerity and to help forward any absurd “dressing-up” amusement that the children might take into their minds. But the young savage has a keen sense of the ludicrous. His Majesty the King swung the great cheval-glass down, and saw his head crowned with the staring horror of a fool’s cap — a thing which his father would rend to pieces if it ever came into his office. He plucked it off, and burst into tears.

“Toby,” said the Commissioner’s wife, gravely, “you shouldn’t give way to temper. I am very sorry to see it. It’s wrong.”

His Majesty the King sobbed inconsolably, and the heart of Patsie’s mother was touched. She drew the child on to her knee. Clearly it was not temper alone.

“What is it, Toby? Won’t you tell me? Aren’t you well?”

The torrent of sobs and speech met, and fought for a time, with chokings and gulpings and gasps. Then, in a sudden rush, His Majesty the King was delivered of a few inarticulate sounds, followed by the words: — ”Go a — way you — dirty — little debbil!”

“Toby! What do you mean?”

“It’s what he’d say. I
know
it is! He said vat when vere was only a little, little eggy mess, on my t-t-unic; and he’d say it again, and laugh, if I went in wif vat on my head.”

“Who would say that?”

“M-m-my Papa! And I fought if I had ve blue wiban, he’d let me play in ve waste-paper basket under ve table.”

“
What
blue riband, childie?”

“Ve same vat Patsie had — ve big blue wiban w-w-wound my t-ttummy!”

“What is it, Toby? There’s something on your mind. Tell me all about it, and perhaps I can help.”

“Isn’t anyfing,” sniffed His Majesty, mindful of his manhood, and raising his head from the motherly bosom upon which it was resting. “I only fought vat you — you petted Patsie ‘cause she had ve blue wiban, and — and if I’d had ve blue wiban too, m-my Papa w-would pet me.”

The secret was out, and His Majesty the King sobbed bitterly in spite of the arms round him, and the murmur of comfort on his heated little forehead.

Enter Patsie tumultuously, embarrassed by several lengths of the Commissioner’s pet
mahseer
-rod. “Tum along, Toby! Zere’s a chu-chu
lizard in
ze chick, and I’ve told Chimo to watch him till we turn. If we poke him wiz zis his tail will go wiggle-wiggle and fall off. Tum along! I can’t weach.”

“I’m comin’,” said His Majesty the King, climbing down from the Commissioner’s wife’s knee after a hasty kiss.

Two minutes later, the chu-chu lizard’s tail was wriggling on the matting of the veranda, and the children were gravely poking it with splinters from the
chick
, to urge its exhausted vitality into “just one wiggle more, ‘cause it doesn’t hurt chu-chu.”

The Commissioner’s wife stood in the doorway and watched: — ”Poor little mite! A blue sash ... and my own precious Patsie! I wonder if the best of us, or we who love them best, ever understand what goes on in their topsy-turvy little heads.”

A big tear splashed on the Commissioner’s wife’s wedding-ring, and she went indoors to devise a tea for the benefit of His Majesty the King.

“Their souls aren’t in their tummies at that age in this climate,” said the Commissioner’s wife, “but they are not far off. I wonder if I could make Mrs. Austell understand. Poor little fellow!”

With simple craft, the Commissioner’s wife called on Mrs. Austell and spoke long and lovingly about children; inquiring specially for His Majesty the King.

“He’s with his governess,” said Mrs. Austell, and the tone intimated that she was not interested.

The Commissioner’s wife, unskilled in the art of war, continued her questionings. “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Austell. “These things are left to Miss Biddums, and, of course, she does not ill-treat the child.”

The Commissioner’s wife left hastily. The last sentence jarred upon her nerves. “Doesn’t ill-treat the child! As if that were all! I wonder what Tom would say if I only ‘didn’t ill-treat’ Patsie!”

Thenceforward, His Majesty the King was an honored guest at the Commissioner’s house, and the chosen friend of Patsie, with whom he blundered into as many scrapes as the compound and the servants’ quarters afforded. Patsie’s Mamma was always ready to give counsel, help, and sympathy, and, if need were and callers few, to enter into their games with an
abandon
that would have shocked the sleek-haired subalterns who squirmed painfully in their chairs when they came to call on her whom they profanely nicknamed “Mother Bunch.”

Yet, in spite of Patsie and Patsie’s Mamma, and the love that these two lavished upon him, His Majesty the King fell grievously from grace, and committed no less a sin than that of theft — unknown, it is true, but burdensome.

There came a man to the door one day, when His Majesty was playing in the hall and the bearer had gone to dinner, with a packet for his Majesty’s Mamma. And he put it upon the hall-table, said that there was no answer, and departed.

Presently, the pattern of the dado ceased to interest His Majesty, while the packet, a white, neatly wrapped one of fascinating shape, interested him very much indeed. His Mamma was out, so was Miss Biddums, and there was pink string round the packet. He greatly desired pink string. It would help him in many of his little businesses — the haulage across the floor of his small cane-chair, the torturing of Chimo, who could never understand harness — and so forth. If he took the string it would be his own, and nobody would be any the wiser. He certainly could not pluck up sufficient courage to ask Mamma for it. Wherefore, mounting upon a chair, he carefully untied the string and, behold, the stiff white paper spread out in four directions, and revealed a beautiful little leather box with gold lines upon it! He tried to replace the string, but that was a failure. So he opened the box to get full satisfaction for his iniquity, and saw a most beautiful Star that shone and winked, and was altogether lovely and desirable.

