Never ask a man his opinion of a woman's dress when he is
desperately and abjectly in love with the wearer.
desperately and abjectly in love with the wearer.
Kipling - Poems
Vansuythen raised her eyes for an instant and looked at all
Kashima. Her meaning was clear. Major Vansuythen would never know
anything. He was to be the outsider in that happy family whose cage was
the Dosehri hills.
"You're singing villainously out of tune, Kurrell," said the Major,
truthfully. "Pass me that banjo. "
And he sang in excruciating-wise till the stars came out and all Kashima
went to dinner.
* * * * *
That was the beginning of the New Life of Kashima--the life that Mrs.
Boulte made when her tongue was loosened in the twilight.
Mrs. Vansuythen has never told the Major; and since be insists upon
keeping up a burdensome geniality, she has been compelled to break her
vow of not speaking to Kurrell. This speech, which must of necessity
preserve the semblance of politeness and interest, serves admirably to
keep alive the flame of jealousy and dull hatred in Boulte's bosom, as
it awakens the same passions in his wife's heart. Mrs. Boulte hates
Mrs. Vansuythen because she has taken Ted from her, and, in some curious
fashion, hates her because Mrs. Vansuythen--and here the wife's eyes see
far more clearly than the husband's--detests Ted. And Ted--that gallant
captain and honorable man--knows now that it is possible to hate a woman
once loved, to the verge of wishing to silence her forever with blows.
Above all, is he shocked that Mrs. Boulte cannot see the error of her
ways.
Boulte and he go out tiger-shooting together in all friendship. Boulte
has put their relationship on a most satisfactory footing.
"You're a blackguard," he says to Kurrell, "and I've lost any
self-respect I may ever have had; but when you're with me, I can
feel certain that you are not with Mrs. Vansuythen, or making Emma
miserable. "
Kurrell endures anything that Boulte may say to him. Sometimes they are
away for three days together, and then the Major insists upon his
wife going over to sit with Mrs. Boulte; although Mrs. Vansuythen has
repeatedly declared that she prefers her husband's company to any in the
world. From the way in which she clings to him, she would certainly seem
to be speaking the truth.
But of course, as the Major says, "in a little Station we must all be
friendly. "
THE HILL OF ILLUSION
What rendered vain their deep desire?
A God, a God their severance ruled,
And bade between their shores to be
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.
--Matthew Arnold.
HE. Tell your jhampanis not to hurry so, dear. They forget I'm fresh
from the Plains.
SHE. Sure proof that I have not been going out with any one. Yes, they
are an untrained crew. Where do we go?
HE. As usual--to the world's end. No, Jakko.
SHE. Have your pony led after you, then. It's a long round.
HE. And for the last time, thank Heaven!
SHE. Do you mean that still? I didn't dare to write to you about
it. . . all these months.
HE. Mean it! I've been shaping my affairs to that end since Autumn. What
makes you speak as though it had occurred to you for the first time?
SHE. I! Oh! I don't know. I've had long enough to think, too.
HE. And you've changed your mind?
SHE. No. You ought to know that I am a miracle of constancy. What are
your--arrangements?
HE. Ours, Sweetheart, please.
SHE. Ours, be it then. My poor boy, how the prickly heat has marked your
forehead! Have you ever tried sulphate of copper in water?
HE. It'll go away in a day or two up here. The arrangements are simple
enough. Tonga in the early morning--reach Kalka at twelve--Umballa at
seven--down, straight by night train, to Bombay, and then the steamer of
the 21st for Rome. That's my idea. The Continent and Sweden--a ten-week
honeymoon.
SHE. Ssh! Don't talk of it in that way. It makes me afraid. Guy, how
long have we two been insane?
HE. Seven months and fourteen days; I forget the odd hours exactly, but
I'll think.
SHE. I only wanted to see if you remembered. Who are those two on the
Blessington Road?
HE. Eabrey and the Penner woman. What do they matter to us? Tell me
everything that you've been doing and saying and thinking.
SHE. Doing little, saying less, and thinking a great deal. I've hardly
been out at all.
