Rudyard Kipling (1890)

Your Gods and my Gods – do you or I know which are the stronger?
Native Proverb

East of Suez, some hold, the direct ౠcontrol of Providence ceases; Man being there handed over to the power of the Gods and Devils of Asia, and the Church of England Providence only exercising an occasional and modified supervision in the case of Englis🧸hmen.

This theory accounts for some of the more unnecessary horrors of life in India: it may be str෴etched to explain my story.

My friend Strickland of the Police, who knows as much of natives of India as is good for any man, can bear witness to the facts of the case. Dumoise, our doctor, also saw what Stricklaౠnd and I saw. The inference which he drew from the evidence was entirely incorrect. He is dead now; he died, in a rather curious manner, which has b⛎een elsewhere described.

When Fleete came to India he owned a little money and some land in the Himalayas, near a place called Dharmsala. Both properties had been left him by an uncle, and he came out to finance them. He w♛as a big, heavy, genial, and inoffensive man. His knowledge of natives was, of co🌱urse, limited, and he complained of the difficulties of the language.

He rode in from his place in the hills to spend New Year in the station, and he stayed with Strickland. On New Year’s Eve there was a big dinner at the club, and the night was excusably wet. When men foregather from the uttermost ends of the Empire, they have a right to be riotous. The Frontier had sent down a contingent o’ Catch-’em-Alive-O’s who had not seen twenty white faces for a year, and were used to ride fifteen miles to dinner at the next Fort at the risk of a Khyberee bullet where their drinks should lie. They profited by their new security, for they tried to play pool with a curled-up hedgehog found in the garden, and one of them carried the marker round the room in his teeth. Half a dozen planters had come in from the south and were talking “horse” to the Biggest Liar in Asia, who was trying to cap all their stories at once. Everybody was there, and there was a general closing up of ranks and taking stock of our losses in dead or disabled that had fallen during the past year. It was a very wet night, and I remember that we sang “Auld Lang Syne” with our feet in the Polo Championship Cup, and our heads among the stars, and swore that we were all dear friends. Then some of us went away and annexed Burma, and some tried to open up the Soudan and were opened up by Fuzzies in that cruel scrub outside Suakim, and some found stars and medals, and some were married, which was bad, and some𓆉 did other things which were worse, and the others of us stayed in our chains and strove to make money on insufficient experiences.

Fleete began the night with sherry🥀 and bitters, drank champagne steadily up to dessert, then raw, rasping Capri with all the strength of whisky, took Benedictine with his coffee, four or five whiskies and sodas to improve his pool strokes, beer and bones at half-past two, winding up with old brandy. Consequently, when he came out, at half-past three in the morning, into fourteen degrees of frost, he was very angry with his horse for coughing, and tried to leapfrog into the saddle. The horse broke away and went to his stables; so Strickland and I formed a Guard of Dishonour to take Fleete home.

Our road lay through the bazaar, close to a little🍨 temple of Hanuman, the Monkey-god, who is a leading divinity worthy of respect. All gods have good points, just as have all priests. Personally, I attach much importance to Hanuman, and am kind to his people – the great gray apes of the hills. On♛e never knows when one may want a friend.

There was a light in the temple, and as we passed, we could hear voices of men chanting hymns. In a native temple, the priests rise at all hours of the night to do honour to their god. Before we could st♓op him, Fleete dashed up the steps, patted two priests on the back, and✤ was gravely grinding the ashes of his cigar-butt into the forehead of the red stone image of Hanuman. Strickland tried to drag him out, but he sat down and said solemnly:

“Shee that? “Mark of the B-beasht! I made it. Ishn’t it fine?&rd🌞quo; In half a minute the temple was alive and noisy, and Strickland, who knew what came of polluting gods, said that things might occur. He, by virtue of his official position, long residence in the country, and weakness for going among the natives, was known to the priests and he felt unhappy. Fleete sat on the ground and refused to move. He said that “good old Hanuman” made a very soft pillow.

