eBook - ePub
The Man Who Would Be King
and Other Stories
Rudyard Kipling
This is a test
Condividi libro
- 112 pagine
- English
- ePUB (disponibile sull'app)
- Disponibile su iOS e Android
eBook - ePub
The Man Who Would Be King
and Other Stories
Rudyard Kipling
Dettagli del libro
Anteprima del libro
Indice dei contenuti
Citazioni
Informazioni sul libro
Winner of the Nobel Prize for literature in 1907, Rudyard Kipling (1865â1936) drew upon his experiences in Anglo-Indian Society for much of his writing. This volume presents five of Kipling's best early stories, including "The Phantom Rickshaw, " a psychological thriller; "Wee Willie Winkie, " a delightful display of love for children; "Without Benefit of Clergy, " the poignant story of an Englishmen's affair with an Islamic woman; "The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes"; and the celebrated title story.
Domande frequenti
Come faccio ad annullare l'abbonamento?
Ă semplicissimo: basta accedere alla sezione Account nelle Impostazioni e cliccare su "Annulla abbonamento". Dopo la cancellazione, l'abbonamento rimarrĂ attivo per il periodo rimanente giĂ pagato. Per maggiori informazioni, clicca qui
Ă possibile scaricare libri? Se sĂŹ, come?
Al momento è possibile scaricare tramite l'app tutti i nostri libri ePub mobile-friendly. Anche la maggior parte dei nostri PDF è scaricabile e stiamo lavorando per rendere disponibile quanto prima il download di tutti gli altri file. Per maggiori informazioni, clicca qui
Che differenza c'è tra i piani?
Entrambi i piani ti danno accesso illimitato alla libreria e a tutte le funzionalitĂ di Perlego. Le uniche differenze sono il prezzo e il periodo di abbonamento: con il piano annuale risparmierai circa il 30% rispetto a 12 rate con quello mensile.
Cos'è Perlego?
Perlego è un servizio di abbonamento a testi accademici, che ti permette di accedere a un'intera libreria online a un prezzo inferiore rispetto a quello che pagheresti per acquistare un singolo libro al mese. Con oltre 1 milione di testi suddivisi in piÚ di 1.000 categorie, troverai sicuramente ciò che fa per te! Per maggiori informazioni, clicca qui.
Perlego supporta la sintesi vocale?
Cerca l'icona Sintesi vocale nel prossimo libro che leggerai per verificare se è possibile riprodurre l'audio. Questo strumento permette di leggere il testo a voce alta, evidenziandolo man mano che la lettura procede. Puoi aumentare o diminuire la velocità della sintesi vocale, oppure sospendere la riproduzione. Per maggiori informazioni, clicca qui.
The Man Who Would Be King è disponibile online in formato PDF/ePub?
SĂŹ, puoi accedere a The Man Who Would Be King di Rudyard Kipling in formato PDF e/o ePub, cosĂŹ come ad altri libri molto apprezzati nelle sezioni relative a Letteratura e Classici. Scopri oltre 1 milione di libri disponibili nel nostro catalogo.
Informazioni
Argomento
LetteraturaCategoria
ClassiciThe Man Who Would Be King
âBrother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be found worthyâ
THE Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct of life, and one not easy to follow. I have been fellow to a beggar again and again under circumstances which prevented either of us finding out whether the other was worthy. I have still to be brother to a Prince, though I once came near to kinship with what might have been a veritable King, and was promised the reversion of a Kingdom â army, law-courts, revenue, and policy all complete. But, to-day, I greatly fear that my King is dead, and if I want a crown I must go hunt it for myself.
The beginning of everything was in a railway train upon the road to Mhow from Ajmir. There had been a Deficit in the Budget, which necessitated travelling, not Second-class, which is only half as dear as First-class, but by Intermediate, which is very awful indeed. There are no cushions in the Intermediate class, and the population are either Intermediate, which is Eurasian, or native, which for a long night journey is nasty, or Loafer, which is amusing though intoxicated. Intermediates do not buy from refreshment-rooms. They carry their food in bundles and pots, and buy sweets from the native sweetmeat-sellers, and drink the roadside water. That is why in the hot weather Intermediates are taken out of the carriages dead, and in all weathers are most properly looked down upon.
My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till I reached Nasirabad, when a big black-browed gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered, and, following the custom of Intermediates, passed the time of day. He was a wanderer and a vagabond like myself, but with an educated taste for whisky. He told tales of things he had seen and done, of out-of-the-way corners of the Empire into which he had penetrated, and of adventures in which he risked his life for a few daysâ food.
âIf India was filled with men like you and me, not knowing more than the crows where theyâd get their next dayâs rations, it isnât seventy millions of revenue the land would be paying â itâs seven hundred millions,â said he; and as I looked at his mouth and chin I was disposed to agree with him.
