Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (42 page)

Six roughly made pallets, laced with hide and string, stood in the filthy central courtyard of the house, and on each cot a man, swathed in a white sheet, tossed and moaned and jabbered. A woman entered with a pot full of rancid native sweetmeats, and tried vainly to make one of the men eat of her delicacies. In the full glare of the sunlight stood a young man almost absolutely unclothed, his hands clasped behind his head, trying to outstare the sun. He began a chant, broke off, and hurried from bed to bed, shouting to each words that Kate could not understand. Then he returned to his place in the centre, and took up his interrupted song.

‘He is confirmed lunatic, also,’ said the doctor. ‘I have blistered and cupped him very severely, but he will not go away. He is quite harmless, except when he does not get his opium.’

‘Surely you don’t allow the patients opium!’ exclaimed Kate.

‘Of course I allow opium. Otherwise they would die. All Rajputs eat opium.’

‘And you?’ asked Kate, with horror.

‘Once I did not — when I first came. But now —  — ’ He drew a smooth-worn tin tobacco box from his waist, and took from it what appeared to Kate a handful of opium pills.

Despair was going over her in successive waves. ‘Show me the women’s ward,’ she said wearily. ‘Oh, they are all upstairs and downstairs and roundabout,’ returned the doctor casually.

‘And the maternity cases?’ she asked.

‘They are in casual ward.’

‘Who attends to them?’

‘They do not like me; but there is very clever woman from the outside — she comes in.’

‘Has she any training — any education?’

‘She is much esteemed in her own village,’ said the doctor. ‘She is here now, if you wish to see.’

‘Where?’ demanded Kate.

Dhunpat Rai, somewhat uneasy in his mind, made haste to lead the way up a narrow staircase to a closed door, from behind which came the wail of a new life.

Kate flung the door open wrathfully. In that particular ward of the State Hospital were the clay and cow-dung images of two gods, which the woman in charge was besprinkling with marigold buds. Every window, every orifice that might admit a breath of air, was closed, and the birth-fire blazed fiercely in one corner, its fumes nearly asphyxiating Kate as she entered.

What happened between Kate and the much esteemed woman will never be known. The girl did not emerge for half an hour. But the woman came out much sooner, dishevelled, and cackling feebly.

After this Kate was prepared for anything, even for the neglected condition of the drugs in the dispensary — the mortar was never cleaned, and every prescription carried to the patient many more drugs than were written for him — and for the foul, undrained, uncleaned, unlighted, and unventilated rooms which she entered one after another hopelessly. The patients were allowed to receive their friends as they would, and to take from their hands whatever misguided kindness offered. When death came, the mourners howled in chorus about the cot, and bore the naked body through the courtyard, amid the jeers of the lunatic, to carry to the city what infection Heaven willed..

There was no isolation of infectious cases during the progress of the disease, and children scourged with ophthalmia played light-heartedly with the children of the visitors or among diphtheria beds. At one point, and one point only, the doctor was strong; he was highly successful in dealing with the very common trouble entered on the day-book as ‘loin bite.’ The woodcutters and small traders who had occasion to travel through the lonely roads of the State were not infrequently struck down by tigers, and in these cases the doctor, discarding the entire English pharmacopoeia, fell back on simples of proved repute in the neighbouring villages, and wrought wonders. None the less, it was necessary to convey to him that in future there would be only one head of the State Hospital, that her orders must be obeyed without question, and that her name was Miss Kate Sheriff.

The doctor, reflecting that she attended on the women of the court, offered no protest. He had been through many such periods of reform and reorganisation, and knew that his own inertia and a smooth tongue would carry him through many more. He bowed and assented, allowing Kate’s reproaches to pass over his head, and parrying all questions with the statement —

‘This hospital only allowed one hundred and fifty rupees per mensem from State revenues. How can get drugs all the way from Calcutta for that?’

‘I am paying for this order,’ said Kate, writing out a list of needed drugs and appliances on the desk in the bath-room, which was supposed to serve as an office; ‘and I shall pay for whatever else I think necessary.’

‘Order going through me offeecially?’ suggested Dhunpat Rai, with his head on one side.

Unwilling to raise unnecessary obstacles, Kate assented. With those poor creatures lying in the rooms about her unwatched, untended, at the mercy of this creature, it was not a time to argue about commissions.

