THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF RUDYARD KIPLING: 440+ Tales in One Edition. Rudyard Kipling

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      Chapter 7.

       Deeper and Deeper Still

       Table of Contents

      I built myself a lordly pleasure-house,

       Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

       I said, ‘0 Soul, make merry and carouse,

       Dear soul, for all is well.’

       The Palace of Art.

      ‘And where next? I don’t like Colootollah.’ The Police and their charge are standing in the interminable waste of houses under the starlight. ‘To the lowest sink of all, but you wouldn’t know if you were told.’ They lead till they come to the last circle of the Inferno — a long, quiet, winding road. ‘There you are; you can see for yourself.’

      But there is nothing to be seen. On one side are houses — gaunt and dark, naked and devoid of furniture; on the other, low, mean stalls, lighted, and with shamelessly open doors, where women stand and mutter and whisper one to another. There is a hush here, or at least the busy silence of an office or counting-house in working hours. One look down the street is sufficient. Lead on, gentlemen of the Calcutta Police. We do not love the lines of open doors, the flaring lamps within, the glimpses of the tawdry toilet-tables adorned with little plaster dogs, glass balls from Christmas-trees, and — for religion must not be despised though women be fallen — pictures of the saints and statuettes of the Virgin. The street is a long one, and other streets, full of the same pitiful wares, branch off from it.

      ‘Why are they so quiet? Why don’t they make a row and sing and shout, and so on?’ ‘Why should they, poor devils?’ say the Police, and fall to telling tales of horror, of women decoyed and shot into this trap. Then other tales that shatter one’s belief in all things and folk of good repute. ‘How can you Police have faith in humanity?’

      ‘That’s because you’re seeing it all in a lump for the first time, and it’s not nice that way. Makes a man jump rather, doesn’t it? But, recollect, you’ve asked for the worst places, and you can’t complain.’ ‘Who’s complaining? Bring on your atrocities. Isn’t that a European woman at that door?’ ‘Yes. Mrs. D— — widow of a soldier, mother of seven children.’ ‘Nine, if you please, and good evening to you,’ shrills Mrs. D— — leaning against the door-post, her arms folded on her bosom. She is a rather pretty, slightly made Eurasian, and whatever shame she may have owned she has long since cast behind her. A shapeless Burmo-native trot, with high cheek-bones and mouth like a shark, calls Mrs. D—— ‘Mem-Sahib.’ The word jars, unspeakably. Her life is a matter between herself and her Maker, but in that she — the widow of a soldier of the Queen — has stooped to this common foulness in the face of the city, she has offended against the White race. ‘You’re from up-country, and of course you don’t understand. There are any amount of that lot in the city,’ say the Police. Then the secret of the insolence of Calcutta is made plain. Small wonder the natives fail to respect the Sahib, seeing what they see and knowing what they know. In the good old days, the Honourable the Directors deported him or her who misbehaved grossly, and the white man preserved his face. He may have been a ruffian, but he was a ruffian on a large scale. He did not sink in the presence of the people. The natives are quite right to take the wall of the Sahib who has been at great pains to prove that he is of the same flesh and blood.

      All this time Mrs. D—— stands on the threshold of her room and looks upon the men with unabashed eyes. Mrs. D—— is a lady with a story. She is not averse to telling it. ‘What was — ahem — the case in which you were — er — hmn — concerned, Mrs. D——?’ ‘They said I’d poisoned my husband by putting something into his drinking water.’ This is interesting. ‘And — ah — did you?’ ‘’Twasn’t proved,’ says Mrs. D—— with a laugh, a pleasant, lady-like laugh that does infinite credit to her education and upbringing. Worthy Mrs. D——! It would pay a novelist — a French one let us say — to pick you out of the stews and make you talk.

      The Police move forward, into a region, of Mrs. D——’s. Everywhere are the empty houses, and the babbling women in print gowns. The clocks in the city are close upon midnight, but the Police show no signs of stopping. They plunge hither and thither, like wreckers into the surf; and each plunge brings up a sample of misery, filth and woe.

      A woman — Eurasian — rises to a sitting position on a cot and blinks sleepily at the Police. Then she throws herself down with a grunt. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ ‘I live in Markiss Lane and’— this with intense gravity —‘I’m so drunk.’ She has a rather striking gipsy-like face, but her language might be improved.

      ‘Come along,’ say the Police, ‘we’ll head back to Bentinck Street, and put you on the road to the Great СКАЧАТЬ