The Ant and the Grasshopper
W.S. Maugham
When I was a small boy I was made to learn by heart some fables of La Fontaine and the moral of each was carefully explained to me. Among them was "The Ant and the Grasshopper". In spite of the moral of this f able my sympathies were with the grasshopper and for some time I never saw an ant without putting my foot on it.
I couldn't help thinking of this fable when the other day I saw George Ramsay lunching in a restaurant. I never saw an expressien of such deep gloom. He vras staring into space. I was sorry for him: I suspected at once that his unfortunate brother had been causing trouble again.
I went up to him. "How are you?" I asked. "Is it Tom again?" He sighed. "Yes, it's Tom again."
I suppose every f amily has a black sheep. In this family it had been Tom. He had begun life decently enough: he went into business, married and had two children. The Ramsays were respectable people and everybody supposed that Tom would have a good carrier. But one day he announced that he didn't like work and that he wasn't suited for marriage. He wanted to enjoy himself.
He left his wife and his office. He spent two happy years in the various capitals of Europe. His relations were shocked and wondered what would happen when his money was spent. They soon found out: he borrowed. He was so charming that nobody could refuse him. Very often he turned to George. Once or twice he gave Tom considerable sums so that he could make a fresh start. On these Tom bought a motor-car and some jewellery. But when George washed his hands of him, Tom began to blackmail him. It was not nice for a respectable lawyer to find his brother shaking cocktails behind the bar of his favourite restaurant or driving a taxi. So George paid again.
For twenty years Tom gambled, danced, ate in the most expensive restaurants and dressed beautifully. Though he was forty-six he looked not more than thirty-five. He had high spirits and incredible charm.Tom Ramsay knew everyone and everyone knew him. You couldn't help liking him.
Poor George, only a year older than his brother, looked sixty. He had never taken more than a fortnight's holiday in the year. He was in his office every morning at nine-thirty and never left it till six. He was honest and industrious. He had a good wife and four daughters to whom he was the best of fathers. His plan was to retire at fifty-five to a little house in the country. His life was blameless. He was glad that he was growing old because Tom was growing old, too. He used to say: "It was all well when Tom was young and good-looking. In four years he'll be fifty. He won't find life so easy then. I shall have thirty thousand pounds by the time I'm fifty. We shall see what is really best to work or to be idle."
Poor George! I sympathized with him. I wondered now what else Tom had done. George was very much upset. I was prepared for the worst. George could hardly speak. "A few weeks ago," he said, "Tom became engaged to a woman old enough to be his mother. And now she has died and left him everything she had: half a million pounds, a yacht, a house in London and a house in the country. It is not fair, I tell you, it isn't fair!"
I couldn't help it. I burst into laughter as I looked at George's face, I nearly fell on the floor. George never forgave me. But Tom often asks me to dinners in his charming house and if he sometimes borrows money from me, it is simply from force of habit.
The Happy Man
W.S. Maugham
It is a dangerous thing to order the lives of others and I have often wondered at the self-confidence of politicians, reformers and such like who are prepared to force upon their f ellows measures that must alter their manners, habits and points of view. I have always hesitated to give advice, for how can one advise another how to act unless one knows that other as well as one knows oneself? Heaven knows, I know little enough of myself: I know nothing of others. We can only guess at the thoughts and emotions of our neighbours. And life, unfortunately, is something that you can lead but once; and who am I that I should tell this one and that how he should lead it?
But once I knew that I advised well.
I was a young man and I lived in a modest apartment in London near Victoria Station. Late one afternoon, when I was beginning to think that I had worked enough for that day, I heard a ring at the bell. I opened the door to a total stranger. He asked me my name; I told him. He asked if he might come in.
“Certainly”.
I led him into my sitting-room and begged to sit down. He seemed a trifle embarrassed. I offered him a cigarette and he had some difficulty in lighting it.
“I hope you don't mind my coming to see you like this”, he said, “My name is Stephens and I am a doctor. You're in the medical, I believe?”
“Yes, but I don't practise”.
“No, I know. I've just read a book of yours about Spain and I wanted to ask you about it”.
“It's not a very good book, I'm afraid”.
“The fact remains that you know something about Spain and there's no one else I know who does. And I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me some inf ormation”.
“I shall be very glad”.
He was silent for a moment. He reached out for his hat and holding it in one hand absent-mindedly stroked it with the other.
“I hope you won't think it very odd for a perfect stranger to talk to you like this”. He gave an apologetic laugh. “I'm not going to tell you the story of my life”.
When people say this to me I always know that it is precisely what they are going to do. I do not mind. In fact I rather like it.
“I was brought up by two old aunts. I've never been anywhere. I've never done anything. I've been married for six years. I have no children. I'm a medical officer at the Camberwell Infirmary. I can't bear it anymore”.
There was something very striking in the short, sharp sentences he used. I looked at him with curiosity. He was a little man, thickset and stout, of thirty perhaps, with a round red face from which shone small, dark and very bright eyes. His black hair was cropped close to a bullet-shaped head. He was dressed in a blue suit a good deal the worse for wear. It was baggy at the knees and the pockets bulged untidily.
“You know what the duties are of a medical officer in an infirmary. One day is pretty much like another. And that's all I've got to look forward to for the rest of my life. Do you think it's worth it?”
“It's a means of livelihood”, I answered.
“Yes, I know. The money's pretty good”.
“I don't exactly know why you've come to me”.
“Well, I wanted to know whether you thought there would be any chance for an English doctor in Spain?”
“Why Spain?”
“I don't know, I just have a fancy for it”.
“It's not like Carmen, you know”, I smiled.
“But there's sunshine there, and there's good wine, and there's colour, and there's air you can breathe. Let me say what I have to say straight out. I heard by accident that there was no English doctor in Seville. Do you think I could earn a living there? Is it madness to give up a good safe job for an uncertainty?”
“What does your wife think about it?”
“She's willing”.
“It's a great risk”.
“I know. But if you say take it, I will: if you say stay where you are, I'll stay”.
