THE COLLECTED WORKS OF RUDYARD KIPLING (Illustrated Edition). Rudyard KiplingЧитать онлайн книгу.
Now there was one blank page in the book given over to the sketch that Dick had not drawn of the crowning exploit in the Nilghai's life; when that man, being young and forgetting that his body and bones belonged to the paper that employed him, had ridden over sunburned slippery grass in the rear of Bredow's brigade on the day that the troopers flung themselves at Caurobert's artillery, and for aught they knew twenty battalions in front, to save the battered 24th German Infantry, to give time to decide the fate of Vionville, and to learn ere their remnant came back to Flavigay that cavalry can attack and crumple and break unshaken infantry. Whenever he was inclined to think over a life that might have been better, an income that might have been larger, and a soul that might have been considerably cleaner, the Nilghai would comfort himself with the thought, "I rode with Bredow's brigade at Vionville," and take heart for any lesser battle the next day might bring.
"I know," he said very gravely. "I was always glad that you left it out."
"I left it out because Nilghai taught me what the Germany army learned then, and what Schmidt taught their cavalry. I don't know German. What is it? 'Take care of the time and the dressing will take care of itself.' I must ride my own line to my own beat, old man."
"Tempe ist richtung. You've learned your lesson well," said the Nilghai.
"He must go alone. He speaks truth, Torp."
"Maybe I'm as wrong as I can be—hideously wrong. I must find that out for myself, as I have to think things out for myself, but I daren't turn my head to dress by the next man. It hurts me a great deal more than you know not to be able to go, but I cannot, that's all. I must do my own work and live my own life in my own way, because I'm responsible for both. Only don't think I frivol about it, Torp. I have my own matches and sulphur, and I'll make my own hell, thanks."
There was an uncomfortable pause. Then Torpenhow said blandly, "What did the Governor of North Carolina say to the Governor of South Carolina?"
"Excellent notion. It is a long time between drinks. There are the makings of a very fine prig in you, Dick," said the Nilghai.
"I've liberated my mind, estimable Binkie, with the feathers in his mouth." Dick picked up the still indignant one and shook him tenderly. "You're tied up in a sack and made to run about blind, Binkie-wee, without any reason, and it has hurt your little feelings. Never mind. Sic volo, sic jubeo, stet pro ratione voluntas, and don't sneeze in my eye because I talk Latin. Good night."
He went out of the room.
"That's distinctly one for you," said the Nilghai. "I told you it was hopeless to meddle with him. He's not pleased."
"He'd swear at me if he weren't. I can't make it out. He has the go-fever upon him and he won't go. I only hope that he mayn't have to go some day when he doesn't want to," said Torpenhow.
In his own room Dick was settling a question with himself—and the question was whether all the world, and all that was therein, and a burning desire to exploit both, was worth one threepenny piece thrown into the Thames.
"It came of seeing the sea, and I'm a cur to think about it," he decided. "After all, the honeymoon will be that tour—with reservations; only... only I didn't realise that the sea was so strong. I didn't feel it so much when I was with Maisie. These damnable songs did it. He's beginning again."
But it was only Herrick's Nightpiece to Julia that the Nilghai sang, and before it was ended Dick reappeared on the threshold, not altogether clothed indeed, but in his right mind, thirsty and at peace.
The mood had come and gone with the rising and the falling of the tide by Fort Keeling.
Chapter IX
"If I have taken the common clay
And wrought it cunningly
In the shape of a god that was digged a clod,
The greater honour to me."
"If thou hast taken the common clay,
And thy hands be not free
From the taint of the soil,
thou hast made thy spoil
The greater shame to thee."
—The Two Potters
He did no work of any kind for the rest of the week. Then came another Sunday. He dreaded and longed for the day always, but since the red-haired girl had sketched him there was rather more dread than desire in his mind.
He found that Maisie had entirely neglected his suggestions about line-work. She had gone off at score filed with some absurd notion for a "fancy head." It cost Dick something to command his temper.
"What's the good of suggesting anything?" he said pointedly.
"Ah, but this will be a picture,—a real picture; and I know that Kami will let me send it to the Salon. You don't mind, do you?"
"I suppose not. But you won't have time for the Salon."
Maisie hesitated a little. She even felt uncomfortable.
"We're going over to France a month sooner because of it. I shall get the idea sketched out here and work it up at Kami's."
Dick's heart stood still, and he came very near to being disgusted with his queen who could do no wrong. "Just when I thought I had made some headway, she goes off chasing butterflies. It's too maddening!"
There was no possibility of arguing, for the red-haired girl was in the studio. Dick could only look unutterable reproach.
"I'm sorry," he said, "and I think you make a mistake. But what's the idea of your new picture?"
"I took it from a book."
"That's bad, to begin with. Books aren't the places for pictures. And——"
"It's this," said the red-haired girl behind him. "I was reading it to Maisie the other day from The City of Dreadful Night. D'you know the book?"
"A little. I am sorry I spoke. There are pictures in it. What has taken her fancy?"
"The description of the Melancolia—
'Her folded wings as of a mighty eagle,
But all too impotent to lift the regal
Robustness of her earth-born strength and pride.
And here again. (Maisie, get the tea, dear.)
'The forehead charged with baleful thoughts and dreams,
The household bunch of keys, the housewife's gown,
Voluminous indented, and yet rigid
As though a shell of burnished metal frigid,
Her feet thick-shod to tread all weakness down."
There was no attempt to conceal the scorn of the lazy voice. Dick winced.
"But that has been done already by an obscure artist by the name of Durer," said he. "How does the poem run?—
'Three centuries and threescore years ago,
With phantasies of his peculiar thought.'
You might as well try to rewrite Hamlet. It will be a waste of time."
"No, it won't," said Maisie, putting down the teacups with a clatter to reassure herself. "And I mean to do it. Can't you see what a beautiful thing it would make?"
"How in perdition can one do work when one hasn't had the proper training? Any fool can get a notion. It needs training to drive the thing through,—training and conviction; not rushing after the first fancy." Dick spoke between his teeth.
"You don't understand," said Maisie. "I think I can do it."
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