‘Yes,’ she said decidedly; ‘of course.’ And the doctor, when he saw the size and scope of the order, felt that he could endure much at her hands.

At the end of the three hours Kate came away, fainting with weariness, want of food, and bitter heartache.

XI

Who speaks to the King carries his life in his hand.
 — Native Proverb.

Tarvin found the Maharajah, who had not yet taken his morning allowance of opium, sunk in the deepest depression. The man from Topaz gazed at him shrewdly, filled with his purpose.

The Maharajah’s first words helped him to declare it. ‘What have you come here for?’ he asked.

‘To Rhatore?’ inquired Tarvin, with a smile that embraced the whole horizon.

‘Yes; to Rhatore,’ grunted the Maharajah. ‘The agent sahib says you do not belong to any government, and that you have come here only to see things and write lies about them. Why have you come?’

‘I have come to turn your river. There is gold in it,’ he said steadily.

The Maharajah answered him with brevity. ‘Go and speak to the Government,’ he said sulkily.

‘It’s your river, I guess,’ returned Tarvin cheerfully.

‘Mine! Nothing in the State is mine. The shopkeeper people are at my gates day and night. The agent sahib won’t let me collect taxes as my fathers used to do. I have no army.’

‘That’s perfectly true,’ assented Tarvin, under his breath. ‘I’ll run off with it some morning.’

‘And if I had,’ continued the Maharajah, ‘I have no one to fight against. I am only an old wolf, with all my teeth drawn. Go away!’

They were talking in the flagged courtyard immediately outside that wing of the palace occupied by Sitabhai. The Maharajah was sitting in a broken Windsor chair, while his grooms brought up successive files of horses, saddled and bridled, in the hope that one of the animals might be chosen for his Majesty’s ride. The stale, sick air of the palace drifted across the marble flags before the morning wind, and it was not a wholesome smell.

Tarvin, who had drawn rein in the courtyard without dismounting, flung his right leg over the pony’s withers, and held his peace. He had seen something of the effect of opium upon the Maharajah. A servant was approaching with a small brass bowl full of opium and water. The Maharajah swallowed the draught with many wry faces, dashed the last brown drops from his moustache and beard, and dropped back into the chair, staring with vacant eyes. In a few minutes he sprang to his feet, erect and smiling.

‘Are you here, Sahib?’ said he. ‘You are here, or I should not feel ready to laugh. Do you go riding this morning?’

‘I’m your man.’

‘Then we will bring out the Foxhall colt. He will throw you.’

‘Very good,’ said Tarvin leisurely.

‘And I will ride my own Cutch mare. Let us get away before the agent sahib comes,’ said the Maharajah.

The blast of a bugle was heard without the courtyard, and a clatter of wheels, as the grooms departed to saddle the horses.

The Maharaj Kunwar ran up the steps and pattered toward the Maharajah, his father, who picked him up in his lap, and fondled him.

‘What brings thee here, Lalji?’ asked the Maharajah. Lalji, the Beloved, was the familiar name by which the Prince was known within the palace.

‘I came to exercise my guard. Father, they are giving me bad saddlery for my troopers from the State arsenal. Jeysingh’s saddle-peak is mended with string, and Jeysingh is the best of my soldiers. Moreover, he tells me nice tales,’ said the Maharaj Kunwar, speaking in the vernacular, with a friendly little nod toward Tarvin.

‘Hai! Hai! Thou art like all the rest,’ said the King. ‘Always some fresh demand upon the State. And what is it now?’

The child joined his little hands together, and caught his father fearlessly by his monstrous beard, which, in the manner of a Rajput, was brushed up over his ears. ‘Only ten little new saddles,’ said the child. ‘They are in the big saddle-rooms. I have seen them. But the keeper of the horses said that I was first to ask the King.’

The Maharajah’s face darkened, and he swore a great oath by his gods.

‘The King is a slave and a servant,’ he growled — ’the servant of the agent sahib and this woman-talking English Raj; but, by Indur! the King’s son is at least a King’s son. What right had Saroop Singh to stay thee from anything that thou desiredst, Prince?’

‘I told him,’ said the Maharaj Kunwar, ‘that my father would not be pleased. But I said no more, because I was not very well, and thou knowest’ — the boy’s head drooped under the turban — ’I am only a little child. I may have the saddles?’