He was looking at me with those bright dark eyes of his and I knew that he meant what he said. I reflected for a moment.
“Your whole future is concerned: you must decide for yourself. But this I can tell you: if you don't want money but are content to earn just enough to keep body and soul together, then go. For you will lead a wonderful life”.
He left me, I thought about him for a day or two, and then forgot. The episode passed completely from my memory.
Many years later, fifteen at least, I happened to be in Seville and having some trifling indisposition asked the hotel porter whether there was an English doctor in the town. He said there was and gave me the address. I took a cab and as I drove up to the house a little fat man came out of it. He hesitated, when he caught sight of me.
“Have you come to see me?” he said. “I'm the English doctor”.
I explained my matter and he asked me to come in. He lived in an ordinary Spanish house, and his consulting room was littered with papers, books, medical appliances and lumber. We did our business and then I asked the doctor what his fee was. He shook his head and smiled.
“There's no fee”.
“Why on earth not?”
“Don't you remember me? Why, I'm here because of something you said to me. You changed my whole life for me. I'm Stephens”.
I had not the least notion what he was talking about. He reminded me of our interview, he repeated to me what we had said, and gradually, out of the night, a dim recollection of the incident came back to me.
“I was wondering if I'd ever see you again”, he said, “I was wondering if ever I'd have a chance of thanking you for all you've done for me”.
“It's been a success then?”
I looked at him. He was very fat now and bald, but his eyes twinkled gaily and his fleshy, red face bore an expression of perfect good humour. The clothes he wore, terribly shabby they were, had been made obviously by a Spanish tailor and his hat was the wide brimmed sombrero of the Spaniard. He looked to me as though he knew a good bottle of wine when he saw it. He had an entirely sympathetic appearance. “You might have hesitated to let him remove your appendix”, but you could not have imagined a more delightful creature to drink a glass of wine with.
“Surely you were married?” I said.
“Yes. My wife didn't like Spain, she went back to Camberwell, she was more at home there”.
“Oh, I'm sorry for that”.
His black eyes flashed a smile.
“Life is full of compensations”, he murmured.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when a Spanish woman, no longer in her first youth, but still beautiful, appeared at the door. She spoke to him in Spanish, and I could not fail to feel that she was the mistress of the house.
As he stood at the door to let me out he said to me:
“You told me when last I saw you that if I came here I should earn just enough money to keep body and soul together, but that I should lead a wonderful life. Well, I want to tell you that you were right. Poor I have been and poor I shall always be, but by heaven I've enjoyed myself. I wouldn't exchange the life I've had with that of any king in the world”.
The Escape
W.S. Maugham
I have always believed that if a woman made up her mind to marry a man nothing could save him. I have only once known a man who in such circumstances managed to save himself. His name was Roger Charing. He was no longer young when he f ell in love with Ruth Barlow and he had had enough experience to make him careful; but Ruth Barlow had a gift that makes most men def enceless. This was the gif t of pathos. Mrs. Barlow was twice a widow'. She had splendid dark eyes and they were the most moving I ever saw. They seemed to be always on the point of filling with tears and you felt that her sufferings had been impossible to bear. If you were a strong fellow with plenty of money, like Roger Charing, you should say to yourself: I must stand between the troubles of lif e and this helpless little thing. Mrs. Barlow was one of those unfortunate persons with whom nothing goes right. If she married the husband beat her; if she employed a broker he cheated her; if she took a cook she drank.
When Roger told me that he was going to marry her, I wished him joy. As for me I thought she was stupid and as hard as nails.
Roger introduced her to his friends. He gave her lovely jewels. He took her everywhere. Their marriage was announced for the nearest future. Roger was very pleased with himself, he was committing a good action.
Then suddenly he fell out of love. I don't know why. Perhaps that pathetic look of hers ceased to touch his heart-strings. He realized that Ruth Barlow had made up her mind to marry him and he swore that nothing would make him marry her. Roger knew it wouldn't be easy. Roger didn't show that his feelings to Ruth Barlow had changed. He remained attentive to all her wishes, he took her to dine at restaurants, he sent her flowers, he was charming.
They were to get married as soon as they found a house that suited them; and they started looking for residences. The agents sent Roger orders to view' and he took Ruth to see some houses. It was very difficult to find anything satisfactory. They visited house after house. Sometimes they were too large and sometimes they were too small; sometimes they were too far from the centre and sometimes they were too close; sometimes they were too expensive and sometimes they wanted too many repairs; sometimes they were too stuffy and sometimes they were too airy. Roger always found a fault that made the house unsuitable. He couldn't let his dear Ruth to live in a bad house.
Ruth began to grow peevish. Roger asked her to have patience. They looked at hundreds of houses; they climbed thousands of stairs. Ruth was exhausted and often lost her temper. For two years they looked for houses. Ruth grew silent, her eyes no longer looked beautiful and pathetic. There are limits to human patience.
"Do you want to marry me or do you not?" she asked him one day.
"Of course I do. We'll be married the very moment we find a house."
"I don't f eel well enough to look at any more houses."
Ruth Barlow took to her bed. Roger remained gallant as ever. Every day he wrote her and told her that he had heard of another house for them to look at, A week later he received the following letter:
'Roger – I do not think you really love me. I've found someone who really wants to take care of me and I am going to be married to him today.
Ruth.
He sent back his reply:
'Ruth – I'll never get over this blow. But your happiness must be my first concern. I send you seven addresses. I am sure you'll find among them a house that will exactly suit you. Roger.
Mr. Know-All
W.S. Maugham
Once I was going by ship from San-Francisco to Yokohama. I shared my cabin with a man called Mr. Kelada. He was short and of a sturdy build, cleanshaven and dark-skinned, with a hooked nose and very large liquid eyes. His long black hair was curly. And though he introduced himself as an Englishman I felt sure that he was born under a bluer sky than is generally seen in England. Mr. Kelada was chatty. He talked of New York and of San Francisco. He discussed plays, pictures and politics. He was familiar. Though I was a total stranger to him he used no such formality as to put mister before my name when he addressed me. I didn't like Mr. Kelada. I not only shared a cabin with him and ate three meals a day at the same table, but I couldn't walk round the deck without his joining me. It was impossible to snub him. It never occurred to him that he was not wanted. He was certain that you were as glad to see him as he was glad to see you. In your own house you might have kicked him downstairs and slammed the door in his face.