Ha. That was wrong of you. You haven't been moping?
SHE. Not very much. Can you wonder that I'm disinclined for amusement?
HE. Frankly, I do. Where was the difficulty?
SHE. In this only. The more people I know and the more I'm known here,
the wider spread will be the news of the crash when it comes. I don't
like that.
HE. Nonsense. We shall be out of it.
SHE. You think so?
HE. I'm sure of it, if there is any power in steam or horse-flesh to
carry us away. Ha! ha!
SHE. And the fun of the situation comes in--where, my Lancelot?
HE. Nowhere, Guinevere. I was only thinking of something.
SHE. They say men have a keener sense of humor than women. Now _I_ was
thinking of the scandal.
HE. Don't think of anything so ugly. We shall be beyond it.
SHE. It will be there all the same in the mouths of Simla--telegraphed
over India, and talked of at the dinners--and when He goes out they
will stare at Him to see how He takes it. And we shall be dead, Guy
dear--dead and cast into the outer darkness where there is--
HE. Love at least. Isn't that enough?
SHE. I have said so.
HE. And you think so still?
SHE. What do you think?
Ha. What have I _done_? It means equal ruin to me, as the world reckons
it--outcasting, the loss of my appointment, the breaking of my life's
work. I pay my price.
SHE. And are you so much above the world that you can afford to pay it?
Am I?
Ha. My Divinity--what else?
SHE. A very ordinary woman I'm afraid, but, so far, respectable. How'd
you do, Mrs. Middleditch? Your husband? I think he's riding down
to Annandale with Colonel Statters. Yes, isn't it divine after the
rain? --Guy, how long am I to be allowed to bow to Mrs. Middleditch? Till
the 17th?
HE. Frowsy Scotchwoman? What is the use of bringing her into the
discussion? You were saying?
SHE. Nothing. Have you ever seen a man hanged?
HE. Yes. Once.
SHE. What was it for?
HE. Murder, of course.
SHE. Murder. Is that so great a sin after all? I wonder how he felt
before the drop fell.
HE. I don't think he felt much. What a gruesome little woman it is this
evening! You're shivering. Put on your cape, dear.
SHE. I think I will. Oh! Look at the mist coming over Sanjaoli; and I
thought we should have sunshine on the Ladies' Mile! Let's turn back.
HE. What's the good? There's a cloud on Elysium Hill, and that means
it's foggy all down the Mall. We'll go on. It'll blow away before we get
to the Convent, perhaps. 'Jove! It is chilly.
SHE. You feel it, fresh from below. Put on your ulster. What do you
think of my cape?
HE.
Never ask a man his opinion of a woman's dress when he is
desperately and abjectly in love with the wearer. Let me look. Like
everything else of yours it's perfect. Where did you get it from?
SHE. He gave it me, on Wednesday. . . our wedding-day, you know.
HE. The deuce He did! He's growing generous in his old age. D'you like
all that frilly, bunchy stuff at the throat? I don't.
SHE. Don't you?
"Kind Sir, O' your courtesy,
As you go by the town, Sir,
Pray you O' your love for me,
Buy me a russet gown, Sir. "
HE. I won't say: "Keek into the draw-well, Janet, Janet. " Only wait a
little, darling, and you shall be stocked with russet gowns and
everything else.
SHE. And when the frocks wear out, you'll get me new ones--and
everything else?
HE. Assuredly.
SHE. I wonder!
HE. Look here, Sweetheart, I didn't spend two days and two nights in
the train to hear you wonder. I thought we'd settled all that at
Shaifazehat.
SHE (dreamily). At Shaifazehat? Does the Station go on still? That
was ages and ages ago. It must be crumbling to pieces. All except the
Amirtollah kutcha road. I don't believe that could crumble till the Day
of Judgment.
Ha. You think so? What is the mood now?
SHE. I can't tell. How cold it is! Let us get on quickly.
Ha. Better walk a little. Stop your jhampanis and get out. What's the
matter with you this evening, dear?
