Man Who Would Be King , livre ebook

The Floating Press - Rudyard Kipling

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

26 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Praised by literary luminary Henry James, this extraordinary early tale from Rudyard Kipling offers incisive insight into the dangers of imperialism. A pair of bumbling British adventurers make their way to a remote region of Afghanistan and, through a series of coincidences and misunderstandings, ascend to the throne as co-ruling kings.

Sujets

Short story

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 octobre 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776671458
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING
* * *
RUDYARD KIPLING

*
The Man Who Would Be King First published in 1888 Epub ISBN 978-1-77667-145-8 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77667-146-5 © 2016 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
The Man Who Would Be King
*
“Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be found worthy.”
The Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct of life, and one not easyto follow. I have been fellow to a beggar again and again undercircumstances which prevented either of us finding out whether theother was worthy. I have still to be brother to a Prince, though I oncecame near to kinship with what might have been a veritable King and waspromised the reversion of a Kingdom—army, law-courts, revenue andpolicy all complete. But, to-day, I greatly fear that my King is dead,and if I want a crown I must go and hunt it for myself.
The beginning of everything was in a railway train upon the road toMhow from Ajmir. There had been a deficit in the Budget, whichnecessitated travelling, not Second-class, which is only half as dearas First-class, but by Intermediate, which is very awful indeed. Thereare no cushions in the Intermediate class, and the population areeither Intermediate, which is Eurasian, or native, which for a longnight journey is nasty; or Loafer, which is amusing though intoxicated.Intermediates do not patronize refreshment-rooms. They carry their foodin bundles and pots, and buy sweets from the native sweetmeat-sellers,and drink the roadside water. That is why in the hot weatherIntermediates are taken out of the carriages dead, and in all weathersare most properly looked down upon.
My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till I reachedNasirabad, when a huge gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered, and,following the custom of Intermediates, passed the time of day. He was awanderer and a vagabond like myself, but with an educated taste forwhiskey. He told tales of things he had seen and done, ofout-of-the-way corners of the Empire into which he had penetrated, andof adventures in which he risked his life for a few days’ food. “IfIndia was filled with men like you and me, not knowing more than thecrows where they’d get their next day’s rations, it isn’t seventymillions of revenue the land would be paying—it’s seven hundredmillion,” said he; and as I looked at his mouth and chin I wasdisposed to agree with him. We talked politics—the politics ofLoaferdom that sees things from the underside where the lath andplaster is not smoothed off—and we talked postal arrangements becausemy friend wanted to send a telegram back from the next station toAjmir, which is the turning-off place from the Bombay to the Mhow lineas you travel westward. My friend had no money beyond eight annas whichhe wanted for dinner, and I had no money at all, owing to the hitch inthe Budget before mentioned. Further, I was going into a wildernesswhere, though I should resume touch with the Treasury, there were notelegraph offices. I was, therefore, unable to help him in any way.
“We might threaten a Station-master, and make him send a wire ontick,” said my friend, “but that’d mean inquiries for you and forme, and I’ve got my hands full these days. Did you say you aretravelling back along this line within any days?”
“Within ten,” I said.
“Can’t you make it eight?” said he. “Mine is rather urgentbusiness.”
“I can send your telegram within ten days if that will serve you,”I said.
“I couldn’t trust the wire to fetch him now I think of it. It’sthis way. He leaves Delhi on the 23d for Bombay. That means he’ll berunning through Ajmir about the night of the 23d.”
“But I’m going into the Indian Desert,” I explained.
“Well and good,” said he. “You’ll be changing at MarwarJunction to get into Jodhpore territory—you must do that—andhe’ll be coming through Marwar Junction in the early morning of the24th by the Bombay Mail. Can you be at Marwar Junction on that time?’Twon’t be inconveniencing you because I know that there’sprecious few pickings to be got out of these Central IndiaStates—even though you pretend to be correspondent of theBackwoodsman.”
