Perspective

2012 March 19
by Dave

Bruce Sterling posts an excerpt from a poem published by Wolcott Balestier and Rudyard Kipling in 1892 titled The Naulahka. I’m just going to straight up copy it from Sterling’s blog and paste it here because I really liked it and know that some of you are too lazy to follow links.

“Tarvin gazed about him dispiritedly for the blue
and white sign of the Western Union, or its
analogue in this queer land. He saw that the
telegraph-wires disappeared through a hole in the
dome of the mosque.

“There were two or three
low wooden doors under the archway. He opened
one at random, and stepped upon a warm, hairy-
body, which sprang up with a grunt. Tarvin had
hardly time to draw back before a young buffalo
calf rushed out.

“Undisturbed, he opened another
door, disclosing a flight of steps eighteen inches
wide. Up these he travelled with difficulty, hoping
to catch the sound of the ticker. But the building
was as silent as the tomb it had once been.

“He opened another door, and stumbled into a room,
the domed ceiling of which was inlaid with fretted
tracery in barbaric colors, picked out with myriads
of tiny fragments of mirrors. The flood of color
and the glare of the snow-white floor made him
blink after the pitchy darkness of the staircase.
Still, the place was undoubtedly a telegraph-office,
for an antiquated instrument was clamped upon
a cheap dressing-table. The sunlight streamed
through the gash in the dome which had been made
to admit the telegraph-wires, and which had not
been repaired.

“Tarvin stood in the sunlight and stared about
him. He took off the soft, wide-brimmed Western
hat, which he was finding too warm for this climate,
and mopped his forehead. As he stood in the
sunlight, straight, clean-limbed, and strong, one
who lurked in this mysterious spot with designs
upon him would have decided that he did not look
a wholesome person to attack. He pulled at the
long thin mustache which drooped at the corners
of his mouth in a curve shaped by the habit of
tugging at it in thought, and muttered picturesque
remarks in a tongue to which these walls had never
echoed. What chance was there of communicating
with the United States of America from this abyss
of oblivion ? Even the “damn” that came back to
him from the depths of the dome sounded foreign
and inexpressive.

“A sheeted figure lay on the floor. “It takes a
dead man to run this place,” exclaimed Tarvin,
discovering the body. “Hallo, you! Get up
there!”

“The figure rose to its feet with grunts, cast away
its covering, and disclosed a very sleepy native in
a complete suit of dove-colored satin.

“Ho!” cried he.

“Yes,” returned Tarvin, imperturbably.

“You want to see me?”

“No; I want to send a telegram, if there’s any
electric fluid in this old tomb.”

“Sir,” said the native, affably, “you have come
to right shop. I am telegraph-operator and post-
master-general of this state.”

“He seated himself in the decayed chair, opened
a drawer of the table, and began to search for
something.

“What you looking for, young man? Lost
your connection with Calcutta?”

“Most gentlemen bring their own forms,” he
said with a distant note of reproach in his bland
manner. “But here is form. Have you got
pencil?”

“Oh, see here, don’t let me strain this office.
Hadn’t you better go and lie down again? I’ll
tap the message off myself. What’s your signal
for Calcutta?”

“You, sir, not understanding this instrument.”

“Don’t I? You ought to see me milk the wires
at election-time.”

“This instrument require most judeecious hand-
ling, sir. You write message. I send. That is
proper division of labor. Ha, ha! ”

“Tarvin wrote his message, which ran thus:

“Getting there. Remember Three O.’s. Tarvin.”

“It was addressed to Mrs. Mutrie at the address
she had given him in Denver.

“Rush it,” he said, as he handed it back over
the table to the smiling image.

“All right; no fear. I am here for that,”
returned the native, understanding in general
terms from the cabalistic word that his, customer
was in haste.

“Will the thing ever get there?” drawled Tarvin,
as he leaned over the table and met the gaze of
the satin-clothed being with an air of good com-
radeship, which invited him to let him into the
fraud, if there was one.

“Oh, yes; to-morrow. Denver is in the United
States America,” said the native, looking up at
Tarvin with childish glee in the sense of knowl-
edge.

“Shake!” exclaimed Tarvin, offering him a
hairy fist. “You’ve been well brought up.”

“He stayed half an hour fraternizing with the
man on the foundation of this common ground of
knowledge, and saw him work the message off on
his instrument, his heart going out on that first
click all the way home. In the midst of the con-
versation the native suddenly dived into the
cluttered drawer of the dressing-table, and drew
forth a telegram covered with dust, which he
offered to Tarvin’s scrutiny.

“You knowing any new Englishman coming to
Rhatore name Turpin?” he asked.

“Tarvin stared at the address a moment, and then
tore open the envelope to find, as he expected, that
it was for him. It was from Mrs. Mutrie, con-
gratulating him on his election to the Colorado
legislature by a majority of 1,618 over Sheriff.

“Tarvin uttered an abandoned howl of joy, exe-
cuted a war-dance on the white floor of the mosque,
snatched the astounded operator from behind his
table, and whirled him away into a mad waltz.

“Then, making a low salaam to the now wholly
bewildered native, he rushed from the building,
waving his cable in the air, and went capering up
the road.”

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