Then, without any warning, a Silver Man came out of a recess behind the image of the god. He was perfectly naked in that ൲bitter, bitter cold, and his body shone like frosted silver, for he was what the Bible calls “a leper as white as snow.” Also he had no face, because he was a leper of some years’ standing and his disease was heavy upon him. We two stooped to haul Fleete up, and the temple was filling and filling with folk who seemed to spring from the earth, when the Silver Man ran in under our arms, making a noise exactly like the mewing of an otter, caught Fleete round the body and dropped his head on Fleete’s breast before we could wrench him away. Then he retired to a corner and sat mewing while the crowd blocked all the doors.

The priests were very angry until t🍸he Silver Man touched Fleete. That nuzzling seemed to sober 💙them.

At the end of a few minutes’ silence one of the priests came to Striཧckland and said, in perfect English, “Take your friend away. He has done with Hanuman, but Hanurnan has not done with him.” The crowd gave room and we carried Fleete into the road.

Strickland was very angry. He said that we might all three have been knifed, and that Fleete should thank his stars t꧑hat he had escaped without injury.

Fleete thanked no one. He said that ⛄he wanted to go to bed. He was gorgeously drunk.

We moved on, Strickland silent and wrathful, until Fleete was taken wit𒁏h violent shivering fits and sweating. He said that the smells of the bazaar were overpowering, and he wondered why slauಞghter-houses were permitted so near English residences. “Can’t you smell the blood?” said Fleete.

We put him to bed at last, just as the dawn was breaking, and Strickland invited me to have another whisky and soda. Whil🌺e we were drinking he talked of the trouble in the temple, and admitted that it baffled him completely. Strickland hates being mystified by natives, because his business in life is to overmatch them with their own weapons. He has not yet succeeded i꧅n doing this, but in fifteen or twenty years he will have made some small progress.

“They should🤪 have mauled us,” he said, “♋instead of mewing at us. I wonder what they meant. I don’t like it one little bit.”

I said that the Managing Committee of the temple would in all probability bring a criminal action against us for insulting their religion. There was a section of the Indian Penal Code which exactly met Fleete’🐷s 𝄹offence. Strickland said he only hoped and prayed that they would do this.

Before I left I looked into Fleete’s room, and saw him lyin🤡g on his right side, scratching his left breast. Then. I went to bed cold, depressed, and unhappy, at seven o’clock in the morning.

At one o’clock I rode over to Strickland’s house to inquire after Fleete’s head. I imagined that it would be a sore one. Fleete was breakfa⛦sting and seemed unwell. His temper was gone, for he was abusing the cook for not supplying him with an underdone chop. A man who can eat raw meat after a wet night is a curiosity. I told Fleete ജthis and he laughed.

“You breed queer mosquitoes in these parts,” he said. “I’ve been bꦫitten to pieces, but only𒆙 in one place.”

“Let’s have a look at the bite,&🐈rdquo; said Strickland. “It may have gone down since this mo꧙rning.”

While the chops were being cooked, Fleete opened his shirt and showed us, just over his left breast, a mark, the perfect double of the black rosettes – the𒁃 five or six irregular blotches arranged in a circle – on a leopard’s hide. Strickland looked and♈ said, “It was only pink this morning. It’s grown black now.”

Fleete ran to a glass.

“By Jove!” he said, “this is nasty. What iꦉs it?”

We could not answer. Here the ch⛄ops came in, all red and juicy, and Fleete bolted three in a most offensive manner. He ate on his right grinders only, and threw his head over his right shoulder as he snapped the meat. When he had finished, it struck him that he had been behaving strangely, for he said apologetically, “I don’t think I ever felt so hungry in my life. I’ve bolted like an ostrich.”

After breakfast Strickland said to mไe, “Don’t go. Stay here, and stay for the night.”

Seeing that my house was not three miles from Strickland’s, this request was absurd. But Strickland insisted, and was going to say something when Fleete interrupted by declaring in a shamefaced way that he felt hungry again. Strickland sent a man to my house to fetch over my bedding and a horse, and we three went down to Strickland’s stables t🍃o pass the hours until it was time to go out for a ride. The man who has a weakness for horses never wearies of inspecting them; and when two men are killing time in this way they gather knowledge and lies the one from the other.

