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Za darmoA Really Good Time
Rudyard Kipling
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There are moments when a man longs to slip into pajamas, stretch out, lounge about, and hold forth on everything under the sun. This is one of those moments.
It is impossible to stand at ease in London, and the inhabitants are so dreadfully self-centered that you cannot shout "I, I, I" for two minutes without someone else chiming in with "Me, too!" Which things are an allegory.
The fun began with a gentleman of vast learning offering to publish my autobiography.
I was to write a string of tales—he would see to their publication; and would I kindly forward a check for five guineas "to cover incidental expenses?" To him I explained that I myself was in dire need of five-guinea checks, and that, emboldened by his letter, which gave me a very clear window into his character, I was even then working on his autobiography, which I hoped to bring out shortly with illustrations, and would he forward a check for five guineas "to cover incidental expenses?" This earned me an eight-page torrent of abuse. He was grieved to find he had misjudged my character, which he had believed was, at least, elevated. He begged me to remember that his first letter had been written in the strictest confidence, and that if I revealed so much as a hint of that confidential repository, he would unleash the bloodhounds of the law and hunt me down.
An autobiography on the lines I had "so flippantly proposed" was libel without the benefit of authorship, and I had better lend him two guineas—I.O.U. enclosed—to soothe his lacerated feelings. I replied that I had his autobiography in manuscript and would send it to him cash on delivery, for two guineas and a half. He evidently knew nothing of C.O.D., and the correspondence ceased. It is genuinely hard for an Anglo-Indian to get by in London. Besides, my autobiography is not something I should care to make public before thorough Bowdlerization.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-9d9f261555c24d7288a554acaf4eac27
# book_title: A Really Good Time
# chapter_id: 1-a-really-good-time
# chapter_title: A Really Good Time
# book_page: 1 / 4
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
There are moments when a man longs to slip into pajamas, stretch out, lounge about, and hold forth on everything under the sun. This is one of those moments.
It is impossible to stand at ease in London, and the inhabitants are so dreadfully self-centered that you cannot shout "I, I, I" for two minutes without someone else chiming in with "Me, too!" Which things are an allegory.
The fun began with a gentleman of vast learning offering to publish my autobiography.
I was to write a string of tales—he would see to their publication; and would I kindly forward a check for five guineas "to cover incidental expenses?" To him I explained that I myself was in dire need of five-guinea checks, and that, emboldened by his letter, which gave me a very clear window into his character, I was even then working on _his_ autobiography, which I hoped to bring out shortly with illustrations, and would he forward a check for five guineas "to cover incidental expenses?" This earned me an eight-page torrent of abuse. He was grieved to find he had misjudged my character, which he had believed was, at least, elevated. He begged me to remember that his first letter had been written in the strictest confidence, and that if I revealed so much as a hint of that confidential repository, he would unleash the bloodhounds of the law and hunt me down.
An autobiography on the lines I had "so flippantly proposed" was libel without the benefit of authorship, and I had better lend him two guineas—I.O.U. enclosed—to soothe his lacerated feelings. I replied that I had his autobiography in manuscript and would send it to him cash on delivery, for two guineas and a half. He evidently knew nothing of C.O.D., and the correspondence ceased. It is genuinely hard for an Anglo-Indian to get by in London. Besides, my autobiography is not something I should care to make public before thorough Bowdlerization.These incidents, however, were only a prelude to far worse. I scarcely dared to smile at them unless I stepped aside into the East. I wrote stories, all about little corners of India, carefully arranged and expurgated for the English public. Then various people began to write about them. One gentleman pointed out that I had taken "the well-worn themes of passion, love, despair and fate," and, thanks to the "singular fascination" of my style, had "wrought them into new and glowing fabrics instinct with the eternal vitality of the East." For three days after that notice I was almost too proud to speak to the housemaid with the protruding teeth (there is a story about her that I will tell another time).
On the fourth day another gentleman made clear that that beautiful style was "tortuous, elaborated and inept," and it was only because of the "newness of the subjects handled so crabbedly" that I "arrested the attention of the public for a day." Then I wept before the housemaid, and she called me a "real gentleman" because I gave her a shilling.