SHE. Nothing. You must grow accustomed to my ways. If I'm boring you
I can go home. Here's Captain Congleton coming; I dare say he'll be
willing to escort me.
Ha. Goose! Between us, too! Damn Captain Congleton. There!
SHE. Chivalrous Knight! Is it your habit to swear much in talking? It
jars a little, and you might swear at me.
HE. My angel! I didn't know what I was saying; and you changed so
quickly that I couldn't follow. I'll apologize in dust and ashes.
SHE. There'll be enough of those later on. Good night, Captain
Congleton. Going to the singing-quadrilles already? What dances am I
giving you next week? No! You must have written them down wrong. Five
and Seven, I said. If you've made a mistake, I certainly don't intend to
suffer for it. You must alter your programme.
HE. I thought you told me that you had not been going out much this
season?
SHE. Quite true, but when I do I dance with Captain Congleton. He dances
very nicely.
HE. And sit out with him, I suppose?
SHE. Yes. Have you any objection? Shall I stand under the chandelier in
future?
HE. What does he talk to you about?
SHE. What do men talk about when they sit out?
Ha. Ugh! Don't! Well now I'm up, you must dispense with the fascinating
Congleton for a while. I don't like him.
SHE. (after a pause). Do you know what you have said?
HE. 'Can't say that I do exactly. I'm not in the best of tempers.
SHE. So I see. . . and feel. My true and faithful lover, where is your
"eternal constancy," "unalterable trust," and "reverent devotion"? I
remember those phrases; you seem to have forgotten them. I mention a
man's name--
HE. A good deal more than that.
SHE. Well, speak to him about a dance--perhaps the last dance that I
shall ever dance in my life before I. . . before I go away; and you at once
distrust and insult me.
HE. I never said a word.
SHE. How much did you imply? Guy, is this amount of confidence to be our
stock to start the new life on?
HE. No, of course not. I didn't mean that. On my word of honor, I
didn't. Let it pass, dear. Please let it pass.
SHE. This once--yes--and a second time, and again and again, all through
the years when I shall be unable to resent it. You want too much, my
Lancelot, and. . . you know too much.
HE. How do you mean?
SHE. That is a part of the punishment. There cannot be perfect trust
between us.
HE. In Heaven's name, why not?
SHE. Hush! The Other Place is quite enough. Ask yourself.
HE. I don't follow.
SHE. You trust me so implicitly that when I look at another man--Never
mind, Guy. Have you ever made love to a girl--a good girl?
HE. Something of the sort. Centuries ago--in the Dark Ages, before I
ever met you, dear.
SHE. Tell me what you said to her.
HE. What does a man say to a girl? I've forgotten.
SHE. I remember. He tells her that he trusts her and worships the ground
she walks on, and that he'll love and honor and protect her till her
dying day; and so she marries in that belief. At least, I speak of one
girl who was not protected.
HE. Well, and then?
SHE. And then, Guy, and then, that girl needs ten times the love and
trust and honor--yes, honor--that was enough when she was only a mere
wife if--if--the other life she chooses to lead is to be made even
bearable. Do you understand?
HE. Even bearable! It'll he Paradise.
SHE. Ah! Can you give me all I've asked for--not now, nor a few months
later, but when you begin to think of what you might have done if you
had kept your own appointment and your caste here--when you begin to
look upon me as a drag and a burden? I shall want it most, then, Guy,
for there will be no one in the wide world but you.
HE. You're a little over-tired tonight, Sweetheart, and you're taking a
stage view of the situation. After the necessary business in the Courts,
the road is clear to--
SHE. "The holy state of matrimony! " Ha! ha! ha!
HE. Ssh! Don't laugh in that horrible way!
SHE. I-I c-c-c-can't help it! Isn't it too absurd! Ah! Ha! ha! ha! Guy,
stop me quick or I shall--l-l-laugh till we get to the Church.
HE. For goodness' sake, stop! Don't make an exhibition of yourself. What
is the matter with you?
SHE. N-nothing. I'm better now.