There were five horses in the stables, and I shall never forget the scene as we tried to look them over. They seemed to have gone mad. They reared and screamed and nearly tore up their pickets; they sweated and shivered and lathered and were d𝔉istraught with fear. Strickland’s horses used to know him as well as𝕴 his dogs; which made the matter more curious. We left the stable for fear of the brutes throwing themselves in their panic. Then Strickland turned back and called me. The horses were still frightened, but they let us “gentle” and make much of them, and put their heads in our bosoms.

“They aren’t afraid of US,” said Strickland. “D’you know, I&rsওquo;d give📖 three months’ pay if OUTRAGE here could talk.”

But Outrage was dumb, and could only c꧟uddle up to his master and blow out his nostrils, as is the custom of horses when they wish to explain things but can’t. Fleete came up when we were in the stalls, and as soon as the horses saw him, their fright broke out afresh. It was all that we could do to escape from th𒐪e place unkicked. Strickland said, “They don’t seem to love you, Fleete.”

“Nonsense,” said Fleete; “my mare will follow me like a dog.” He went to her; she was in a loose-box; but as he slipped the bars she plunged, knocked him down, and broke away into the garden𒅌. I laughed, but Strickland was not amused. He took his moustache in both fists and pulled at it till it nearly came out. Fleete, instead of going off to chase his property, yawned, saying that he felt sleepy. He went to the house to lie down, 🍨which was a foolish way of spending New Year’s Day.

Strickland sat with me in the stables and asked if I had noticed anything peculiar in Fleete’s manner. I said that he ate his food like a beast; but that this might have been the result of living alone in the hills out of the reach of society as refined and elevating as ours for ins🀅tance. Strickland was not amused. I do not think that he listened to me, for his next sentence referred to the mark on Fleete’s breast, an♒d I said that it might have been caused by blister-flies, or that it was possibly a birth-mark newly born and now visible for the first time. We both agreed that it was unpleasant to look at, and Strickland found occasion to say that I was a fool.

“I can’t tell you w♔hat I think now,” said he, “because you would call me a madman; but you must stay with me fo🥃r the next few days, if you can. I want you to watch Fleete, but don’t tell me what you think till I have made up my mind.”

“But I am dining out to-night,” I said. “So am I,” said Strickland, “ܫand so is Fleete. At least if he doesn’t change his mind.”

We walked about the garden smoking, but saying nothing – because we were friends, and talking spoils good♊ tobacco – til🌸l our pipes were out.

Then we went to wake up Fleete. He was wide awake and fidgeting꧂ about his room.

“I say, I want some more chops,” he said. “Can I get th♋em?”

We laughed and said, “Go🌠 and change. The ꦇponies will be round in a minute.”

“Al🍎l right,” said 𝄹Fleete. I’ll go when I get the chops – underdone ones, mind.”

He seemed to be quite in earnest. It was four o’clock, and we had had breakfast at one; still, for a long time, he demanded those underdone chops. Then he change𝕴d into riding clothes and went out into the verandah. His pony – the mare had not been caught – would not let him come near. All three horses were unmanageable – mad with fear – and finally Fleete said that hꦦe would stay at home and get something to eat.

Strickland and 💧I rode out wondering. As we passed the temple of Hanuman, the S♏ilver Man came out and mewed at us.

“💧He is not one of the regular priests of the temple,” said Strickland. “I think I should peculiarly like to lay my hands on him.”

There was no spring in our gallop on the racecourse that evening. The horses were stale, and moved as thoughไ thඣey had been ridden out.

“The fright after breakfꦡast has been too much for them,” said Stricklan⛦d.

That was the only remark he🍃 made through the remainder of the ride. Once or twice I think he swor𒐪e to himself; but that did not count.

We came back in the dark at seven o’clock, and saw that there were no lights in the bungalow. “Careless ruffians my servants are!” said Stric𒀰kland.

My♈ horse reared at something on the carriage drive, and Fleete stood up under its nose.

“What are you doing, grovelling about the garde𒐪n?” said Strickland.

But both horses bolted and nearly threw us. We dismounted by the stables and returned to Fleete, who 💛was on his hands an☂d knees under the orange-bushes.