Tarvin, to whom no word of this conversation was intelligible, sat at ease on his pony, smiling at his friend the Maharaj. The interview had begun in the dead dawn-silence of the courtyard — a silence so intense that he could hear the doves cooing on a tower a hundred and fifty feet above his head. But now all four sides of the green-shuttered courtyard were alive, awake, and intent about him. He could hear muffled breathings, the rustle of draperies, and the faintest possible jarring of shutters, cautiously opened from within. A heavy smell of musk and jasmine came to his nostrils and filled him with uneasiness, for he knew, without turning his head or his eyes, that Sitabhai and her women were watching all that went on. But neither the King nor the Prince heeded. The Maharaj Kunwar was very full of his English lessons, learned at Mrs. Estes’ knee, and the King was as interested as he. Lest Tarvin should fail to understand, the Prince began to speak in English again, but very slowly and distinctly, that his father also might comprehend.

‘And this is a new verse,’ he said, ‘which I learned only yesterday.’

‘Is there any talk of their gods in it?’ asked the Maharajah suspiciously. ‘Remember, thou art a Rajput.’

‘No; oh no!’ said the Prince. ‘It is only English, and I learned it very quickly.’

‘Let me hear, little Pundit. Some day thou wilt become a scribe, and go to the English colleges, and wear a long black gown.’

The child slipped quickly back into the vernacular. ‘The flag of our State has five colours,’ he said. ‘When I have fought for that, perhaps I will become an Englishman.’

‘There is no leading of armies afield any more, little one; but say thy verses.’

The subdued rustle of unseen hundreds grew more intense. Tarvin leaned forward with his chin in his hand, as the Prince slid down from his father’s lap, put his hands behind him, and began, without pauses or expression —

Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Framed thy fearful symmetry? When thy heart began to beat What dread hand made thy dread feet?

‘There is more that I have forgotten,’ he went on, ‘but the last line is —

‘Did He who made the lamb make thee?

I learned it all very quickly.’ And he began to applaud himself with both hands, while Tarvin followed suit.

‘I do not understand; but it is good to know English. Thy friend here speaks such English as I never knew,’ said the Maharajah in the vernacular.

‘Ay,’ rejoined the Prince. ‘But he speaks with his face and his hands alive — so; and I laugh before I know why. Now Colonel Nolan Sahib speaks like a buffalo, with his mouth shut. I cannot tell whether he is angry or pleased. But, father, what does Tarvin Sahib do here?’

‘We go for a ride together,’ returned the King. ‘When we return, perhaps I will tell thee. What do the men about thee say of him?’

‘They say he is a man of clean heart; and he is always kind to me.’

‘Has he said aught to thee of me?’

‘Never in language that I could understand. But I do not doubt that he is a good man. See, he is laughing now.’

Tarvin, who had pricked up his ears at hearing his own name, now resettled himself in the saddle, and gathered up his reins, as a hint to the King that it was time to be moving.

The grooms brought up a long, switch-tailed English thoroughbred and a lean, mouse-coloured mare. The Maharajah rose to his feet.

‘Go back to Saroop Singh and get the saddles, Prince,’ said he.

‘What are you going to do today, little man?’ asked Tarvin.

‘I shall go and get new equipment,’ answered the child, ‘and then I shall come to play with the prime minister’s son here.’

Again, like the hiss of a hidden snake, the rustle behind the shutters increased. Evidently some one there understood the child’s words.

‘Shall you see Miss Kate today?’

‘Not today. ‘Tis holiday for me. I do not go to Mrs. Estes today.’

The King turned on Tarvin swiftly, and spoke under his breath.

‘Must he see that doctor lady every day? All my people lie to me, in the hope of winning my favour; even Colonel Nolan says that the child is very strong. Speak the truth. He is my first son.’

‘He is not strong,’ answered Tarvin calmly. ‘Perhaps it would be better to let him see Miss Sheriff this morning. You don’t lose anything by keeping your weather eye open, you know.’

‘I do not understand,’ said the King; ‘but go to the missionary’s house today, my son.’

‘I am to come here and play,’ answered the Prince petulantly.

‘You don’t know what Miss Sheriff’s got for you to play with,’ said Tarvin.