Mr. Kelada was a good mixer, and in three days knew everyone on board. He ran everything. He conducted the auctions, collected money for prizes at the sports, organized the concert and arranged the fancy-dress ball. He was everywhere and always. He was certainly the best-hated man in the ship. We called him Mr. Know-A11, even to his face. He took it as a compliment. But it was at meal times that he was most intolerable. He knew everything better than anybody else and you couldn't disagree with him. He would not drop a subject till he had brought you round to his way of thinking. The possibility that he could be mistaken never occurred to him.
We were four at the table: the doctor, I, Mr. Kelada and Mr. Ramsay.
Ramsay was in the American Consular Service, and was stationed at Kobe. He was a great heavy fellow. He was on his way back to resume his post, having been on a flying visit to New York to fetch his wife, who had been spending a year at home. Mrs. Ramsay was a, very pretty little thing with pleasant manners and a sense of humour. She was dressed always very simply, but she knew how to wear her clothes.
One evening at dinner the conversation by chancedrifted to the subject of pearls. There was some argu- ment between Mr. Kelada and Ramsay about the value of culture and real pearls. I did not believe Ramsay knew anything about the subject at all. At last Mr. Kelada got furious and shouted: "Well, I know what I am talking about. I'm going to Japan just to look into this Japanese pearl business. I'm in the trade. I know the best pearls in the world, and what l don't know about pearls isn't worth knowing."
Here was news for us, for Mr. Kelada had never told anyone what his business was.
Ramsay leaned forward.
"That's a pretty chain, isn't it?" he asked pointing to the chain that Mrs. Ramsay wore.
"I noticed it at once," answered Mr. Kelada. "Those are pearls all right."
"I didn't buy it myself, of course," said Ramsay. "I wonder how much you think it cost."
"Oh, in the trade somewhere round fifteen thousand dollars. But if it was bought on Fif th Avenue anything up to thirty thousand was paid for it."
Ramsay smiled. "You'll be surprised to hear that Mrs. Ramsay bought that string the day bef ore we left New York for eighteen dollars. I'll bet you a hundred dollars it's imitation."
"Done."
"But how can it be proved?" Mrs. Ramsay asked.
"Let me look at the chain and if it's imitation I'll tell you quickly enough. I can afford to lose a hundred dollars," said Mr. Kelada.
The chain was handed to Mr. Kelada. He took a magnifying glass from his pocket and closely examined it. A smile of triumph spread over his face. He was about to speak. Suddenly he saw Mrs. Ramsay's face. It was so white that she looked as if she were about to faint'. She was staring at him with wide and terrified eyes. Mr. Kelada stopped with his mouth open. He flushed deeply. You could almost see the effort he was making over himself. "I was mistaken," he said. "It's a very good imitation." He took a hundred-dollar note out of his pocket and handed it to Ramsay without a word. "Perhaps that'll teach you a lesson," said Ramsay as he took the note. I noticed that Mr. Kelada's hands were trembling.
The story spread over the ship. It was a fine joke that Mr. Know-All had been caught out. But Mrs. Ramsay went to her cabin with a headache.
Next morning I got up and began to shave. Suddenly I saw a letter pushed under the door. I opened the door and looked out. There was nobody there. I picked up the letter and saw that it was addressed to Mr. Kelada. I handed it to him. He took out of the envelope a hundred-dollar note. He looked at me and reddened.
"Were the pearls real?" I asked.
"If I had a pretty little wif e I shouldn't let her spend a year in New York while I stayed at Kobe," said he.
Art for Heart's Sake'
R. Goldberg
"Here, take your juice," said Koppel, Mr. Ellsworth's servant and nurse.
"No," said Collis P. Ellsworth.
"But it's good for you, sir!"
"The doctor insists on it."
Koppel heard the front door bell and was glad to leave the room. He found Doctor Caswell in the hall downstairs.
"I can't do a thing with him," he told the doctor." He doesn't want to take his juice. I can't persuade him to take his medicine. He doesn't want me to read to him. He hates TV. He doesn't like anything!"
Doctor Caswell took the information with his usual professional calm. This was not an ordinary case. The old gentleman was in pretty good health for a man of seventy. But it was necessary to keep him from buying things. His financial transactions always ended in failure, which was bad for his health.
"How are you this morning? Feeling better?" asked the doctor. "I hear you haven't been obeying my orders."
The doctor drew up a chair and sat down close to the old man. He had to do his duty. "I'd like to make a suggestion," he said quietly. He didn't want to argue with the old man.
Old Ellsworth looked at him over his glasses. The way Doctor Caswell said it made him suspicions. "What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides to keep me away from the office?" the old man asked with suspicion. "Not at all," said the doctor. "I've been thinking of something different. As a matter of fact I'd like to suggest that you should take up art. I don't mean seriously of course," said the doctor, "just try. You'll like it."
Much to his surprise the old man agreed. He only asked who was going to teach him drawing. "I've thought of that too," said the doctor. "I know a student from an art school who can come round once a week. If you don't like it, after a little while you can throw him out." The person he had in mind and promised to bring over was a certain Frank Swain, eighteen years old and a capable student. Like most students he needed money. Doctor Caswell kept his promise.
He got in touch with Frank Swain and the lessons began. The old man liked it so much that when at the end of the f irst lesson Koppel came in and apologised to him for interrupting the lesson, as the old man needed a rest, Ellsworth looked disappointed.
When the art student came the following week, he saw a drawing on the table. It was a vase. But something was definitely wrong with it.
"Well, what do you think of it?" asked the old man stepping aside.