“What the devil’s wrong with ౠyou?” said Stricklan🎃d.

“Nothing, nothing in the world,” said Fleete, spea🔯king very quickly and thickly. “I’ve been gardening-botanising you know. The smell of the earth is delightful. I think I’m going for a walk – a long walk – all night.”

Then I saw that there was something excessively out of order somewhere, and I said to Strickland, &ℱldquo;I am not dining out.”

“Bless you!” said Strickland. “Here, Fleete, get up. You’ll catch fever there. Come in to dinner and let’s have th🦩e lamps lit. We&r꧟squo;ll all dine at home.”

Fleete stood up unwillingly, and said, “No lamps – no lamps. It’s much nicer here. Let’s dine outside and have some more chops – lots of ’em and underdone – bloody ones with grist🌳le.”

Now a December evening in Northern India is bitterly cold, and Fleete’s 🥀suggestion was that of a mani🍨ac.

“Come in,” said Strickland sternly. “Come in🌳 at once.”

Fleete came, and when the lamps were brought, we saw that he was literally plastered with dirt from head to foot. He must have been rolling in the garden. He shrank from the light and went to his room. His eyes were horrible to look at. There was a green light behind them, not in them, if you understand, and the man꧑’s lower lip hung down.

Strickland said, “There is going to be trouble – big trouble – to-night. Don’t you change your riding-things𝔍.”

We waited and wa🐼ited for Fleete’s reappearance, and ordered dinner in the meantime. We could hear him moving about his own room, but there was no light there. Presently from the room came the lon🌄g-drawn howl of a wolf.

People write and talk lightly of blood running cold and hair standing up and things of that kind. Both sensations are too horrible to be trifled with. My heart sꦆtopped as though a knife had been driven through it, and Strickland turned as white as the tablecloth.

The howl was repeated, aꩲnd was answered by another howl far across the fields.

That set the gilded roof on the horror. Strickland dashed into Fleete’s room. I ﷽followed, and we saw Fleete getting out of the window. He made beast-noises in the back of his throat. He could not answer ꧅us when we shouted at him. He spat.

I don&rsܫquo;t quite remember what followed, but I think that Strickland must have stunned him with the long boot-jack or else I should never have been able to sit on his chest. Fleete could not speak, he could only snarl, and his snarls were those of a wolf, not of a man. The human spirit must have been giving way all day and have died out with the twilight. We were dealing with a beast that had once been Fleete.

The a🅰ffair was beyond any human and rational experience. I tried to say “Hydrophobia,” but the word wouldn’t come, because I knew that I was lying.

We bound this beast with leather thongs of the punkah-rope, and tied its thumbs and big toes together, and gagged it with a shoe-horn, which makes a very efficient gag if you know how to arrange it. Then we carried it into the din🐭ing-room, and sent a man to Dumoise, tꦐhe doctor, telling him to come over at once. After we had despatched the messenger and were drawing breath, Strickland said, “It’s no good. This isn’t any doctor’s work.” I, also, knew that he spoke the truth.

The beast’s head was free, and it threw it about from side to side. Any one entering the room would have believed thaไt we were curing a wolf’s pelt. That was the most loathsome accessory of all.

Strickland sat with his chin in the heel of his fist, watching the beast as it wriggled on thꦅe ground, but saying nothing. The shirt had been torn ope🦂n in the scuffle and showed the black rosette mark on the left breast. It stood out like a blister.

In the silence of the watching we heard something without mewing like a she-otter. We both rose to our feet, and, I answer ♏for myself, not Strickland, felt sick – actually and 🧸physically sick. We told each other, as did the men in Pinafore, that it was the cat.

Dumoise arrꦗived, and I never saw a little man so unprofessionally shocked. He said that it was a heart-rending case of hydrophobia, and that nothing could be done. At least any palliative measures would only prolong the agony. The beast was foaming at the mouth. Fleete, as we told Dumoise, had been bitten by dogs once or twice. Any man who keeps half a dozen terriers must expect a nip now and again. Dumoise could offer no help. He could only certify that Fleete was dying of hydrophobia. The beast was then howling, for it had managed to spit out the shoe-horn. Dumoise said that he would be ready to certify to the cause of death, and that the end was certain. He was a good little man, and he offered to remain with us; but Strickland refused the kindness. He did not wish to poison Dumoise’s New Year. He would only ask him not to give the real cause of Fleete’s death to the public.

