Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (599 page)

“Always the same,” said the Devil quietly. “These little writers are so anxious to reach their reward. H’m, I don’t think he likes his’n, though.” A yell of despair reached my ears and I shuddered afresh. “Who was he?” I asked. “Hack-writer for a pornographic firm in Belgium, exporting to London, you’ll understand presently — and now we’ll go in,” said the Devil. “I must apologise for that creature’s rudeness. He should have stopped at the distance-signal for line-clear. You can hear the souls whistling there now.”

“Are they the souls of men?” I whispered.

“Yes — writer-men. That’s why they are so shrill and querulous. Welcome to the Limbo of Lost Endeavour!”

They passed into a domed hall, more vast than visions could embrace, crowded to its limit by men, women and children. Round the eye of the dome ran, a flickering fire, that terrible quotation from Job: “Oh, that mine enemy had written a book!”

“Neat, isn’t it?” said the Devil, following my glance. “Another joke of the Master’s. Man of Us, y’ know. In the old days we used to put the Characters into a disused circle of Dante’s Inferno, but they grew overcrowded. So Balzac and Theophile Gautier were commissioned to write up this building. It took them three years to complete, and is one of the finest under earth. Don’t attempt to describe it unless you are quite sure you are equal to Balzac and Gautier in collaboration. ‘Look at the crowds and tell me what you think of them.”

I looked long and earnestly, and saw that many of the multitude were cripples. They walked on their heels or their toes, or with a list to the right or left. A few of them possessed odd eyes and parti-coloured hair; more threw themselves into absurd and impossible attitudes; and every fourth woman seemed to be weeping.

“Who are these?” I said.

“Mainly the population of three-volume novels that never reach the six-shilling stage. See that beautiful girl with one grey eye and one brown, and the black and yellow hair? Let her be an awful warning to you how you correct your proofs. She was created by a careless writer a month ago, and he changed all colours in the second volume. So she came here as you see her. There will be trouble when she meets her author. He can’t alter her now, and she says she’ll accept no apology.”

“But when will she meet her author?”

“Not in my department. Do you notice a general air of expectancy among all the Characters? They are waiting for their authors. Look! .That explains the system better than I can.”

A lovely maiden, at whose feet I would willingly have fallen and worshipped, detached herself from the crowd and hastened to the door through which I had just come. There was a prolonged whistle without, a soul dashed through the coffin and fell upon her neck. The girl with the parti-coloured hair eyed the couple enviously as they departed arm in arm to the other side of the hall.

“That man,” said the Devil, “wrote one magazine story, of twenty-four pages, ten years ago when he was desperately in love with a flesh and blood woman. He put all his heart into the work, and created the girl you have just seen. The flesh and blood woman married some one else and died — it’s a way they have — but the man has this girl for his very own, and she will everlastingly grow sweeter.”

“Then the Characters are independent?”

“Slightly! Have you never known one of your Characters — even yours — get beyond control as soon as they are made?”

“That’s true. Where are those two happy creatures going?”

“To the Levels. You’ve heard of authors finding their levels? We keep all the Levels here. As each writer enters, he picks up his Characters, or they pick him up, as the case may be, and to the Levels he goes.”

“I should like to see”

“So you shall, when you come through that door a second time — whistling. I can’t take you there now.”

“Do you keep only the Characters of living scribblers in this hall?”

“We should be crowded out if we didn’t draft them off somehow. Step this way and I’ll take you to the Master. One moment, though. There’s John Ridd with Lorna Doone, and there are Mr. Maliphant and the Bormalacks — clannish folk, those Besant Characters — don’t let the twins talk to you about Literature and Art. Come along. What’s here?”

The white face of Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, broke through the press. “I wish to explain,” said he in a level voice, “that had I been consulted I should never have blown out my brains with the Duchess and all that Poker Flat lot. I wish to add that the only woman I ever loved was the wife of Brown of Calaveras.” He pressed his hand behind him suggestively. “All right, Mr. Oakhurst,” I said hastily; “I believe you.” “Kin you set it right?” he asked, dropping into the Doric of the Gulches. I caught a trigger’s cloth-muffled click. “Just heavens!” I groaned. “Must I be shot for the sake of another man’s Characters?” Oakhurst levelled his revolver at my head, but the weapon was struck up by the hand of Yuba Bill. “You durned fool!” said the stage-driver. “Hevn’t I told you no one but a blamed idiot shoots at sight now? Let the galoot go. You kin see by his eyes he’s no party to your matrimonial arrangements.” Oakhurst retired with an irreproachable bow, but in my haste to escape I fell over Caliban, his head in a melon and his tame ore under his arm. He spat like a wildcat.

