Kim Rudyard Kipling (web ebook reader .TXT) 📖

must get into Simla as soon as may be,” his companion replied. “For my own part, I wish our reports had been sent back from Hilás, or even Leh.”

“The English post is better and safer. Remember we are given all facilities⁠—and Name of God!⁠—they give them to us too! Is it unbelievable stupidity?”

“It is pride⁠—pride that deserves and will receive punishment.”

“Yes! To fight a fellow-Continental in our game is something. There is a risk attached, but these people⁠—bah! It is too easy.”

“Pride⁠—all pride, my friend.”

“Now what the deuce is good of Chandernagore being so close to Calcutta and all,” said Hurree, snoring open-mouthed on the sodden moss, “if I cannot understand their French? They talk so particularly fast! It would have been much better to cut their beastly throats.”

When he presented himself again he was racked with a headache⁠—penitent, and volubly afraid that in his drunkenness he might have been indiscreet. He loved the British Government⁠—it was the source of all prosperity and honour, and his master at Rampur held the very same opinion. Upon this the men began to deride him and to quote past words, till step by step, with deprecating smirks, oily grins, and leers of infinite cunning, the poor Babu was beaten out of his defences and forced to speak⁠—truth. When Lurgan was told the tale later, he mourned aloud that he could not have been in the place of the stubborn, inattentive coolies, who with grass mats over their heads and the raindrops puddling in their footprints, waited on the weather. All the Sahibs of their acquaintance⁠—rough-clad men joyously returning year after year to their chosen gullies⁠—had servants and cooks and orderlies, very often hillmen. These Sahibs travelled without any retinue. Therefore they were poor Sahibs, and ignorant; for no Sahib in his senses would follow a Bengali’s advice. But the Bengali, appearing from somewhere, had given them money, and could make shift with their dialect. Used to comprehensive ill-treatment from their own colour, they suspected a trap somewhere, and stood by to run if occasion offered.

Then through the new-washed air, steaming with delicious earth-smells, the Babu led the way down the slopes⁠—walking ahead of the coolies in pride; walking behind the foreigners in humility. His thoughts were many and various. The least of them would have interested his companions beyond words. But he was an agreeable guide, ever keen to point out the beauties of his royal master’s domain. He peopled the hills with anything thev had a mind to slay⁠—thar, ibex, or markhor, and bear by Elisha’s allowance. He discoursed of botany and ethnology with unimpeachable inaccuracy, and his store of local legends⁠—he had been a trusted agent of the State for fifteen years, remember⁠—was inexhaustible.

“Decidedly this fellow is an original,” said the taller of the two foreigners. “He is like the nightmare of a Viennese courier.”

“He represents in petto India in transition⁠—the monstrous hybridism of East and West,” the Russian replied. “It is we who can deal with Orientals.”

“He has lost his own country and has not acquired any other. But he has a most complete hatred of his conquerors. Listen. He confides to me last night,” etc.

Under the striped umbrella Hurree Babu was straining ear and brain to follow the quick-poured French, and keeping both eyes on a kilta full of maps and documents⁠—an extra-large one with a double red oilskin cover. He did not wish to steal anything. He only desired to know what to steal, and, incidentally, how to get away when he had stolen it. He thanked all the Gods of Hindustan, and Herbert Spencer, that there remained some valuables to steal.

On the second day the road rose steeply to a grass spur above the forest; and it was here, about sunset, that they came across an aged lama⁠—but they called him a bonze⁠—sitting cross-legged above a mysterious chart held down by stones, which he was explaining to a young man, evidently a neophyte, of singular, though unwashen, beauty. The striped umbrella had been sighted half a march away, and Kim had suggested a halt till it came up to them.

“Ha!” said Hurree Babu, resourceful as Puss-in-Boots. “That is eminent local holy man. Probably subject of my royal master.”

“What is he doing? It is very curious.”

“He is expounding holy picture⁠—all hand-worked.”

The two men stood bareheaded in the wash of the afternoon sunlight low across the gold-coloured grass. The sullen coolies, glad of the check, halted and slid down their loads.

“Look!” said the Frenchman. “It is like a picture for the birth of a religion⁠—the first teacher and the first disciple. Is he a Buddhist?”

“Of some debased kind,” the other answered. “There are no true Buddhists among the Hills. But look at the folds of the drapery. Look at his eyes⁠—how insolent! Why does this make one feel that we are so young a people?” The speaker struck passionately at a tall weed. “We have nowhere left our mark yet. Nowhere! That, do you understand, is what disquiets me.” He scowled at the placid face, and the monumental calm of the pose.

“Have patience. We shall make your mark together⁠—we and you young people. Meantime, draw his picture.”

The Babu advanced loftily; his back out of all keeping with his deferential speech, or his wink towards Kim.

“Holy One, these be Sahibs. My medicines cured one of a flux, and I go into Simla to oversee his recovery. They wish to see thy picture⁠—”

“To heal the sick is always good. This is the Wheel of Life,” said the lama, “the same I showed thee in the hut at Ziglaur when the rain fell.”

“And to hear thee expound it.”

The lama’s eyes lighted at the prospect of new listeners. “To expound the Most Excellent Way is good. Have they any knowledge of Hindi, such as had the Keeper of Images?”

“A little, maybe.”

Hereat, simply as a child engrossed with a new game, the lama threw back his head and began the full-throated invocation of the Doctor of Divinity ere he