HE. That's all right. One moment, dear. There's a little wisp of hair
got loose from behind your right ear and it's straggling over your
cheek.
Kashima. Her meaning was clear. Major Vansuythen would never know
anything. He was to be the outsider in that happy family whose cage was
the Dosehri hills.
"You're singing villainously out of tune, Kurrell," said the Major,
truthfully. "Pass me that banjo. "
And he sang in excruciating-wise till the stars came out and all Kashima
went to dinner.
* * * * *
That was the beginning of the New Life of Kashima--the life that Mrs.
Boulte made when her tongue was loosened in the twilight.
Mrs. Vansuythen has never told the Major; and since be insists upon
keeping up a burdensome geniality, she has been compelled to break her
vow of not speaking to Kurrell. This speech, which must of necessity
preserve the semblance of politeness and interest, serves admirably to
keep alive the flame of jealousy and dull hatred in Boulte's bosom, as
it awakens the same passions in his wife's heart. Mrs. Boulte hates
Mrs. Vansuythen because she has taken Ted from her, and, in some curious
fashion, hates her because Mrs. Vansuythen--and here the wife's eyes see
far more clearly than the husband's--detests Ted. And Ted--that gallant
captain and honorable man--knows now that it is possible to hate a woman
once loved, to the verge of wishing to silence her forever with blows.
Above all, is he shocked that Mrs. Boulte cannot see the error of her
ways.
Boulte and he go out tiger-shooting together in all friendship. Boulte
has put their relationship on a most satisfactory footing.
"You're a blackguard," he says to Kurrell, "and I've lost any
self-respect I may ever have had; but when you're with me, I can
feel certain that you are not with Mrs. Vansuythen, or making Emma
miserable. "
Kurrell endures anything that Boulte may say to him. Sometimes they are
away for three days together, and then the Major insists upon his
wife going over to sit with Mrs. Boulte; although Mrs. Vansuythen has
repeatedly declared that she prefers her husband's company to any in the
world. From the way in which she clings to him, she would certainly seem
to be speaking the truth.
But of course, as the Major says, "in a little Station we must all be
friendly. "
THE HILL OF ILLUSION
What rendered vain their deep desire?
A God, a God their severance ruled,
And bade between their shores to be
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.
--Matthew Arnold.
HE. Tell your jhampanis not to hurry so, dear. They forget I'm fresh
from the Plains.
SHE. Sure proof that I have not been going out with any one. Yes, they
are an untrained crew. Where do we go?
HE. As usual--to the world's end. No, Jakko.
SHE. Have your pony led after you, then. It's a long round.
HE. And for the last time, thank Heaven!
SHE. Do you mean that still? I didn't dare to write to you about
it. . . all these months.
HE. Mean it! I've been shaping my affairs to that end since Autumn. What
makes you speak as though it had occurred to you for the first time?
SHE. I! Oh! I don't know. I've had long enough to think, too.
HE. And you've changed your mind?
SHE. No. You ought to know that I am a miracle of constancy. What are
your--arrangements?
HE. Ours, Sweetheart, please.
SHE. Ours, be it then. My poor boy, how the prickly heat has marked your
forehead! Have you ever tried sulphate of copper in water?
HE. It'll go away in a day or two up here. The arrangements are simple
enough. Tonga in the early morning--reach Kalka at twelve--Umballa at
seven--down, straight by night train, to Bombay, and then the steamer of
the 21st for Rome. That's my idea. The Continent and Sweden--a ten-week
honeymoon.
SHE. Ssh! Don't talk of it in that way. It makes me afraid. Guy, how
long have we two been insane?
HE. Seven months and fourteen days; I forget the odd hours exactly, but
I'll think.
SHE. I only wanted to see if you remembered. Who are those two on the
Blessington Road?
HE. Eabrey and the Penner woman. What do they matter to us? Tell me
everything that you've been doing and saying and thinking.
SHE. Doing little, saying less, and thinking a great deal. I've hardly
been out at all.
Ha. That was wrong of you. You haven't been moping?