"I don't mean to hurt you, sir...", began Swain.
"I see," the old man interrupted, "the halves don't match. I can't say I am good at drawing. Listen, young man," he whispered. "I want to ask you something before Old Juice comes again. I don't want to speak in his presence."
"Yes, sir," said Swain with respect.
"I've been thinking... Could you come twice a week or perhaps three times?"
"Sure, Mr. Ellsworth," the student said respectfully.
"When shall I come?"
They arranged to meet on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
As the weeks went by, Swain's visits grew more frequent. The old man drank his juice obediently. Doctor Caswell hoped that business had been forgotten forever.
When spring came, Ellsworth painted a picture which he called "Trees Dressed in White." The picture was awful. The trees in it looked like salad thrown up against the wall. Then he announced that he was going to display it at the Summer Show at the Lathrop Gallery. Doctor Caswell and Swain didn't believe it. They thought the old man was joking.
The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest exhibition of the year. All outstanding artists in the United States dreamt of winning a Lathrop prize.
To the astonishment of all "Trees Dressed in White" was accepted for the Show.
Young Swain went to the exhibition one af ternoon and blushed when he saw "Trees Dressed in White"
gi l 'B0 ii di of the strange picture, Swain rushed out. He was ashamed that a picture like that had been accepted for the show.
However Swain did not give up teaching the old man. Every time Koppel entered the room he found the old man painting something. Koppel even thought of hiding the brush from him. The old man seldom mentioned his picture and was usually cheerful.
Two days before the close of the exhibition Ellsworth received a letter. Koppel brought it when Swain and the doctor were in the room. "Read it to me," asked the old man putting aside the brush he was holding in his hand. "My eyes are tired from painting."
The letter said: "It gives the Lathrop Gallery pleasure to announce that Collis P. Kllsworth has been awarded the First Landscape Prize of ten thousand dollars for his painting "Trees Dressed in White".
Smain became dumb with astonishment. Koppel dropped the glass with juice he was about to give Ellsworth. Doctor Caswell managed to keep calm. "Congratulations, Mr. Ellsworth," said the doctor. "Fine, fine... Frankly, I didn't expect that your picture would win the prize. Anyway I've proved to you that art is more satisfying than business."
"Art is nothing. I bought the Lathrop Gallery," said the old man highly pleased with the effect of his deception.
Wager with Destiny
E.E. Gatti
Anderson was alone in camp when the native boy brought him Barton's book.
"The boss has dropped it on the trail," the boy said. Anderson knew the book well, a cheap, shabby little notebook. He had heard Barton say a dozen times that he'd bought it with the first dime he'd earned, and every financial transaction he'd made since was entered in that book.
The camp was inside a mountain jungle in the Kuvi region of the Congo. And the heavy clouds overhead made Anderson feel gloomy. He was not well, and he was nervous. And he was unreasonably disturbed about the cage.
He had come on this hunting safari as Barton's guest. Barton, now, was one of the richest men in America; a hard man, who was proud of his power. It was surprising, therefore, to Anderson, that after fifteen years of silence, Barton had looked him up, renewed their boyhood friendship and made him this invitation. Anderson was grateful for it; for he, himself, was penniless and a failure.
Barton had made a bet at his club that he could capture alive a full-grown gorilla and bring it back to America. Hence the safari. And hence the portable steel cage with its automatic door.
Anderson couldn't bear to think of a great gorilla, unable to use his magnificent strength, shut up in the cage. But Anderson, of course, was sensitive about steel bars.
He did not mean to look in Barton's book. It had fallen into the mud, and Anderson only wanted to clean it.
But as he turned the pages shaking out the dried mud, his eyes fell upon a date – April 20, 1923. That was the date that had been seared into Anderson's mind with a red-hot iron, and mechanically he read the entry. Then he opened his mouth and the air swam around him.
“April 20, 1923, received $50,000” the book stated. Nothing more than that. And on April 20, 1923, he, Anderson, an innocent man, a young accountant in the same firm where Barton was just beginning his career, had been sentenced to fifteen years in prison for embezzlement' of $50,000.
Anderson was as shaken as if the very ground had opened under his feet. Memories rushed back to him. The books' had been tampered' with, all right. But they had never been able to locate the money.
And all the time it was Barton who had stolen the money; had used it as the cornerstone4 of his vast suc- cess; had noted it down, laconically, in his little book!
"But why did he bring me here?" Anderson asked himself. His body was burning with heat, and his head was heavy; he felt the first sign of malaria. And his heart was filled with the terrible, bitter rage of one betrayed. "Does he think I suspect him? Does he plan to kill me now?"
And then the reason came, cold and clear. There was a power of justice in life, and that power had made Barton bring him, so that he, Anderson, could take the law in his own hands, and the guilty would be punished instead of the innocent.
At once his mind was made up, and he had never known his thinking to be so clear and direct. He would kill Barton while he slept – they shared the same tent. And he would go to bed now and pretend sleeping, so that he would not have to speak to Barton.
It was already late in the afternoon. Anderson uneasily walked into the tent. But he did not have to play a role, for as soon as he touched the bed he fell into the heavy sleep of increasing malaria.
It was bright moonlight outside the tent when he awoke. He could hear Barton's regular, rhythmic breathing in the darkness near him. He dressed quickly and noiselessly, turned the safety catch of his revolver and bent above Barton. But a sudden shock of revulsion came over him.
He put the revolver down carefully on the table near his bed. Then he was outside the tent and trying to run, to get away from that accusing voice that cried within him, again and again, "Murderer!"
He did not know where he was until his hand touched something cold and hard – a steel bar of the cage. God, it knew steel bars, that hand. He closed his eyes against the thought, and took a few steps forward. Then a noise behind him made him turn around. The steel door of the cage had dropped! He had walked into the cage, closing the automatic door!
"Where you should be," cried the accusing voice, “where murderers ought to be, in a cage!”
Anderson sobbed hysterically. Then he fell and the flames of his fever licked him.
