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      Under the Deodars

      THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE

I

      In the pleasant orchard-closes

      ‘God bless all our gains,’ say we;

      But ‘May God bless all our losses,’

      Better suits with our degree.

The Lost Bower.

      This is the history of a failure; but the woman who failed said that it might be an instructive tale to put into print for the benefit of the younger generation. The younger generation does not want instruction, being perfectly willing to instruct if any one will listen to it. None the less, here begins the story where every right-minded story should begin, that is to say at Simla, where all things begin and many come to an evil end.

      The mistake was due to a very clever woman making a blunder and not retrieving it. Men are licensed to stumble, but a clever woman’s mistake is outside the regular course of Nature and Providence; since all good people know that a woman is the only infallible thing in this world, except Government Paper of the ‘79 issue, bearing interest at four and a half per cent. Yet, we have to remember that six consecutive days of rehearsing the leading part of The Fallen Angel, at the New Gaiety Theatre where the plaster is not yet properly dry, might have brought about an unhingement of spirits which, again, might have led to eccentricities.

      Mrs. Hauksbee came to ‘The Foundry’ to tiffin with Mrs. Mallowe, her one bosom friend, for she was in no sense ‘a woman’s woman.’ And it was a woman’s tiffin, the door shut to all the world; and they both talked chiffons, which is French for Mysteries.

      ‘I’ve enjoyed an interval of sanity,’ Mrs. Hauksbee announced, after tiffin was over and the two were comfortably settled in the little writing-room that opened out of Mrs. Mallowe’s bedroom.

      ‘My dear girl, what has he done?’ said Mrs. Mallowe sweetly. It is noticeable that ladies of a certain age call each other ‘dear girl,’ just as commissioners of twenty-eight years’ standing address their equals in the Civil List as ‘my boy.’

      ‘There’s no he in the case. Who am I that an imaginary man should be always credited to me? Am I an Apache?’

      ‘No, dear, but somebody’s scalp is generally drying at your wigwam-door. Soaking rather.’

      This was an allusion to the Hawley Boy, who was in the habit of riding all across Simla in the Rains, to call on Mrs. Hauksbee. That lady laughed.

      ‘For my sins, the Aide at Tyrconnel last night told me off to The Mussuck. Hsh! Don’t laugh. One of my most devoted admirers. When the duff came some one really ought to teach them to make puddings at Tyrconnel The Mussuck was at liberty to attend to me.’

      ‘Sweet soul! I know his appetite,’ said Mrs. Mallowe. ‘Did he, oh did he, begin his wooing?’

      ‘By a special mercy of Providence, no. He explained his importance as a Pillar of the Empire. I didn’t laugh.’

      ‘Lucy, I don’t believe you.’

      ‘Ask Captain Sangar; he was on the other side. Well, as I was saying, The Mussuck dilated.’

      ‘I think I can see him doing it,’ said Mrs. Mallowe pensively, scratching her fox-terrier’s ears.

      ‘I was properly impressed. Most properly. I yawned openly. “Strict supervision, and play them off one against the other,” said The Mussuck, shovelling down his ice by tureenfuls, I assure you. “That, Mrs. Hauksbee, is the secret of our Government.”’

      Mrs. Mallowe laughed long and merrily. ‘And what did you say?’

      ‘Did you ever know me at loss for an answer yet? I said: “So I have observed in my dealings with you.” The Mussuck swelled with pride. He is coming to call on me to-morrow. The Hawley Boy is coming too.’

      ‘“Strict supervision and play them off one against the other. That, Mrs. Hauksbee, is the secret of our Government.” And I daresay if we could get to The Mussuck’s heart, we should find that he considers himself a man of the world.’

      ‘As he is of the other two things. I like The Mussuck, and I won’t have you call him names. He amuses me.’

      ‘He has reformed you, too, by what appears. Explain the interval of sanity, and hit Tim on the nose with the paper-cutter, please. That dog is too fond of sugar. Do you take milk in yours?’

      ‘No, thanks. Polly, I’m wearied of this life. It’s hollow.’

      ‘Turn religious, then. I always said that Rome would be your fate.’

      ‘Only exchanging half-a-dozen attaches in red for one in black, and if I fasted, the wrinkles would come, and never, never go. Has it ever struck you, dear, that I’m getting old?’

      ‘Thanks for your courtesy. I’ll return it. Ye-es, we are both not exactly how shall I put it?’

      ‘What we have been. “I feel it in my bones,” as Mrs. Crossley says. Polly, I’ve wasted my life.’

      ‘As how?’

      ‘Never mind how. I feel it. I want to be a Power before I die.’

      ‘Be a Power then. You’ve wits enough for anything and beauty!’

      Mrs. Hauksbee pointed a teaspoon straight at her hostess. ‘Polly, if you heap compliments on me like this, I shall cease to believe that you’re a woman. Tell me how I am to be a Power.’

      ‘Inform The Mussuck that he is the most fascinating and slimmest man in Asia, and he’ll tell you anything and everything you please.’

      ‘Bother The Mussuck! I mean an intellectual Power not a gas-power. Polly, I’m going to start a salon.’

      Mrs. Mallowe turned lazily on the sofa and rested her head on her hand. ‘Hear the words of the Preacher, the son of Baruch,’ she said.

      ‘Will you talk sensibly?’

      ‘I will, dear, for I see that you are going to make a mistake.’

      ‘I never made a mistake in my life at least, never one that I couldn’t explain away afterwards.’

      ‘Going to make a mistake,’ went on Mrs. Mallowe composedly. ‘It is impossible to start a salon in Simla. A bar would be much more to the point.’

      ‘Perhaps, but why? It seems so easy.’

      ‘Just what makes it so difficult. How many clever women are there in Simla?’

      ‘Myself and yourself,’ said Mrs. Hauksbee, without a moment’s hesitation.

      ‘Modest woman! Mrs. Feardon would thank you for that. And how many clever men?’

      ‘Oh er hundreds,’ said Mrs. Hauksbee vaguely.

      ‘What a fatal blunder! Not one. They are all bespoke by the Government. Take my husband, for instance. Jack was a clever man, though I say so who shouldn’t. Government has eaten him up. All his ideas and powers of conversation he really used to be a good talker, even to his wife in the old days are taken from him by this this kitchen-sink of a Government. That’s the case with every man up here who is at work. I don’t suppose a Russian convict under the knout is able to amuse the rest of his gang; and all our men-folk here are gilded convicts.’

      ‘But there are scores – ’

      ‘I know what you’re going to say. Scores of idle men up on leave. I admit it, but they are all of two objectionable sets. The Civilian who’d be delightful if he had the military man’s knowledge of the world and style, and the military man who’d be adorable if he had the Civilian’s culture.’

      ‘Detestable word! Have Civilians culchaw? I never studied the breed deeply.’

      ‘Don’t make fun of Jack’s Service. Yes. They’re like the teapoys in the Lakka Bazar good material but not polished. They can’t help themselves, poor dears. A Civilian only begins to be tolerable after he has knocked about the world for fifteen years.’

      ‘And a military man?’

      ‘When he has had the same amount of service. The young of both species are horrible. You would have scores of them in your salon.’

      ‘I

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