SHE. Not very much. Can you wonder that I'm disinclined for amusement?
HE. Frankly, I do. Where was the difficulty?
SHE. In this only. The more people I know and the more I'm known here,
the wider spread will be the news of the crash when it comes. I don't
like that.
HE. Nonsense. We shall be out of it.
SHE. You think so?
HE. I'm sure of it, if there is any power in steam or horse-flesh to
carry us away. Ha! ha!
SHE. And the fun of the situation comes in--where, my Lancelot?
HE. Nowhere, Guinevere. I was only thinking of something.
SHE. They say men have a keener sense of humor than women. Now _I_ was
thinking of the scandal.
HE. Don't think of anything so ugly. We shall be beyond it.
SHE. It will be there all the same in the mouths of Simla--telegraphed
over India, and talked of at the dinners--and when He goes out they
will stare at Him to see how He takes it. And we shall be dead, Guy
dear--dead and cast into the outer darkness where there is--
HE. Love at least. Isn't that enough?
SHE. I have said so.
HE. And you think so still?
SHE. What do you think?
Ha. What have I _done_? It means equal ruin to me, as the world reckons
it--outcasting, the loss of my appointment, the breaking of my life's
work. I pay my price.
SHE. And are you so much above the world that you can afford to pay it?
Am I?
Ha. My Divinity--what else?
SHE. A very ordinary woman I'm afraid, but, so far, respectable. How'd
you do, Mrs. Middleditch? Your husband? I think he's riding down
to Annandale with Colonel Statters. Yes, isn't it divine after the
rain? --Guy, how long am I to be allowed to bow to Mrs. Middleditch? Till
the 17th?
HE. Frowsy Scotchwoman? What is the use of bringing her into the
discussion? You were saying?
SHE. Nothing. Have you ever seen a man hanged?
HE. Yes. Once.
SHE. What was it for?
HE. Murder, of course.
SHE. Murder. Is that so great a sin after all? I wonder how he felt
before the drop fell.
HE. I don't think he felt much. What a gruesome little woman it is this
evening! You're shivering. Put on your cape, dear.
SHE. I think I will. Oh! Look at the mist coming over Sanjaoli; and I
thought we should have sunshine on the Ladies' Mile! Let's turn back.
HE. What's the good? There's a cloud on Elysium Hill, and that means
it's foggy all down the Mall. We'll go on. It'll blow away before we get
to the Convent, perhaps. 'Jove! It is chilly.
SHE. You feel it, fresh from below. Put on your ulster. What do you
think of my cape?
HE.
Never ask a man his opinion of a woman's dress when he is
desperately and abjectly in love with the wearer. Let me look. Like
everything else of yours it's perfect. Where did you get it from?
SHE. He gave it me, on Wednesday. . . our wedding-day, you know.
HE. The deuce He did! He's growing generous in his old age. D'you like
all that frilly, bunchy stuff at the throat? I don't.
SHE. Don't you?
"Kind Sir, O' your courtesy,
As you go by the town, Sir,
Pray you O' your love for me,
Buy me a russet gown, Sir. "
HE. I won't say: "Keek into the draw-well, Janet, Janet. " Only wait a
little, darling, and you shall be stocked with russet gowns and
everything else.
SHE. And when the frocks wear out, you'll get me new ones--and
everything else?
HE. Assuredly.
SHE. I wonder!
HE. Look here, Sweetheart, I didn't spend two days and two nights in
the train to hear you wonder. I thought we'd settled all that at
Shaifazehat.
SHE (dreamily). At Shaifazehat? Does the Station go on still? That
was ages and ages ago. It must be crumbling to pieces. All except the
Amirtollah kutcha road. I don't believe that could crumble till the Day
of Judgment.
Ha. You think so? What is the mood now?
SHE. I can't tell. How cold it is! Let us get on quickly.
Ha. Better walk a little. Stop your jhampanis and get out. What's the
matter with you this evening, dear?
SHE. Nothing. You must grow accustomed to my ways. If I'm boring you
I can go home. Here's Captain Congleton coming; I dare say he'll be
willing to escort me.