“Manners none, customs beastly,” said the Devil. “We’ll take the Bishop with us. They all respect the Bishop.” And the great Bishop Blougram joined us, calm and smiling, with the news, for my private ear, that Mr. Giga- dibs despised him no longer.

We were arrested by a knot of semi-nude Bacchantes kissing a clergyman. The Bishop’s eyes twinkled, and I turned to the Devil for explanation.

“That’s Robert Elsmere — what’s left of him,” said the Devil. “Those are French feuilleton women and scourings of the Opera Comique. He has been lecturing ‘em, and they don’t like it.” “He lectured me!” said the Bishop with a bland smile. “He has been a nuisance ever since he came here. By the Holy Law of Proportion, he had the audacity to talk to the Master! Called him a ‘pot-bellied barbarian,I That is why he is walking so stiffly now,” said the Devil. “Listen! Marie Pigeonnier is swearing deathless love to him. On my word, we ought to segregate the French characters entirely. By the way, your regiment came in very handy for Zola’s importations.”

“My regiment?” I said. “How do you mean?”

“You wrote something about the Tyneside Tail-Twisters, just enough to give the outline of the regiment, and of course it came down here — one thousand and eighty strong. I told it off in hollow squares to pen up the Rougon- Macquart series. There they are.” I looked and saw the Tyneside Tail-Twisters ringing an inferno of struggling, shouting, blaspheming men and women in the costumes of the Second Empire. Now and again the shadowy ranks brought down their butts on the toes of the crowd inside the square, and shrieks of pain followed. “You should have indicated your men more clearly; they are hardly up to their work,” said the Devil. “If the Zola tribe increase, I’m afraid I shall have to use up your two companies of the Black Tyrone and two of the Old Regiment.”

“I am proud” I began.

“Go slow,” said the Devil. “You won’t be half so proud in a little while, and I don’t think much of your regiments, anyway. But they are good enough to fight the French. Can you hear Coupeau raving in the left angle of the square? He used to run about the hall seeing pink snakes, till the children’s story-book Characters protested. Come along!”

Never since Caxton pulled his first proof and made for the world a new and most terrible God of Labour had mortal man such an experience as mine when I followed the Devil of Discontent through the shifting crowds below the motto of the Dome. A few — a very few — of the faces were of old friends, but there were thousands whom I did not recognise. Men in every conceivable attire and of every possible nationality, deformed by intention, or the impotence of creation that could not create — blind, unclean, heroic, mad, sinking under the weight of remorse, or with eyes made splendid by the light of love and fixed endeavour; women fashioned in ignorance and mourning the errors of their creator, life and thought at variance with body and soul; perfect women such as walk rarely upon this earth, and horrors that were women only because they had not sufficient self-control to be fiends; little children, fair as the morning, who put their hands into mine and made most innocent confidences; loathsome, lank-haired infant-saints, curious as to the welfare of my soul, and delightfully mischievous boys, generalled by the irrepressible Tom Sawyer, who played among murderers, harlots, professional beauties, nuns, Italian bandits and politicians of state.

The ordered peace of Arthur’s Court was broken up by the incursions of Mr. John Wellington Wells, and Dagonet, the jester, found that his antics drew no attention so long as the “dealer in magic and spells,” taking Tristram’s harp, sang patter-songs to the Round Table; while a Zulu Impi, headed by Allan Quatermain, wheeled and shouted in sham fight for the pleasure of Little Lord Fauntle- roy. Every century and every type was jumbled in the confusion of one colossal fancy- ball where all the characters were living their parts.