So Dumoise left, deeply agitated; and as soon as the noise of the cart-wheels had died away, Strickland told m🦩e, in a whisper, his suspicions. They were so wildly improbable that he dared not say them out aloud; and I, who entertained all Strickland’s beliefs, was so ashamed of owning to them that I pretended to disbelieve.

“Even if the Silve🔥r Man had bewtiched Fleete for polluting the image of Hanuman, the punishment could not have fallen ওso quickly.”

As I was whispering this the cry ou꧃tside the house rose again, and the beast fell into a fresh paroxysm of struggling till we were afraid that the t🧸hongs that held it would give way.

“Wat🔜ch!” said Strickland. “If this🅘 happens six times I shall take the law into my own hands. I order you to help me.”

He went into his room and came out in a few minutes with the barrels of an old shot-gun, a piece of fishing-line, some thick cord, and his heavy wooden bedstead. I reported that the convulsions had followed the cry by two seconds in each case, and the beast seemed perceptibly weaker.
Strickland muttered, “But h✃e can’t take away the life! H🅠e can’t take away the life!”

I said, though I knew that I was arguing against myself, “It may be a cat. It must be a cat. If the Silver Man is responsible, why does he dare to come here?&rdqu𒊎o;

Strickland arranged the wood on the hearth, put the gun-barrels into the glow of the fire, spread the twine on the table and broke a walking stick in two. There was one yard of fishing line, gut, lapped with wire, such as is used for mahseer-fishing, and he tied the two ends together in a loop.
Then he said, “How can we catch him? He must be taken alive and unhurt.” I said that we must trust in Providence, and go out softly with polo-sticks into the shrubbery at the front of the house. The man or animal that made the cry was evidently movi💫ng round the hou⛦se as regularly as a night-watchman. We could wait in the bushes till he came by and knock him over.

Strickland accepted this suggestion, and we slipped out from a bath-room window into the front ve𝕴randa♓h and then across the carriage drive into the bushes.

In the moonlight we could see the leper coming round the corner of the house. He was perfectly naked, and from time to time he mewed and stopped to dance with his sha🧸dow. It was an unattractive sight, and thinking of poor Fleete, brought to such degradation by so foul a creature, I put away all my doubts and resolved to help Strickland from the heated gun-barrels to the loop of twine – from th♒e loins to the head and back again – with all tortures that might be needful.

The leper halted in the front porch for a moment and we jumped out on him with the sticks. He was wonderfully strong, and we were afraid that he might escape or be f🐻atally injured before we caught him. We had an idea that lepers were frail creatures, but this proved to be incorrect. Strickland knocked his legs from under him and I put my foot on his neck. He mewed hideously, and even through my riding-boot🧜s I could feel that his flesh was not the flesh of a clean man.

He struck at us with his hand and feet-stumps. We looped the lash of a dog-whip round him, under the armpits, and dragged him backwards into the 🙈hall and so into the dining-room where the beast lay. There we tied him with trunk-straps. He made no attempt to escape, but mewed.

When we confronted him with the beast the scene was beyond description. The beast doubled backwards into a bow as though he had been poisoned with strychnine, and moaned in the most pitiable fashion. Several other things happened also,ܫ but they cannot be put down here.

“I think I w൲as right,&rdq🍰uo; said Strickland. “Now we will ask him to cure this case.”

But the leper only mewed. Strickland wrapped a towel round his hand and took the gun-barrels out of the fire. I put the half of the broken walking stick through the loop of fishing-line and buckled the leper comfortably to Strickland’s bedstead. I understood then how men and women and little children🅠 can endure to see a witch burnt alive; for the beast was moaning on ✱the floor, and though the Silver Man had no face, you could see horrible feelings passing through the slab that took its place, exactly as waves of heat play across red-hot iron – gun-barrels for instance.