Ha. Goose! Between us, too! Damn Captain Congleton. There!
SHE. Chivalrous Knight! Is it your habit to swear much in talking? It
jars a little, and you might swear at me.
HE. My angel! I didn't know what I was saying; and you changed so
quickly that I couldn't follow. I'll apologize in dust and ashes.
SHE. There'll be enough of those later on. Good night, Captain
Congleton. Going to the singing-quadrilles already? What dances am I
giving you next week? No! You must have written them down wrong. Five
and Seven, I said. If you've made a mistake, I certainly don't intend to
suffer for it. You must alter your programme.
HE. I thought you told me that you had not been going out much this
season?
SHE. Quite true, but when I do I dance with Captain Congleton. He dances
very nicely.
HE. And sit out with him, I suppose?
SHE. Yes. Have you any objection? Shall I stand under the chandelier in
future?
HE. What does he talk to you about?
SHE. What do men talk about when they sit out?
Ha. Ugh! Don't! Well now I'm up, you must dispense with the fascinating
Congleton for a while. I don't like him.
SHE. (after a pause). Do you know what you have said?
HE. 'Can't say that I do exactly. I'm not in the best of tempers.
SHE. So I see. . . and feel. My true and faithful lover, where is your
"eternal constancy," "unalterable trust," and "reverent devotion"? I
remember those phrases; you seem to have forgotten them. I mention a
man's name--
HE. A good deal more than that.
SHE. Well, speak to him about a dance--perhaps the last dance that I
shall ever dance in my life before I. . . before I go away; and you at once
distrust and insult me.
HE. I never said a word.
SHE. How much did you imply? Guy, is this amount of confidence to be our
stock to start the new life on?
HE. No, of course not. I didn't mean that. On my word of honor, I
didn't. Let it pass, dear. Please let it pass.
SHE. This once--yes--and a second time, and again and again, all through
the years when I shall be unable to resent it. You want too much, my
Lancelot, and. . . you know too much.
HE. How do you mean?
SHE. That is a part of the punishment. There cannot be perfect trust
between us.
HE. In Heaven's name, why not?
SHE. Hush! The Other Place is quite enough. Ask yourself.
HE. I don't follow.
SHE. You trust me so implicitly that when I look at another man--Never
mind, Guy. Have you ever made love to a girl--a good girl?
HE. Something of the sort. Centuries ago--in the Dark Ages, before I
ever met you, dear.
SHE. Tell me what you said to her.
HE. What does a man say to a girl? I've forgotten.
SHE. I remember. He tells her that he trusts her and worships the ground
she walks on, and that he'll love and honor and protect her till her
dying day; and so she marries in that belief. At least, I speak of one
girl who was not protected.
HE. Well, and then?
SHE. And then, Guy, and then, that girl needs ten times the love and
trust and honor--yes, honor--that was enough when she was only a mere
wife if--if--the other life she chooses to lead is to be made even
bearable. Do you understand?
HE. Even bearable! It'll he Paradise.
SHE. Ah! Can you give me all I've asked for--not now, nor a few months
later, but when you begin to think of what you might have done if you
had kept your own appointment and your caste here--when you begin to
look upon me as a drag and a burden? I shall want it most, then, Guy,
for there will be no one in the wide world but you.
HE. You're a little over-tired tonight, Sweetheart, and you're taking a
stage view of the situation. After the necessary business in the Courts,
the road is clear to--
SHE. "The holy state of matrimony! " Ha! ha! ha!
HE. Ssh! Don't laugh in that horrible way!
SHE. I-I c-c-c-can't help it! Isn't it too absurd! Ah! Ha! ha! ha! Guy,
stop me quick or I shall--l-l-laugh till we get to the Church.
HE. For goodness' sake, stop! Don't make an exhibition of yourself. What
is the matter with you?
SHE. N-nothing. I'm better now.
HE. That's all right. One moment, dear. There's a little wisp of hair
got loose from behind your right ear and it's straggling over your
cheek.
