Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (621 page)

     To be drowned or be shot

     Is our natural lot,

     Why should we, moreover, be hanged in the end —

     After all our great pains

     For to dangle in chains,

     As though we were smugglers, not poor honest men?

THE CONVERSION OF ST WILFRID

Eddi’s Service

     Eddi, priest of St Wilfrid

     In the chapel at Manhood End,

     Ordered a midnight service

     For such as cared to attend.

     But the Saxons were keeping Christmas,

     And the night was stormy as well.

     Nobody came to service

     Though Eddi rang the bell.

     ‘Wicked weather for walking,’

     Said Eddi of Manhood End.

     ‘But I must go on with the service

     For such as care to attend.’

     The altar candles were lighted, —

     An old marsh donkey came,

     Bold as a guest invited,

     And stared at the guttering flame.

     The storm beat on at the windows,

     The water splashed on the floor,

     And a wet yoke-weary bullock

     Pushed in through the open door.

     ‘How do I know what is greatest,

     How do I know what is least?

     That is My Father’s business,’

     Said Eddi, Wilfrid’s priest.

     ‘But, three are gathered together —

     Listen to me and attend.

     I bring good news, my brethren!’

     Said Eddi, of Manhood End.

     And he told the Ox of a manger

     And a stall in Bethlehem,

     And he spoke to the Ass of a Rider

     That rode to jerusalem.

     They steamed and dripped in the chancel,

     They listened and never stirred,

     While, just as though they were Bishops,

     Eddi preached them The Word.

     Till the gale blew off on the marshes

     And the windows showed the day,

     And the Ox and the Ass together

     Wheeled and clattered away.

     And when the Saxons mocked him,

     Said Eddi of Manhood End,

     ‘I dare not shut His chapel

     On such as care to attend.’

The Conversion of St Wilfrid

They had bought peppermints up at the village, and were coming home past little St Barnabas’ Church, when they saw Jimmy Kidbrooke, the carpenter’s baby, kicking at the churchyard gate, with a shaving in his mouth and the tears running down his cheeks.

Una pulled out the shaving and put in a peppermint. Jimmy said he was looking for his grand-daddy — he never seemed to take much notice of his father — so they went up between the old graves, under the leaf-dropping limes, to the porch, where Jim trotted in, looked about the empty Church, and screamed like a gate-hinge.

Young Sam Kidbrooke’s voice came from the bell-tower and made them jump.

‘Why, jimmy,’he called, ‘what are you doin’ here? Fetch him, Father!’

Old Mr Kidbrooke stumped downstairs, jerked Jimmy on to his shoulder, stared at the children beneath his brass spectacles, and stumped back again. They laughed: it was so exactly like Mr Kidbrooke.

‘It’s all right,’ Una called up the stairs. ‘We found him, Sam. Does his mother know?’

‘He’s come off by himself. She’ll be justabout crazy,’ Sam answered.

‘Then I’ll run down street and tell her.’ Una darted off.

‘Thank you, Miss Una. Would you like to see how we’re mendin’ the bell-beams, Mus’ Dan?’

Dan hopped up, and saw young Sam lying on his stomach in a most delightful place among beams and ropes, close to the five great bells. Old Mr Kidbrooke on the floor beneath was planing a piece of wood, and Jimmy was eating the shavings as fast as they came away. He never looked at Jimmy; Jimmy never stopped eating; and the broad gilt-bobbed pendulum of the church clock never stopped swinging across the white-washed wall of the tower.

Dan winked through the sawdust that fell on his upturned face. ‘Ring a bell,’ he called.

‘I mustn’t do that, but I’ll buzz one of ‘em a bit for you,’ said Sam. He pounded on the sound-bow of the biggest bell, and waked a hollow groaning boom that ran up and down the tower like creepy feelings down your back. Just when it almost began to hurt, it died away in a hurry of beautiful sorrowful cries, like a wine-glass rubbed with a wet finger. The pendulum clanked — one loud clank to each silent swing.

Dan heard Una return from Mrs Kidbrooke’s, and ran down to fetch her. She was standing by the font staring at some one who kneeled at the Altar-rail.

‘Is that the Lady who practises the organ?’ she whispered.

‘No. She’s gone into the organ-place. Besides, she wears black,’ Dan replied.

The figure rose and came down the nave. It was a white-haired man in a long white gown with a sort of scarf looped low on the neck, one end hanging over his shoulder. His loose long sleeves were embroidered with gold, and a deep strip of gold embroidery waved and sparkled round the hem of his gown.

‘Go and meet him,’ said Puck’s voice behind the font. ‘It’s only Wilfrid.’

‘Wilfrid who?’ said Dan. ‘You come along too.’

‘Wilfrid — Saint of Sussex, and Archbishop of York. I shall wait till he asks me.’ He waved them forward. Their feet squeaked on the old grave-slabs in the centre aisle. The Archbishop raised one hand with a pink ring on it, and said something in Latin. He was very handsome, and his thin face looked almost as silvery as his thin circle of hair.

‘Are you alone?’ he asked.

‘Puck’s here, of course,’ said Una. ‘Do you know him?’

‘I know him better now than I used to.’ He beckoned over Dan’s shoulder, and spoke again in Latin. Puck pattered forward, holding himself as straight as an arrow. The Archbishop smiled.

‘Be welcome,’ said he. ‘Be very welcome.’

‘Welcome to you also, O Prince of the church,’ Puck replied.

The Archbishop bowed his head and passed on, till he glimmered like a white moth in the shadow by the font.

‘He does look awfully princely,’ said Una. ‘Isn’t he coming back?’