“Vat,” said His Majesty, meditatively, “is a ‘parkle cwown, like what I will wear when I go to heaven. I will wear it on my head — Miss Biddums says so. I would like to wear it
now
. I would like to play wiv it. I will take it away and play wiv it, very careful, until Mamma asks for it. I fink it was bought for me to play wiv — same as my cart.”

His Majesty the King was arguing against his conscience, and he knew it, for he thought immediately after: “Never mind. I will keep it to play wiv until Mamma says where is it, and then I will say: — ’I tookt it and I am sorry.’ I will not hurt it because it is a ‘parkle cwown. But Miss Biddums will tell me to put it back. I will not show it to Miss Biddums.”

If Mamma had come in at that moment all would have gone well. She did not, and His Majesty the King stuffed paper, case, and jewel into the breast of his blouse and marched to the nursery.

“When Mamma asks I will tell,” was the salve that he laid upon his conscience. But Mamma never asked, and for three whole days His Majesty the King gloated over his treasure. It was of no earthly use to him, but it was splendid, and, for aught he knew, something dropped from the heavens themselves. Still Mamma made no inquiries, and it seemed to him, in his furtive peeps, as though the shiny stones grew dim. What was the use of a ‘parkle cwown if it made a little boy feel all bad in his inside? He had the pink string as well as the other treasure, but greatly he wished that he had not gone beyond the string. It was his first experience of iniquity, and it pained him after the flush of possession and secret delight in the “‘parkle cwown” had died away.

Each day that he delayed rendered confession to the people beyond the nursery doors more impossible. Now and again he determined to put himself in the path of the beautifully attired lady as she was going out, and explain that he and no one else was the possessor of a “‘parkle cwown,” most beautiful and quite uninquired for. But she passed hurriedly to her carriage, and the opportunity was gone before His Majesty the King could draw the deep breath which clinches noble resolve. The dread secret cut him off from Miss Biddums, Patsie, and the Commissioner’s wife, and — doubly hard fate — when he brooded over it Patsie said, and told her mother, that he was cross.

The days were very long to His Majesty the King, and the nights longer still. Miss Biddums had informed him, more than once, what was the ultimate destiny of “fieves,” and when he passed the interminable mud flanks of the Central Jail, he shook in his little strapped shoes.

But release came after an afternoon spent in playing boats by the edge of the tank at the bottom of the garden. His Majesty the King went to tea, and, for the first time in his memory, the meal revolted him. His nose was very cold, and his cheeks were burning hot. There was a weight about his feet, and he pressed his head several times to make sure that it was not swelling as he sat.

“I feel vevy funny,” said His Majesty the King, rubbing his nose. “Vere’s a buzz-buzz in my head.”

He went to bed quietly. Miss Biddums was out and the bearer undressed him.

The sin of the “‘parkle cwown” was forgotten in the acuteness of the discomfort to which he roused after a leaden sleep of some hours, He was thirsty, and the bearer had forgotten to leave the drinking-water. “Miss Biddums! Miss Biddums! I’m so kirsty!”

No answer, Miss Biddums had leave to attend the wedding of a Calcutta schoolmate. His Majesty the King had forgotten that.

“I want a dwink of water!” he cried, but his voice was dried up in his throat. “I want a dwink! Vere is ve glass?”

He sat up in bed and looked round. There was a murmur of voices from the other side of the nursery door. It was better to face the terrible unknown than to choke in the dark. He slipped out of bed, but his feet were strangely wilful, and he reeled once or twice. Then he pushed the door open and staggered — a puffed and purple-faced little figure — into the brilliant light of the dining-room full of pretty ladies.

“I’m vevy hot! I’m vevy uncomfitivle,” moaned His Majesty the King, clinging to the portiere, “and vere’s no water in ve glass, and I’m
so
kirsty. Give me a dwink of water.”

An apparition in black and white — His Majesty the King could hardly see distinctly — lifted him up to the level of the table, and felt his wrists and forehead. The water came, and he drank deeply, his teeth chattering against the edge of the tumbler. Then every one seemed to go away — every one except the huge man in black and white, who carried him back to his bed; the mother and father following. And the sin of the “‘parkle cwown” rushed back and took possession of the terrified soul.

“I’m a fief!” he gasped. “I want to tell Miss Biddums vat I’m a fief. Vere is Miss Biddums?”

Miss Biddums had come and was bending over him. “I’m a fief,” he whispered. “A fief — like ve men in the pwison. But I’ll tell now, I tookt ... I tookt ve ‘parkle cwown when the man that came left it in ve hall. I bwoke ve paper and ve little bwown box, and it looked shiny, and I tookt it to play wif, and I was afwaid. It’s in ve dooly-box at ve bottom. No one
never
asked for it, but I was afwaid. Oh, go an’ get ve dooly-box!”

Miss Biddums obediently stooped to the lowest shelf of the
almirah
and unearthed the big paper box in which His Majesty the King kept his dearest possessions. Under the tin soldiers, and a layer of mud pellets for a pellet-bow, winked and blazed a diamond star, wrapped roughly in a half-sheet of note-paper whereon were a few words.

Somebody was crying at the head of the bed, and a man’s hand touched the forehead of His Majesty the King, who grasped the packet and spread it on the bed.

“Vat is ve ‘parkle cwown,” he said, and wept bitterly; for now that he had made restitution he would fain have kept the shining splendor with him.