Anderson opened his eyes with great effort, and saw above him the face of the friendly planter who lived some miles from the camp.
"You'll be all right now," the man said, "the fever's over. But how did you get into the cage?"
Anderson tried to explain, but he didn't have strength enough to speak. He knew where he was, in a bed in the planter's house. And gradually he became aware that there was another white man in the room, one he had never seen before.
"He was lucky," the planter was saying to this strange man. "If he hadn't been safe in that cage, the gorillas would have got him as they did Barton and those pygmies."
"Do you feel able to talk now?" the stranger asked "I expect you're wondering who I am. I am Barton's lawyer, I flew down from New York to take charge of Barton's affairs as soon as I got the news. You've been delirious three weeks, you know."
The lawyer sat down beside Anderson's bed. “As you know, my late client was a superstitious man, and a great gambler”, he said. “You two, as young men, started your careers together. And on the very day that he received the capital that gave him his chance, you were sentenced to prison on a charge of embezzling the identical' sum – fifty thousand dollars. Barton took the coincidence as an act of fate”.
“He made a kind of bet with fate," the lawyer went on. "If he were allowed to succeed, he promised to do something good for you. And he kept the bet, he remembered you in his will'. I thought you'd like to know why”.
"I know why all right," said Anderson. A little word called "conscience'", he thought.
"I happened to know all about it," the lawyer added, "Because I was the executor of the will of Barton's aunt. She hadn't liked hi'm, and he'd expected nothing from her. So that fifty thousand was like money falling from the skies."
Part Two
1. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. R. Kipling
2. The Fisherman and His Soul. O. Wilde
3. The Flock of Geryon. A. Christie
4. Blue Lenses. D. du Maurier
5. The Last Inch. J. Aldridge
Rikki- Tikki- Tavi
R. Kipling
This is the story of the great war that Rikki-tikki-tavi fought all alone. Darzee, the tailor-bird, helped him, and Chuchundra, the muskrat, who never comes out into the middle of the room, but always creeps round by the walls, gave him advice, but Rikki-tikki-tavi did the real fighting.
He was a mongoose, but in his fur and tail he was like a little cat, and like a weasel in his head and habits. His eyes and the end of his restless nose were pink; he could scratch himself anywhere he liked, with any leg, front or back; he could fluff up his tail till it looked like a bottle brush, and his war-cry as he ran through the long grass, was: "Rikk-tikk-tikki-tikki-tchk!"
One day, a hard summer rain washed him out of the hole where he lived with his father and mother, and carried him down a roadside ditch. There he found some grass, and clung to it till he lost his senses. When he came to himself, he was lying in the hot sun in the middle of a garden path, and a small boy was saying: "Here's a dead mongoose. Let's have a funeral."
"No," said his mother; "let's take him home and dry him. Perhaps he isn't really dead."
They took him into the house, and a big man picked him up and said he was not dead but half choked," so they wrapped him in cotton-wool, and warmed him, and he opened his eyes and sneezed.
"Now," said the big man (he was an Englishman who had just moved into the bungalow); "don't frighten him, and we'll see what he'll do."
It is the hardest thing in the world to frighten a mongoose, because he is full of curiosity from nose to tail. The motto of all the mongoose family is, "Run and find out"; and Rikki-tikki was a true mongoose. He looked at the cotton-wool, decided that it was not good to eat, ran all round the table, sat up and put his fur in order, scratched himself, and jumped on the small boy's shoulder.
"Don't be frightened, Teddy," said his father. "That's how he makes friends."
Rikki-tikki looked down at the boy's neck, sniffed at his ear, and climbed dovrn to the floor, where he sat rubbing his nose.
"And that is a wild creature!" said Teddy's mother. "I suppose he is so tame because we have been kind to him."
"All mongooses are like that," said her husband. "If Teddy doesn't pull him by the tail, or try to put him in a cage, he'll run in and out of the house all day long. Let's give him something to eat."
They gave him a little piece of raw meat. Rikki-tikki liked it very much, and when he finished he went out into the veranda and sat in the sunshine and fluffed up his fur to make it dry to the roots. Then he felt better.
"I can find out about more things in this house," he said to himself, "than all my family could find out in all their lives. I shall certainly stay and find out."
He spent all that day running over the house. He nearly drowned himself in the bath-tubs, put his nose into the ink on a writing-table, and burned it on the end of the big man's cigar, for he climbed up in the big man's lap to see how he was writing. In the evening he ran into Teddy's room to watch how kerosene lamps were lighted, and when Teddy went to bed Rikki-tikki climbed up too, but he was a restless companion, because he had to get up and find out about every noise all the night long. When Teddy's mother and father came in to look at their boy, Rikki-tikki was sitting on the pillow. "I don't like that," said Teddy's mother; "he may bite the child." "He'll not do such a thing," said the father. "Teddy is safe with that little beast. If a snake comes into the room now"
But Teddy's mother didn't even want to hear of such a terrible thing.
Early in the morning Rikki-tikki came to breakfast in the veranda riding on Teddy's shoulder, and they gave him banana and some boiled egg; and he sat on all their laps one after the other, because Rikki-tikki's mother (she used to live in a general's house) had told him what to do if ever he came to the house of Man.
Rikki-tikki went out into the garden. It was a large garden with bushes, fruit trees, bamboos and high grass. Rikki-tikki licked his lips. "This is a splendid hunting-ground," he said and he ran up and down the garden, sniffing here and there till he heard very sorrowful voices in a bush.
It was Darzee, the tailor-bird, and his wife. They had made a beautiful nest of two big leaves, cotton and fluff. The nest swayed to and fro, as they sat in it and cried.
"What is the matter?" asked Rikki-tikki.
"We are very unhappy," said Darzee. "One of our babies fell out of the nest yesterday and Nag ate him."
"H'm!" said Rikki-tikki, "that is very sad – but I am a stranger here. Who is Nag?"