‘Oh yes. He’s only looking over the church. He’s very fond of churches,’ said Puck. ‘What’s that?’

The Lady who practices the organ was speaking to the blower-boy behind the organ-screen. ‘We can’t very well talk here,’ Puck whispered. ‘Let’s go to Panama Corner.’

He led them to the end of the south aisle, where there is a slab of iron which says in queer, long-tailed letters: ORATE P. ANNEMA JHONE COLINE. The children always called it Panama Corner.

The Archbishop moved slowly about the little church, peering at the old memorial tablets and the new glass windows. The Lady who practises the organ began to pull out stops and rustle hymn-books behind the screen.

‘I hope she’ll do all the soft lacey tunes — like treacle on porridge,’ said Una.

‘I like the trumpety ones best,’ said Dan. ‘Oh, look at Wilfrid! He’s trying to shut the Altar-gates!’

‘Tell him he mustn’t,’ said Puck, quite seriously.

He can’t, anyhow,’ Dan muttered, and tiptoed out of Panama Corner while the Archbishop patted and patted at the carved gates that always sprang open again beneath his hand.

‘That’s no use, sir,’ Dan whispered. ‘Old Mr Kidbrooke says Altar-gates are just the one pair of gates which no man can shut. He made ‘em so himself.’

The Archbishop’s blue eyes twinkled. Dan saw that he knew all about it.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Dan stammered — very angry with Puck.

‘Yes, I know! He made them so Himself.’ The Archbishop smiled, and crossed to Panama Corner, where Una dragged up a certain padded arm-chair for him to sit on.

The organ played softly. ‘What does that music say?’he asked.

Una dropped into the chant without thinking: ‘“O all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise him and magnify him for ever.” We call it the Noah’s Ark, because it’s all lists of things — beasts and birds and whales, you know.’

‘Whales?’ said the Archbishop quickly.

‘Yes — ”O ye whales, and all that move in the waters,”‘ Una hummed — ’”Bless ye the Lord.” It sounds like a wave turning over, doesn’t it?’

‘Holy Father,’ said Puck with a demure face, ‘is a little seal also “one who moves in the water”?’

‘Eh? Oh yes — yess!’ he laughed. ‘A seal moves wonderfully in the waters. Do the seal come to my island still?’

Puck shook his head. ‘All those little islands have been swept away.’

‘Very possible. The tides ran fiercely down there. Do you know the land of the Sea-calf, maiden?’

‘No — but we’ve seen seals — at Brighton.’

‘The Archbishop is thinking of a little farther down the coast. He means Seal’s Eye — Selsey — down Chichester way — where he converted the South Saxons,’ Puck explained.

‘Yes — yess; if the South Saxons did not convert me,’ said the Archbishop, smiling. ‘The first time I was wrecked was on that coast. As our ship took ground and we tried to push her off, an old fat fellow of a seal, I remember, reared breast-high out of the water, and scratched his head with his flipper as if he were saying: “What does that excited person with the pole think he is doing.” I was very wet and miserable, but I could not help laughing, till the natives came down and attacked us.’

‘What did you do?’ Dan asked.

‘One couldn’t very well go back to France, so one tried to make them go back to the shore. All the South Saxons are born wreckers, like my own Northumbrian folk. I was bringing over a few things for my old church at York, and some of the natives laid hands on them, and — and I’m afraid I lost my temper.’

‘It is said — ’ Puck’s voice was wickedly meek — ’that there was a great fight.’

Eh, but I must ha’ been a silly lad.’ Wilfrid spoke with a sudden thick burr in his voice. He coughed, and took up his silvery tones again. ‘There was no fight really. My men thumped a few of them, but the tide rose half an hour before its time, with a strong wind, and we backed off. What I wanted to say, though, was, that the seas about us were full of sleek seals watching the scuffle. My good Eddi — my chaplain — insisted that they were demons. Yes — yess! That was my first acquaintance with the South Saxons and their seals.’

‘But not the only time you were wrecked, was it?’ said Dan.

‘Alas, no! On sea and land my life seems to have been one long shipwreck.’ He looked at the Jhone Coline slab as old Hobden sometimes looks into the fire. ‘Ah, well!’

‘But did you ever have any more adventures among the seals?’ said Una, after a little.

‘Oh, the seals! I beg your pardon. They are the important things. Yes — yess! I went back to the South Saxons after twelve — fifteen — years. No, I did not come by water, but overland from my own Northumbria, to see what I could do. It’s little one can do with that class of native except make them stop killing each other and themselves — ’ ‘Why did they kill themselves?’ Una asked, her chin in her hand.

‘Because they were heathen. When they grew tired of life (as if they were the only people!) they would jump into the sea. They called it going to Wotan. It wasn’t want of food always — by any means. A man would tell you that he felt grey in the heart, or a woman would say that she saw nothing but long days in front of her; and they’d saunter away to the mud-flats and — that would be the end of them, poor souls, unless one headed them off. One had to run quick, but one can’t allow people to lay hands on themselves because they happen to feel grey. Yes — yess — Extraordinary people, the South Saxons. Disheartening, sometimes.... What does that say now?’ The organ had changed tune again.

‘Only a hymn for next Sunday,’ said Una. ‘“The Church’s One Foundation.” Go on, please, about running over the mud. I should like to have seen you.’

‘I dare say you would, and I really could run in those days. Ethelwalch the King gave me some five or six muddy parishes by the sea, and the first time my good Eddi and I rode there we saw a man slouching along the slob, among the seals at Manhood End. My good Eddi disliked seals — but he swallowed his objections and ran like a hare.’