We talked politics â the politics of Loaferdom, that sees things from the underside where the lath and plaster is not smoothed off â and we talked postal arrangements because my friend wanted to send a telegram back from the next station to Ajmir, the turning-off place from the Bombay to the Mhow line as you travel westward. My friend had no money beyond eight annas, which he wanted for dinner, and I had no money at all, owing to the hitch in the Budget before mentioned. Further, I was going into a wilderness where, though I should resume touch with the Treasury, there were no telegraph offices. I was, therefore, unable to help him in any way.
âWe might threaten a Station-master, and make him send a wire on tick,â said my friend, âbut thatâd mean inquiries for you and for me, and Iâve got my hands full these days. Did you say you are travelling back along this line within any days?â
âWithin ten,â I said.
âCanât you make it eight?â said he. âMine is rather urgent business.â
âI can send your telegram within ten days if that will serve yon,â I said.
âI couldnât trust the wire to fetch him now I think of it. Itâs this way: He leaves Delhi on the 23d for Bombay. That means heâll be running through Ajmir about the night of the 23d.â
âBut Iâm going into the Indian Desert,â I explained.
âWell and good,â said he. âYouâll be changing at Marwar Junction to get into Jodhpore territory â you must do that â and heâll be coming through Marwar Junction in the early morning of the 24th by the Bombay Mail. Can you be at Marwar Junction on that time? âTwonât be inconveniencing you because I know that thereâs precious few pickings to be got out of these Central India States â even though you pretend to be correspondent of the âBackwoodsman.â â
âHave you ever tried that trick?â I asked.
âAgain and again, but the Residents find you out, and then you get escorted to the Border before youâve time to get your knife into them. But about my friend here. I must give him a word oâ mouth to tell him whatâs come to me or else he wonât know where to go. I would take it more than kind of you if you was to come out of Central India in time to catch him at Marwar Junction, and say to him: âHe has gone South for the week.â Heâll know what that means. Heâs a big man with a red beard, and a great swell he is. Youâll find him sleeping like a gentleman with all his luggage round him in a Second-class compartment. But donât you be afraid. Slip down the window, and say: âHe has gone South for the week,â and heâll tumble. Itâs only cutting your time of stay in those parts by two days. I ask you as a stranger â going to the West,â he said with emphasis.
âWhere have you come from?â said I.
âFrom the East,â said he, âand I am hoping that you will give him the message on the Square â for the sake of my Mother as well as your own.â
Englishmen are not usually softened by appeals to the memory of their mothers, but for certain reasons, which will be fully apparent, I saw fit to agree.
âItâs more than a little matter,â said he, âand thatâs why I asked you to do it â and now I know that I can depend on you doing it. A Second-class carriage at Marwar Junction, and a red-haired man asleep in it. Youâll be sure to remember. I get out at the next station, and I must hold on there till he comes or sends me what I want.â
âIâll give the message if I catch him,â I said, âand for the sake of your Mother as well as mine Iâll give you a word of advice. Donât try to run the Central India States just now as the correspondent of the âBackwoodsman.â Thereâs a real one knocking about here, and it might lead to trouble.â
âThank you,â said he simply, âand when will the swine be gone? I canât starve because heâs ruining my work. I wanted to get hold of the Degumber Rajah down here about his fatherâs widow, and give him a jump.â
âWhat did he do to his fatherâs widow, then?â
âFilled her up with red pepper and slippered her to death as she hung from a beam. I found that out myself, and Iâm the only man that would dare going into the State to get hush-money for it. Theyâll try to poison me, same as they did in Chortumna when I went on the loot there. But youâll give the man at Marwar Junction my message?â
He got out at a little roadside station, and I reflected. I had heard, more than once, of men personating correspondents of newspapers and bleeding small Native States with threats of exposure, but I had never met any of the caste before. They lead a hard life, and generally die with great suddenness. The Native States have a wholesome horror of English newspapers which may throw light on their peculiar methods of government, and do their best to choke correspondents with champagne, or drive them out of their mind with four-in-hand barouches. They do not understand that nobody cares a straw for the internal administration of Native States so long as oppression and crime are kept within decent limits, and the ruler is not drugged, drunk, or diseased from one end of the year to the other. They are the dark places of the earth, full of unimaginable cruelty, touching the Railway and the Telegraph on one side, and, on the other, the days of Harun-al-Raschid. When I left the train I did business with divers Kings, and in eight days passed through many changes of life. Sometimes I wore dress-clothes and consorted with Princes and Politicals, drinking from crystal and eating from silver. Sometimes I lay out upon the ground and devoured what I could get, from a plate made of leaves, and drank the running water, and slept under the same rugs as my servant. It was all in the dayâs work.
Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert upon the proper date, as I had promised, and the night Mail set me down at Marwar Junction, where a funny, little, happy-go-lucky, native-managed railway runs to Jodhpore. The Bombay Mail from Delhi makes a short halt at Marwar. She arrived as I got in, and I had just time to hurry to her platform and go down the carriages. There was only one Second-class on the train. I slipped the window and looked down upon a flaming red beard, half covered by a railway rug. That was my man, fast asleep, and I dug him gently in the ribs. He woke with a grunt, and I saw his face in the light of the lamps. It was a great and shining face.
âTickets again?â said he.
âNo,â said I. âI am to tell you that he is gone South for the week. He has gone South for the week!â
The train had begun to move out. The red man rubbed his eyes. âHe has gone South for the week,â he repeated. âNow thatâs just like his impidence. Did he say that I was to give you anything? âCause I wonât.â
âHe didnât,â I said, and dropped away, and watched the red lights die out in the dark. It was horribly cold, because the wind was blowing off the sands. I climbed into my own train â not an Intermediate Carriage this time â and went to sleep.
If the man with the beard had given me a rupee I should have kept it as a memento of a rather curious affair. But the consciousness of having done my duty was my only reward.
Later on I reflected that two gentlemen like my friends could not do any good if they forgathered and personated correspondents of newspapers, and might, if they blackmailed one of the little rat-trap states of Central India or Southern Rajputana, get themselves into serious difficulties. I therefore took some trouble to describe them as accurately as I could remember to people who would be interested in deporting them; and succeeded, so I was later informed, in having them headed back from the Degumber borders.
Then I became respectable, and returned to an Office where there were no Kings and no incidents outside the daily manufacture of a newspaper. A newspaper office seems to attract every conceivable sort of person, to the prejudice of discipline. Zenana-mission ladies arrive, and beg that the Editor will instantly abandon all his duties to describe a Christian prize-giving in a back-slum of a perfectly inaccessible village; Colonels who have been overpassed for command sit down and sketch the outline of a series of ten, twelve, or twenty-four leading articles on Seniority versus Selection; Missionaries wish to know why they have not been permitted to escape from their regular vehicles of abuse and swear at a brother-missionary under special patronage of the editorial We; stranded theatrical companies troop up to explain that they cannot pay for their advertisements, but on their return from New Zealand or Tahiti will do so with interest; inventors of patent punkah-pulling machines, carriage couplings, and unbreakable swords and axle-trees, call with specifications in their pockets and hours at their disposal; tea-companies enter and elaborate their prospectuses with the office pens; secretaries of ball-committees clamour to have the glories of their last dance more fully described; strange ladies rustle in and say, âI want a hundred ladyâs cards printed at once, please,â which is manifestly part of an Editorâs duty; and every dissolute ruffian that ever tramped the Grand Trunk Road makes it his business to ask for employment as a proof-reader. And, all the time, the telephone-bell is ringing madly, and Kings are being killed on the Continent, and Empires are saying, âYouâre another,â and Mister Gladstone is calling down brimstone upon the British Dominions, and the little black copy-boys are whining, âkaa-pi chay-ha-yehâ (copy wanted) like tired bees, and most of the paper is as blank as Modredâs shield.
But that is the amusing part of the year. There are six other months when none ever comes to call, and the thermometer walks inch by inch up to the top of the glass, and the office is darkened to just above reading-light, and the press-machines are red-hot of touch, and nobody writes anything but accounts of amusements in the Hill-stations or obituary notices. Then the telephone becomes a tinkling terror, because it tells you of the sudden deaths of men and women that you knew intimately, and the prickly-heat covers you with a garment, and you sit down and write: âA slight increase of sickness is reported from the Khuda Janta Khan District. The outbreak is purely sporadic in its nature, and, thanks to the energetic efforts of the District authorities, is now almost at an end. It is, however, with deep regret we record the death,â etc.
Then the sickness really breaks out, and the less recording and reporting the better for the peace of the subscribers. But the Empires and the Kings continue to divert themselves as selfishly as before, and the Foreman thinks that a daily paper really ought to come out once in twenty-four hours, and all the people at the Hill-stations in the middle of their amusements say: âGood gracious! Why canât the paper be sparkling? Iâm sure thereâs plenty going on up here.â
That is the dark half of the moon, and, as the advertisements say, âmust be experienced to be appreciated.â
It was in that season, and a remarkably evil season, that the paper began running the last issue of the week on Saturday night, which is to say, Sunday morning, after the custom of a London paper. This was a great convenience, for immediately after the paper was put to bed, the dawn would lower the thermometer from 96 degrees to almost 84 degrees for half an hour, and in that chill â you have no idea how cold is 84 degrees on the grass until you begin to pray for it â a very tired man could get off to sleep ere the heat roused him.