Darzee and his wife only bent down in the nest without answering, for from the thick grass at the foot of the bush there came a low hiss – a terrible sound that made Rikki-tikki jump back almost two feet. Then out of the grass rose up the head and hood of Nag, the big black cobra, and he was five feet long from tongue to tail. When he had lifted one-third of himself from the ground, he looked at Rikki-tikki with the wicked snake's eyes that never change their expression.
"Who is Nag?" he said. "I am Nag. The great god Brahm put his mark upon all our people when the first cobra' spread his hood to keep the sun off Brahm as he slept. Look, and be afraid!"
He spread out his hood, and Rikki-tikki saw the spectacle-mark' on the back of it and at that moment he was afraid; but it is impossible for a mongoose to be afraid for a long time, and though Rikki-tikki had never met alive cobra before, his mother had given him dead ones to eat, and he knew that a grown mongoose's business in life was to fight and eat snakes. Nag knew that too, and at the bottom of his cold heart he was afraid.
"Well," said Rikki-tikki, and his tail began to fluff up again, "marks or no marks, do you think it is right for ii you to eat babies out of a nest?"
Nag was thinking to himself, and watching each little movement in the grass behind Rikki-tikki. He knew that mongooses in the garden meant death sooner or later for him and his family; but he wanted to get Rikki-tikki off his guard.' So he dropped his head a little, and put it on one side.
"Let us talk," he said. "You eat eggs. Why should not I eat birds?"
"Behind you! Look behind you!" sang Darzee.
Rikki-tikki jumped up in the air as high as he could, and just under him whizzed by the head of Nagaina, Nag's wicked wife. She crept up behind him as he was talking, to make an end of him; and he heard her savage hiss as the stroke missed.' He came down almost on her back, and then was the time to break her back with one bite – but he was a young mongoose and did not know it and he was afraid of the terrible return-stroke of the cobra. He bit, indeed, but did not bite long enough, and he jumped off her tail, leaving Nagaina wounded and angry.
"Wicked, wicked Darzee!" said Nag, lifting up his head as high as he could toward the nest; but Darzee had built it out of reach' of snakes, and it only swayed to and fro. Rikki-tikki felt that his eyes were growing red and hot (when a mongoose's eyes grow red, he is angry), and he sat back on his tail and hind legs like a little kangaroo, and looked all around him angrily, but Nag and Nagaina had disappeared into the grass. When a snake misses its stroke, it never says anything or gives any sign of what it is going to do next. Rikki-tikki did not want to follow them, for he was not sure that he could manage two snakes at once. So he trotted of to the path near the house, and sat down to think. It was a serious matter for him.
The victory is only a matter of quickness of eye and quickness of foot,– snake's blow against mongoose's jump,– and no eye can follow the turn of a snake's head when it strikes. Rikki-tikki knew he was a young mongoose, and it made him very glad to think that he had managed to escape a blow from behind. It made him believe in himself, and when Teddy came running down the path, Rikki-tikki was ready to play with him.
But as Teddy was stooping, something moved in the dust, and a faint voice said: "Be careful. I am Death!" It was Karait, the dusty brown Snakeling that lies on the dusty earth; and his bite is as dangerous as the Cobra's. But he is so small that nobody thinks of him, and so he does much harm to people.
Rikki-tikki's eyes grew red again, and he danced up to Karait rocking and swaying like all the mongooses of his family. Rikki-tikki did not know that he was doing a much more dangerous thing than fighting Nag, for Karait is so small, and can turn so quickly, that if Rikki does not bite him close to the back of the head, he may get the return stroke in his eye or lip. But Rikki did not know it and his eyes were all red, and he rocked back and forth, looking for a good place to bite. Karait struck out. Rikki jumped aside, but the wicked little dusty gray head struck almost at his shoulder, and Rikki had to jump over him.
Teddy shouted to the house: "Oh, look here! Our mongoose is killing a snake"; and Rikki-tikki heard a scream from Teddy's mother. His father ran out with a stick, but by the time he came up, Karait ran away too far, and Rikki-tikki had jumped on the snake's back, bit as high up the back as he could, and rolled away. That bite paralyzed Karait, and Rikki-tikki was just going to eat him up from the tail, after the custom of his family, when he remembered that a full meal makes a slow mongoose, and if he wanted to be strong and quick his stomach must be empty.
He went away for a dust-bath under the bushes, while Teddy's father beat the dead Karait. "What is the use of that?" thought Rikki-tikki. "I have put an end to him"; and then Teddy's mother picked him up from the dust and hugged him, cryinj that he had saved Teddy from Death, and Teddy's father said that he brought luck, and Teddy looked on with big frightened eyes. Rikki-tikki did not understand all this but he was enjoying himself very much.
Teddy carried him off to bed, and wanted Rikki-tikki to sleep under his chin. Rikki-tikki did not bite or scratch – he was too well-bred – but as soon as Teddy was asleep he went off to walk round the house, and in the dark he ran up against Chuchundra, the muskrat, creeping round by the wall. Chuchundra is a frightened little beast. He creeps all night, trying to make up his mind to run into the middle of the room, but he never gets there. "Don't kill me," said Chuchundra, almost weeping. "Rikki-tikki, don't kill me."
"Do you think a snake-killer kills muskrats?" said Rikki-tikki scornfully.
"Those who kill snakes are killed by snakes," said Chuchundra very sorrowfully. "And how can I be sure that Nag won't mistake me for you one dark night?"
"There's not the least danger," said Rikki-tikki; "but Nag is in the garden, and I know you don't go there."
"My cousin Chua, the rat, told me –" said Chuchundra, and then he stopped.
"Told you what?"
"H'sh! Nag is everywhere, Rikki-tikki. Why didn't you talk to Chua in the garden?"
"I did not – so you must tell me. Quick, Chuchundra, or I'll bite you!"
Chuchundra sat down and cried till the tears rolled off his whiskers. "I am a very poor man," he sobbed. "I was never brave enough to run into the middle of the room. Hsh! I mustn't tell you anything. Can't you hear, Rikki-tikki?"
Rikki-tikki listened. The house was still, but he thought he could just hear the faintest scratch-scratch in the world.