“Aye, look long,” said the Devil. “You will never be able to describe it, and the next time you come you won’t have the chance. Look long, and look at” — Good’s passing with a maiden of the Zu-Vendi must have suggested the idea — ”look at their legs.” I looked, and for the second time noticed the lameness that seemed to be almost universal in the Limbo of Lost Endeavour. Brave men and stalwart to all appearance had one leg shorter than the other; some paced a few inches above the floor, never touching it, and others found the greatest difficulty in preserving their feet at all. The stiffness and laboured gait of these thousands was pitiful to witness. I was sorry for them. I told the Devil as much.

“H’m,” said he reflectively, “that’s the world’s work. Rather cockeye, ain’t it? They do everything but stand on their feet. You could improve them, I suppose?” There was an unpleasant sneer in his tone, and I hastened to change the subject.

“I’m tired of walking,” I said. “I want to see some of my own Characters, and go on to the Master, whoever he may be, afterwards.”

“Reflect,” said the Devil. “Are you certain — do you know how many they be?”

“No — but I want to see them. That’s what I came for.”

“Very well. Don’t abuse me if you don’t like the view. There are one-and-fifty of your make up to date, and — it’s rather an appalling thing to be confronted with fifty-one children. However, here’s a special favourite of yours. Go and shake hands with her!”

A limp-jointed, staring-eyed doll was hirp- ling towards me with a strained smile of recognition. I felt that I knew her only too well — if indeed she were she. “Keep her off, Devil!” I cried, stepping back. “I never made that!” “ ‘She began to weep and she began to cry, Lord ha’ mercy on me, this is none of I!’ You’re very rude to — Mrs. Hauksbee, and she wants to speak to you,” said the Devil. My face must have betrayed my dismay, for the Devil went on soothingly: “That’s as she is, remember. I knczv you wouldn’t like it. Now what will you give if I make her as she ought to be? No, I don’t want your soul, thanks. I have it already, and many others of better quality. Will you, when you write your story, own that I am the best and greatest of all the Devils?” The doll was creeping nearer. “Yes,” I said hurriedly. “Anything you like. Only I can’t stand her in that state.”

“You’ll have to when you come next again. Look! No connection with Jekyll and Hyde!” The Devil pointed a lean and inky finger towards the doll, and lo! radiant, bewitching, with a smile of dainty malice, her high heels clicking on the floor like castanets, advanced Mrs. Hauksbee as I had imagined her in the beginning.

“Ah!” she said. “You are here so soon? Not dead yet? That will come. Meantime, a thousand congratulations. And now, what do you think of me?” She put her hands on her hips, revealed a glimpse of the smallest foot in Simla and hummed: “ ‘Just look at that — just look at this! And then you’ll see I’m not amiss.’ “

“She’ll use exactly the same words when you meet her next time,” said the Devil warningly. “You dowered her with any amount of vanity, if you left out Excuse me a minute! I’ll fetch up the rest of your menagerie.” But I was looking at Mrs. Hauksbee.

“Well?” she said. “Am I what you expected?” I forgot the Devil and all his works, forgot that this was not the woman I had made, and could only murmur rapturously: “By Jove! You are a beauty.” Then, incautiously: “And you stand on your feet.” “Good heavens!” said Mrs. Hauksbee. “Would you, at my time of life, have me stand on my head?” She folded her arms and looked me up and down. I was grinning imbecilely — the woman was so alive. “Talk,” I said absently; “I want to hear you talk.” “I am not used to being spoken to like a coolie,” she replied. “Never mind,” I said, “that may be for outsiders, but I made you and I’ve a right — ”

“You have a right? You made me? My dear sir, if I didn’t know that we should bore each other so inextinguishably hereafter I should read you an hour’s lecture this instant. You made me! I suppose you will have the audacity to pretend that you understand me — - that you ever understood me. Oh, man, man — foolish man! If you only knew!”

“Is that the person who thinks he understands us, Loo?” drawled a voice at her elbow. The Devil had returned with a cloud of witnesses, and it was Mrs. Mallowe who was speaking.

“I’ve touched ‘em all up,” said the Devil in an aside. “You couldn’t stand ‘em raw. But don’t run away with the notion that they are your work. I show you what they ought to be. You must find out for yourself how to make ‘em so.”