Next I tried an all-around cannon—I published one piece under one name and another under a different name, and sat back to watch. A gentleman, who also speaks with authority on Literature and Art, came to me and said: "I don't deny that there is a great deal of clever and superficial fooling in that last thing of yours in the—I've forgotten what it was called—but do you yourself think that you have that curious, subtle grip on and instinct for matters Oriental that that other man shows in his study of native life?" And he mentioned the name of my Other Self. I bowed my head, and my shoulders shook with repentance and grief. "No," said I. "It's so true," said he. "Yes," said I. "So feeling," said he. "Indeed it is," said I. "Such honest work, too!" said he. "Oh, awful!" said I. "Think it over," said he, "and try to follow his path." "I will," said I.
And when he left I danced a jig with the housemaid of the fan-teeth until she asked whether I had bought "spirits."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-9d9f261555c24d7288a554acaf4eac27
# book_title: A Really Good Time
# chapter_id: 1-a-really-good-time
# chapter_title: A Really Good Time
# book_page: 2 / 4
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
These incidents, however, were only a prelude to far worse. I scarcely dared to smile at them unless I stepped aside into the East. I wrote stories, all about little corners of India, carefully arranged and expurgated for the English public. Then various people began to write about them. One gentleman pointed out that I had taken "the well-worn themes of passion, love, despair and fate," and, thanks to the "singular fascination" of my style, had "wrought them into new and glowing fabrics instinct with the eternal vitality of the East." For three days after that notice I was almost too proud to speak to the housemaid with the protruding teeth (there is a story about her that I will tell another time).
On the fourth day another gentleman made clear that that beautiful style was "tortuous, elaborated and inept," and it was only because of the "newness of the subjects handled so crabbedly" that I "arrested the attention of the public for a day." Then I wept before the housemaid, and she called me a "real gentleman" because I gave her a shilling.
Next I tried an all-around cannon—I published one piece under one name and another under a different name, and sat back to watch. A gentleman, who also speaks with authority on Literature and Art, came to me and said: "I don't deny that there is a great deal of clever and superficial fooling in that last thing of yours in the—I've forgotten what it was called—but do you yourself think that you have that curious, subtle grip on and instinct for matters Oriental that that other man shows in his study of native life?" And he mentioned the name of my Other Self. I bowed my head, and my shoulders shook with repentance and grief. "No," said I. "It's so true," said he. "Yes," said I. "So feeling," said he. "Indeed it is," said I. "Such honest work, too!" said he. "Oh, awful!" said I. "Think it over," said he, "and try to follow his path." "I will," said I.
And when he left I danced a jig with the housemaid of the fan-teeth until she asked whether I had bought "spirits."Then another man came along, sat on my sofa, and hailed me as a brother. "And I know that we are kindred souls," said he, "because I feel sure that you have evolved all the dreamy mystery and curious brutality of the British soldier from the pure realm of fancy." "I did," I said. "If you went into a barrack-room you would see at once." "Faugh!" said he. "What have we to do with barrack-rooms? The pure air of fancy feeds us both; keep to that. If you are hampered by the bitter, narrow truth, you are lost. You die the death of Zola. Invention is the only test of creation." "Of course," said I. "Zola's a bold, bad man. Not a patch on you." I hadn't caught his name, but I thought that would stop him flinging himself about on my sofa, which is a cheap one. "I don't say that altogether," he said. "He has his strong points.
But he is deficient in imaginative constructiveness. You, I see from what you have said, will belong to the Neo-Gynekalistic school." I knew "Gyne" had something to do with cow-killing, and was ready to hedge when he said good-bye, and he wrote an article about my ways and works that brought another man to my door, frothing at the mouth.
"Great Landor's ghost!" he said. "What under the stars has possessed you to join the Gynekalistic lot?" "I haven't," I said. "I believe in municipal regulation of slaughterhouses, if there is a strong Deputy Commissioner to control the Muhammadan butchers, especially in the hot weather, but..." "This is madness," said he. "Your reputation is at stake. You must make it clear to the world that you have nothing whatever to do with the flatulent, unballasted fiction of..." "Do you suppose the world cares a tuppenny damn?" said I.
Then he raged afresh, and left me, pointing out that the Gynewallahs wrote about nothing but women—which seems rather an unlimited subject—and that I would die the death of a French author whose name I have forgotten. But it wasn't Zola this time.
I asked the housemaid what in the world the Gynekalisthenics were.