"That's Nag or Nagaina," he said to himself; "and he is crawling into the bathroom. Chuchundra, you are right, I am sorry I did not talk to Chua."
He stole off to Teddy's bathroom; but there was nothing there, and as Rikki-tikki stole to Teddy's mother's bathroom, he heard Nag and Nagaina whispering together outside in the moonlight.
"When there are no people in the house," said Nagaina to her husband, "he will have to go away, and then the garden will be our own again. Go in quietly, and first bite the big man who killed Karait. Then come out and tell me, and we will hunt for Rikki-tikki together."
"But are you sure that we shall gain anything if we kill the people?" said Nag.
"Everything. When there were no people in the bungalow, did we have any mongoose in the garden? So long as the bungalow is empty, we are king and queen of the garden; and remember that as soon as our eggs in the melon-bed hatch (and they may hatch to-morrow), our children will need room and quiet."
"I had not though of that," said Nag. "I will go, but there is no need for us to hunt for Rikki-tikki afterward. I will kill the big man and his wife, and the child if I can, and come away quietly. Then the bungalow will be empty, and Rikki-tikki will go."
Rikki-tikki shook all over with rage when he heard this, and then Nag's head came into the bath-room, and his five feet of cold body followed it. Rikki-tikki was angry but he got very frightened when he saw the size of the big cobra. Nag coiled himself up, raised his head, and looked into the bathroom in the dark, and Rikki could see his eyes glitter.
"Now, if I kill him here, Nagaina will know; and if I fight him on the open floor, the odds are in his favour.' What shall I do?" said Rikki-tikki-tavi.
Nag waved to and fro, and then Rikki-tikki heard him drinking from the biggest water-jar that was used to fill the bath. "That is good," said the snake. "Now, when Karait was killed, the big man had a stick. He may have that stick still, but when he comes into the bathroom in the morning he will not have a stick. I shall wait here till he comes. Nagaina – do you hear me? – I shall wait heretill daytime."
There was no answer from outside, so Rikki-tikki knew that Nagaina had gone away. Nag coiled himself down, round the bottorn of the water-jar, and Rikki-tikki stayed still as death. After an hour he began to move toward the jar. Nag was asleep, and Rikki-tikki looked at his big back, wondering which would be the best place for a good bite. "If I don't' break his back at the first jump," said Rikki, "he can still fight; and if he fights – Oh, Rikki!" He looked at the thick neck below the hood, but that was too much for him; and a bite near the tail would only make Nag wild.
"I must bite the head," he said at last; "the head above the hood; and when I am there I must not let go."
Then he jumped and caught the snake by the head and held fast. Then he was shaken to and fro as a rat is shaken by a dog – to and fro on the floor, up and down, and round in great circles. His eyes were red, and he held fast as the body rolled over the floor, upsetting the basins and jars and banging against the side of the bath. As he held he closed his jaws tighter and tighter, for he was ready to be shaken to death, and for the honour of his family, he preferred to be found with his teeth locked. He was dizzy, and he felt that he was shaken to pieces when somethingwent off like a thunder-clap just behind him; he lost his senses in the hot wind and the red fire burned his fur.
The big man had been wakened by the noise, and had fired a gun into Nag just behind the hood.
Rikki-tikki still held fast with his eyes shut, for now he was quite sure he was dead; but the head did not move, and the big man picked him up and said: "It's the mongoose again, Alice; the little fellow has saved our lives now." Then Teddy's mother came in with a very white face, and saw what was left of Nag, and Rikki-tikki dragged himself to Teddy's bedroom and spent the rest of the night shaking himself to find out whether he really was broken into forty pieces, as he thought.
When morning came he was very stiff, but very much pleased with himself. "Now I have to put an end to Nagaina, and she will be worse than five Nags, and who knows when the eggs she spoke about will hatch. I must go and see Darzee," he said.
Without waiting for breakfast, Rikki-tikki ran to the bush where Darzee was singing a song of triumph at the top of his voice. The news of Nag's death was all over the garden, for the sweeper had thrown the body on the rubbish-heap.
"Oh, you stupid bird!" said Rikki-tikki, angrily; "Is this the time to sing?"
"Nag is dead – is dead – is dead!" sang Darzee. "The brave Rikki-tikki caught him by the head and held fast. The big man brought the bang-stick' and Nag fell in two pieces! He will never eat my babies again."
"All that is true; but where is Nagaina?" said Rikki-tikki, looking carefully around him.
"On the rubbish-heap, mourning for Nag. Great is Rikki-tikki with the white teeth."
"Bother my white teeth! Have you ever heard where she keeps her eggs?"
"In the melon-bed, on the end nearest the wall, where the sun is hot almost all day. She had them there many weeks ago."
"Why didn't you tell me about it before? The end nearest the wall, you said?"
"Rikki-tikki, are you going to eat her eggs?"
"Not eat exactly; no, Darzee, if you have some sense you will fly to the rubbish-heap and pretend that your wing is broken, and let Nagaina follow you away to this bush; I must go to the melon-bed, and if I go there now she will see me."
Darzee was a silly little fellow who could never hold more than one idea at a time in his head; and just because he knew that Nagaina's children were born in eggs like his own, he thought that it was bad to kill them. But his wife was a sensible bird, and she knew that cobra's eggs meant young cobras later on; so she flew out of the nest, and left Darzee to keep the babies warm, and continue his song about the death of Nag. Darzee was verylike a man in some ways.
She flem in front of Nagaina by the rubbish-heap, and cried out: "Oh, my wing is broken! The boy in the house threw a stone at me and broke it," and she fluttered desperately.
Nagaina lifted up her head and hissed, "You warned Rikki-tikki and that's why I could not kill him. But indeed, you have chosen the bad place to be lame in." And she moved toward Darzee's wife, slipping along over the dust.
"The boy broke it with a stone!" cried Darzee's wife.