“Have you ever tried that trick?” I asked.
“Again and again, but the Residents find you out, and then you getescorted to the Border before you’ve time to get your knife intothem. But about my friend here. I must give him a word o’ mouth totell him what’s come to me or else he won’t know where to go. Iwould take it more than kind of you if you was to come out of CentralIndia in time to catch him at Marwar Junction, and say to him:—‘Hehas gone South for the week.’ He’ll know what that means. He’s abig man with a red beard, and a great swell he is. You’ll find himsleeping like a gentleman with all his luggage round him in asecond-class compartment. But don’t you be afraid. Slip down thewindow, and say:—‘He has gone South for the week,’ and he’lltumble. It’s only cutting your time of stay in those parts by twodays. I ask you as a stranger—going to the West,” he said withemphasis.
“Where have you come from?” said I.
“From the East,” said he, “and I am hoping that you will give himthe message on the Square—for the sake of my Mother as well as yourown.”
Englishmen are not usually softened by appeals to the memory of theirmothers, but for certain reasons, which will be fully apparent, I sawfit to agree.
“It’s more than a little matter,” said he, “and that’s why Iask you to do it—and now I know that I can depend on you doing it. Asecond-class carriage at Marwar Junction, and a red-haired man asleepin it. You’ll be sure to remember. I get out at the next station, andI must hold on there till he comes or sends me what I want.”
“I’ll give the message if I catch him,” I said, “and for thesake of your Mother as well as mine I’ll give you a word of advice.Don’t try to run the Central India States just now as thecorrespondent of the Backwoodsman. There’s a real one knocking abouthere, and it might lead to trouble.”
“Thank you,” said he simply, “and when will the swine be gone? Ican’t starve because he’s ruining my work. I wanted to get hold ofthe Degumber Rajah down here about his father’s widow, and give him ajump.”
“What did he do to his father’s widow, then?”
“Filled her up with red pepper and slippered her to death as she hungfrom a beam. I found that out myself and I’m the only man that woulddare going into the State to get hush-money for it. They’ll try topoison me, same as they did in Chortumna when I went on the loot there.But you’ll give the man at Marwar Junction my message?”
He got out at a little roadside station, and I reflected. I had heard,more than once, of men personating correspondents of newspapers andbleeding small Native States with threats of exposure, but I had nevermet any of the caste before. They lead a hard life, and generally diewith great suddenness. The Native States have a wholesome horror ofEnglish newspapers, which may throw light on their peculiar methods ofgovernment, and do their best to choke correspondents with champagne,or drive them out of their mind with four-in-hand barouches. They donot understand that nobody cares a straw for the internaladministration of Native States so long as oppression and crime arekept within decent limits, and the ruler is not drugged, drunk, ordiseased from one end of the year to the other. Native States werecreated by Providence in order to supply picturesque scenery, tigersand tall-writing. They are the dark places of the earth, full ofunimaginable cruelty, touching the Railway and the Telegraph on oneside, and, on the other, the days of Harun-al-Raschid. When I left thetrain I did business with divers Kings, and in eight days passedthrough many changes of life. Sometimes I wore dress-clothes andconsorted with Princes and Politicals, drinking from crystal and eatingfrom silver. Sometimes I lay out upon the ground and devoured what Icould get, from a plate made of a flapjack, and drank the runningwater, and slept under the same rug as my servant. It was all in aday’s work.
Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert upon the proper date, as Ihad promised, and the night Mail set me down at Marwar Junction, wherea funny little, happy-go-lucky, native managed railway runs toJodhpore. The Bombay Mail from Delhi makes a short halt at Marwar. Shearrived as I got in, and I had just time to hurry to her platform andgo down the carriages. There was only one second-class on the train. Islipped the window and looked down upon a flaming red beard, halfcovered by a railway rug. That was my man, fast asleep, and I dug himgently in the ribs. He woke with a grunt and I saw his face in thelight of the lamps. It was a great and shining face.
“Tickets again?” said he.
“No,” said I. “I am to tell you that he is gone South for theweek. He is gone South for the week!”
The train had begun to move out. The red man rubbed his eyes. “He hasgone South for the week,” he repeated. “Now that’s just like hisimpudence.