"La, sir," said she, "it's only their way of being rude. That fat gentleman with the long hair tried to kiss me when I opened the door. I slapped his fat chops for him."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-9d9f261555c24d7288a554acaf4eac27
# book_title: A Really Good Time
# chapter_id: 1-a-really-good-time
# chapter_title: A Really Good Time
# book_page: 3 / 4
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Then another man came along, sat on my sofa, and hailed me as a brother. "And I know that we are kindred souls," said he, "because I feel sure that you have evolved all the dreamy mystery and curious brutality of the British soldier from the pure realm of fancy." "I did," I said. "If you went into a barrack-room you would see at once." "Faugh!" said he. "What have we to do with barrack-rooms? The pure air of fancy feeds us both; keep to that. If you are hampered by the bitter, narrow truth, you are lost. You die the death of Zola. Invention is the only test of creation." "Of course," said I. "Zola's a bold, bad man. Not a patch on _you_." I hadn't caught his name, but I thought that would stop him flinging himself about on my sofa, which is a cheap one. "I don't say that altogether," he said. "He has his strong points.
But he is deficient in imaginative constructiveness. _You_, I see from what you have said, will belong to the Neo-Gynekalistic school." I knew "Gyne" had something to do with cow-killing, and was ready to hedge when he said good-bye, and he wrote an article about my ways and works that brought another man to my door, frothing at the mouth.
"Great Landor's ghost!" he said. "What under the stars has possessed you to join the Gynekalistic lot?" "I haven't," I said. "I believe in municipal regulation of slaughterhouses, if there is a strong Deputy Commissioner to control the Muhammadan butchers, especially in the hot weather, but..." "This is madness," said he. "Your reputation is at stake. You must make it clear to the world that you have nothing whatever to do with the flatulent, unballasted fiction of..." "Do you suppose the world cares a tuppenny damn?" said I.
Then he raged afresh, and left me, pointing out that the Gynewallahs wrote about nothing but women—which seems rather an unlimited subject—and that I would die the death of a French author whose name I have forgotten. But it wasn't Zola this time.
I asked the housemaid what in the world the Gynekalisthenics were.
"La, sir," said she, "it's only their way of being rude. That fat gentleman with the long hair tried to kiss me when I opened the door. I slapped his fat chops for him."Now the crisis is at its height. All the entire round world, composed, as far as I can learn, of the Gynekalistic and the anti-Gynekalistic man, and two or three loafers, are trying to find out to what school I rightly belong. They seem to use what they are pleased to call my reputation as a bolster through which to stab at the foe. One gentleman is proving that I am a bit of a blackguard, probably reduced from the ranks, rather an impostor, and a considerable amount of plagiarist. The other man denies the reduction from the ranks, withholds judgment about the plagiarism, but would like, in the interest of the public—who are at present exclusively occupied with Barnum—to prove it true, and is convinced that my style is "hermaphroditic." I have all the money on the first man.
He is on the eve of discovering that I stole a dead Tommy's diary just before I was drummed out of the service for desertion, and have lived on the proceeds ever since. "Do you know," as the Private Secretary said at Simla this year, "it's remarkably hard for an Anglo-Indian to get along in England."
The appearance is there, but the reality is not!
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-9d9f261555c24d7288a554acaf4eac27
# book_title: A Really Good Time
# chapter_id: 1-a-really-good-time
# chapter_title: A Really Good Time
# book_page: 4 / 4
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Now the crisis is at its height. All the entire round world, composed, as far as I can learn, of the Gynekalistic and the anti-Gynekalistic man, and two or three loafers, are trying to find out to what school I rightly belong. They seem to use what they are pleased to call my reputation as a bolster through which to stab at the foe. One gentleman is proving that I am a bit of a blackguard, probably reduced from the ranks, rather an impostor, and a considerable amount of plagiarist. The other man denies the reduction from the ranks, withholds judgment about the plagiarism, but would like, in the interest of the public—who are at present exclusively occupied with Barnum—to prove it true, and is convinced that my style is "hermaphroditic." I have all the money on the first man.
He is on the eve of discovering that I stole a dead Tommy's diary just before I was drummed out of the service for desertion, and have lived on the proceeds ever since. "Do you know," as the Private Secretary said at Simla this year, "it's remarkably hard for an Anglo-Indian to get along in England."
_The appearance is there, but the reality is not!_
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