"Well! When you are dead you may be glad to know that I shall settle accounts' with the boy. My husband lies on the rubbish-heap this morning, but before night the boy in the house will lie very still. What is the use of running away? I am sure that I shall catch you. Little fool, look at me!"
Darzee's wife was clever enough not to do that, for a bird who looks at a snake's eyes gets so frightened that she cannot move. Darzee's wife fluttered on, crying sorrowfully, and never leaving the ground, and Nagaina followed her.
Rikki-tikki heard them going up the path from the rubbish-heap, and he ran to the end of the melon-bed nearest the wall. There cunningly hidden, he found twenty-five eggs about the size of a hen's egg, but with white skin instead of shell.
"I was just in time," he said; for he could see the baby cobras curled up inside the eggs, and he knew that as soon as they were hatched they could each kill a man or a mongoose. He bit off the tops of the eggs as fast as he could, crushing the young cobras. At last there were only three eggs left, and Rikki-tikki began to smile to himself, when he heard Darzee's wife crying: “Rikki-tikki, I led Nagaina toward the house, and she has gone into the veranda, and – oh, come quickly – she is going to kill”.
Rikki-tikki crushed two eggs, and with the third egg in his mouth, he ran to the veranda as fast as he could. Teddy and his mother and father were there at breakfast; but Rikki-tikki saw that they were not eating. They sat still, and their faces were mhite. Nagaina had curled up by Teddy's chair, and she was swaying to and fro singing a song of triumph.
"Son of the big man that killed Nag," she hissed, "stay still. I am not ready yet. Wait a little. Keep very still, all you three. If you move I strike, and if you do not move I strike. Oh, foolish people, who killed my Nag!"
Teddy's eyes were fixed on his father, and all his father could do was to whisper, "Sit still, Teddy. You mustn't move. Teddy, keep still."
Then Rikki-tikki came up and cried: "Turn round, Nagaina; turn and fight!"
"All in good time," said she without moving her eyes. "I will settle accounts with you very soon. Look at your friends, Rikki-tikki. They are still and white; they are afraid. They dare not move, and if you come a step nearer I strike."
"Look at your eggs," said Rikki-tikki, "in the melon bed near the wall. Go and look, Nagaina."
The big snake turned half round, and saw the egg on the veranda. "Ah-h! Give it to me," she said.
Rikki-tikki put his paws on each side of the egg, and his eyes were blood-red. "What price for a snake's egg? For a young cobra? For the last – the very last of all the eggs? The ants are eating all the others near the melon- bed."
Nagaina turned around, forgetting everything but her one egg; and Rikki-tikki saw Teddy's father catch Teddy by the shoulder and drag him across the table out of reach of Nagaina.
"Tricked!' Tricked! Tricked! Rikk-tck-tck!" laughed Rikki-tikki. "The boy is safe, and it was I – I – I that caught Nag by the hood last night in the bathroom." Then he began to jump up and down, all four feet together. "He threw me to and fro, but he could not shake me off. He was dead before the big man fired the gun. I did it Rikki-tikki-tck-tck! Come then, Nagaina. Come and fight with me. You shall not be a widow long."
Nagaina saw that now she could not kill Teddy, and the egg lay between Rikki-tikki's paws. "Give me the egg, Rikki-tikki. Give me the last of my eggs, and I will go away and never come back," she said, lowering her heod.
"Yes, you will go away, and you will never come back; for. you will go to the rubbish-heap with Nag. Flght, widow! The big man has gone for his gun! Fight!"
Rikki-tikki was jumping all round Nagaina, keeping out of reach of her stroke, his little eyes were like hot coals. Nagaina gathered herself together, and flung herself at him. Rikki-tikki jumped up and backward. Again and again she struck, but each time she missed her strokes.
Rikki-tikki had forgotten the egg. It still lay on the ve-randa, and Nagaina came nearer and nearer to it, till at last, while Rikki-tikki was drawing his breath, she caught
it in her mouth, turned to the veranda steps, and flew like an arrow down the path and Rikki-tikki flew behind her.
Rikki-tikki knew that he must catch her, or all the trouble would begin again. She ran straight for the long grass by Darzee's bush, and as he was running Rikki-tikki heard Darzee still singiqg his foolish little song of triumph. But Darzee's wife was wiser. She flew out of her nest as Nagaina came along, and fluttered about Nagaina's head. Nagaina only lowered her head and went on; but when she stopped for a second Rikki-tikki jumped on her, and as she plunged into the hole where she and Nag used to live, his little white teeth hit her tail, and he went down with her – and very few mongooses, even wise and old ones, follow a cobra into its hole. It was dark in the hole; and Rikki-tikki didn't know when Nagaina would turn and strike at him, but he held on fast.
Then the grass by the mouth of the hole stopped waving, and Darzee said: "It is all over with Rikki-tikki! We must sing his death-song. Brave Rikki-tikki is dead! For Nagaina will surely kill him in the hole underground."
So he sang a very sorrowful song that he made up on the spur of the minute, and just as he got to the most sorrowful part the grass waved again, and Rikki-tikki, covered with dirt, dragged himself out of the hole leg by leg, licking his whiskers. Darzee stopped with a little shout. Rikki-tikki shook some of the dust out of his fur and sneezed. "It is all over," he said. "The widow vrill never come out again."
Rikki-tikki curled himself up in the grass and slept where he was – slept and slept till it was late in the afternoon, for he had worked hard that day.
"Now," he said, when he awoke, "I will go back to the house. Tell the Coppersmith, Darzee, and he will tell the garden that Nagaina is dead."
When Rikki came to the house, Teddy and Teddy's mother and Teddy's father came out and almost cried over him; and that night he ate all that was given to him till he could eat no more; and went to bed on Teddy's shoulder, where Teddy's mother saw him when she came to look late at night.
"He saved our lives and Teddy's life," she said to her husband. "Just think, he saved all our lives."
Rikki-tikki had a right to be proud of himself; but he did not grow too proud, and he guarded the house and the garden with tooth and jump and spring and bite, till no cobra dared to show its head inside the walls.