Strickland shaded his eyes with his hands for a moment and we g💙ot to work.

The dawn was beginning to break when the leper spoke. His mewings had not been satisfactory up to that point. The beast had fainted from exhaustion and the house was very still. We unstrapped the leper and told him to take away the evil spirit. He crawled to the beast and laid his hand upon the left breast. That was all. Then he🐠 fell face down and whined, drawing in his breath as he did so.

We watched the face of the beast, and saw the soul of Fleete coming back into the eyes. Then a sweat broke out on the forehead and the eyes – they were human eyes – closed. We waited for an hour but Fleete still slept. We carried him to his r🦩oom and bade the leper go, giving him the bedsteܫad, and the sheet on the bedstead to cover his nakedness, the gloves and the towels with which we had touched him, and the whip that had been hooked round his body. He put the sheet about him and went out into the early morning without speaking or mewing.

Strickland wiped his face and sat down. A night-gong, far away in the c▨ity, made seven o’c🐬lock.

“Exactly fouಞr-and-twenty hours!” said Strickland. “And I’ve done enough to ensure my dismissal from the service, besides permanent quarters in a lunatic asylum. Do you believe that we are awake?”

The red-hot gun-barrel had fallen on the floor and was sing🥂eing the carpet. The smell was entirely rea🍸l.

That morning at eleven we🗹 two together went to wake up Fleete. We looked and saw that the black leopard-rosette on his chest had disappeared. He was very drowsy and tired, but as soon as he saw us, ﷽he said, “Oh! Confound you fellows. Happy New Year to you. Never mix your liquors. I’m nearly dead.”

“Thanks for your kindness, but you’re over time,” said Strickland. “To-day is🅷 the morning of the second. You’ve slept the clock round with a vꦗengeance.”

The door opened, and little Dumoise ꦕput his head in. He had come on foot, and fancied that we were laving out Fleete.

“I’ve brought a nurse,” said Dumoise. &ldqu🔴o;I suppose that she can come in for… what is necessary.”

&ldq♏uo;By all means,” said Fleete cheerily, sittin🥀g up in bed. “Bring on your nurses.”

Dumoise was dumb. Strickland led him out and explained that there must have been a mistake in the diagnosis. Dumoise remained dumb and left the house hastily. He considered that his professional reputation had been injured, and was inclined to make a personal matter of the recovery. Strickland went out too. When he came back, he said that he had been to call on the Temple of Hanuman to offer redress for the po🐓llution of the god, and had been solemnly assured that no white man had ever touched the idol and that he was an incarnation of all the virtues labouring under a delusion.

“What do you think?” said Strickland.

I said, “‘Th🧜er🅰e are more things…’”

But Strickland hates that quot🌠ation. He says that I have worn it threadbare.

One other curious thing happened which frightened me as muchᩚᩚᩚᩚᩚᩚ⁤⁤⁤⁤ᩚ⁤⁤⁤⁤ᩚ⁤⁤⁤⁤ᩚ𒀱ᩚᩚᩚ as anything in all the night’s work. When Fleete was dressed he came into the dining-room and sniffed. He had a quaint trick of moving his nose when he sniffed. “Horrid doggy smell, here,” said he. “You should really keep those terriers of yours in better order. Try sulphur, Strick.”

But Strickland did not answer. He caught hold oℱf the back of a chair, and, without warning, went into an amazing fit of hysterics. It is terrible to see a strong man overtaken with hysteria. Then it struck me that we had fought for Fleete’s soul with the Silver Man in that room, and had disgraced ourselves as Englishmen for ever, and I laughed and gasped and gurgled just as shamefully♔ as Strickland, while Fleete thought that we had both gone mad. We never told him what we had done.

Some years later, when Strickland had married and was a church-going member of society for his wife’s sake, we reviewed the iಌncident dispassionately, and Strickland suggested that I should put it before the public.

I cannot myself see that this step is likely to clear up the mystery; because, in the first place, no one will believe a rath♍er unpleasant story, and, in the second, it is well known to every right-minded man that the gods of the heathen are stone and brass, and any attempt to deal with them otherwise is justly condemned.