One Saturday night it was my pleasant duty to put the paper to bed alone. A King or courtier or a courtesan or a Community was going to die or get a new Constitution, or do something that was important on the other side of the world, and the paper was to be held open till the latest possible minute in order to catch the telegram.
It was a pitchy black night, as stifling as a June night can be, and the loo, the red-hot wind from the westward, was booming among the tinder-dry trees and pretending that the rain was on its heels. Now and again a spot of almost boiling water would fall on the dust with the flop of a frog, but all our weary world knew that was only pretence. It was a shade cooler in the press-room than the office, so I sat there, while the type ticked and clicked, and the night-jars hooted at the windows, and the all but naked compositors wiped the sweat from their foreheads, and called for water. The thing that was keeping us back, whatever it was, would not come off, though the loo dropped and the last type was set, and the whole round earth stood still in the choking heat with its finger on its lip, to wait the event. I drowsed, and wondered whether the telegraph was a blessing, and whether this dying man, or struggling people, might be aware of the inconvenience the delay was causing. There was no special reason beyond the heat and worry to make tension, but, as the clock-hands crept up to three oâclock, and the machines spun their fly-wheels two or three times to see that all was in order before I said the word that would set them off, I could have shrieked aloud.
Then the roar and rattle of the wheels shivered the quiet into little bits. I rose to go away, but two men in white clothes stood in front of me. The first one said: âItâs him!â The second said: âSo it is!â And they both laughed almost as loudly as the machinery roared, and mopped their foreheads. âWe seed there was a light burning across the road, and we were sleeping in that ditch there for coolness, and I said to my friend here, The office is open. Letâs come along and speak to him as turned us back from the Degumber State,â said the smaller of the two. He was the man I had met in the Mhow train, and his fellow was the red-bearded man of Marwar Junction. There was no mistaking the eyebrows of the one or the beard of the other.
I was not pleased, because I wished to go to sleep, not to squabble with loafers. âWhat do you want?â I asked.
âHalf an hourâs talk with you, cool and comfortable, in the office,â said the red-bearded man. âWeâd like some drink â the Contrack doesnât begin yet, Peachey, so you neednât look â but what we really want is advice. We donât want money. We ask you as a favour, because we found out you did us a bad turn about Degumber State.â
I led from the press-room to the stifling office with the maps on the walls, and the red-haired man rubbed his hands. âThatâs something like,â said he. âThis was the proper shop to come to. Now, Sir, let me introduce to you Brother Peachey Carnehan, thatâs him, and Brother Daniel Dravot, that is me, and the less said about our professions the better, for we have been most things in our time. Soldier, sailor, compositor, photographer, proof-reader, street-preacher, and correspondents of the âBackwoodsmanâ when we thought the paper wanted one. Carnehan is sober, and so am I. Look at us first, and see thatâs sure. It will save you cutting into my talk. Weâll take one of your cigars apiece, and you shall see us light up.â
I watched the test. The men were absolutely sober, so I gave them each a tepid whisky and soda.
âWell and good,â said Carnehan of the eyebrows, wiping the froth from his moustache. âLet me talk now, Dan. We have been all over India, mostly on foot. We have been boiler-fitters, engine-drivers, petty contractors, and all that, and we have decided that India isnât big enough for such as us.â
They certainly were too big for the office. Dravotâs beard seemed to fill half the room and Carnehanâs shoulders the other half, as they sat on the big table. Carnehan continued: âThe country isnât half worked out, because they that governs it wonât let you touch it. They spend all their blessed time in governing it, and you canât lift a spade, nor chip a rock, nor look for oil, nor anything like that, without all the Government saying, âLeave it alone, and let us govern.â Therefore, such as it is, we will let it alone, and go away to some other place where a man isnât crowded and can come to his own. We are not little men, and there is nothing that we are afraid of except Drink, and we have signed a Contrack on that. Therefore, we are going away to be Kings.â
âKings in our own right,â muttered Dravot.
âYes, of course,â I said. âYouâve been tramping in the sun, and itâs a very warm night, and hadnât you better sleep over the notion? Come to-morrow.â
âNeither drunk nor sunstruck,â said Dravot. âWe have slept over the notion half a year, and require to see Books and Atlases, and we have decided that there is only one place now in the world that two strong men can Sar-a-whack. They call it Kafiristan. By my reckoning itâs the top right-hand corner of Afghanistan, not more than three hundred miles from Peshawar. They have two-and-thirty heathen idols there, and weâll be the thirty-third and fourth. Itâs a mountaineous country, and the women of those parts are very beautiful.â
âBut that is provided against in the Contrack,â said Carnehan. âNeither Woman nor Liqu-or, Daniel.â
âAnd thatâs all we know, except that no one has gone there, and they fight; and in any place where they fight a man who knows how to drill men can always be a King. We shall go to those parts and say to any King we find â âDâyou want to vanquish your foes?â and we will show him how to...