False Dawn by Rudyard Kipling
To-night God knows what thing shall tide,
The Earth is racked and faint--
Expectant, sleepless, open-eyed;
And we, who from the Earth were made,
Thrill with our Mother's pain.
No man will ever know the exact truth of this story; though women
may sometimes whisper it to one another after a dance, when they are
putting up their hair for the night and comparing lists of victims. A
man, of course, cannot assist at these functions. So the tale must be
told from the outside--in the dark--all wrong.
Never praise a sister to a sister, in the hope of your compliments
reaching the proper ears, and so preparing the way for you later on.
Sisters are women first, and sisters afterwards; and you will find
that you do yourself harm.
Saumarez knew this when he made up his mind to propose to the elder
Miss Copleigh. Saumarez was a strange man, with few merits, so far
as men could see, though he was popular with women, and carried
enough conceit to stock a Viceroy's Council and leave a little over
for the Commander-in-Chief's Staff. He was a Civilian. Very many
women took an interest in Saumarez, perhaps, because his manner to
them was offensive. If you hit a pony over the nose at the outset of
your acquaintance, he may not love you, but he will take a deep
interest in your movements ever afterwards. The elder Miss Copleigh
was nice, plump, winning and pretty. The younger was not so pretty,
and, from men disregarding the hint set forth above, her style was
repellant and unattractive. Both girls had, practically, the same
figure, and there was a strong likeness between them in look and
voice; though no one could doubt for an instant which was the nicer of
Saumarez made up his mind, as soon as they came into the station
from Behar, to marry the elder one. At least, we all made sure that
he would, which comes to the same thing. She was two and twenty, and
he was thirty-three, with pay and allowances of nearly fourteen
hundred rupees a month. So the match, as we arranged it, was in every
way a good one. Saumarez was his name, and summary was his nature, as
a man once said. Having drafted his Resolution, he formed a Select
Committee of One to sit upon it, and resolved to take his time. In
our unpleasant slang, the Copleigh girls "hunted in couples." That is
to say, you could do nothing with one without the other. They were
very loving sisters; but their mutual affection was sometimes
inconvenient. Saumarez held the balance- hair true between them, and
none but himself could have said to which side his heart inclined;
though every one guessed. He rode with them a good deal and danced
with them, but he never succeeded in detaching them from each other
for any length of time.
Women said that the two girls kept together through deep mistrust,
each fearing that the other would steal a march on her. But that has
nothing to do with a man. Saumarez was silent for good or bad, and as
business-likely attentive as he could be, having due regard to his
work and his polo. Beyond doubt both girls were fond of him.
As the hot weather drew nearer, and Saumarez made no sign, women
said that you could see their trouble in the eyes of the girls-- that
they were looking strained, anxious, and irritable. Men are quite
blind in these matters unless they have more of the woman than the man
in their composition, in which case it does not matter what they say
or think. I maintain it was the hot April days that took the color
out of the Copleigh girls' cheeks. They should have been sent to the
Hills early. No one--man or woman--feels an angel when the hot
weather is approaching. The younger sister grew more cynical--not to
say acid--in her ways; and the winningness of the elder wore thin.
There was more effort in it.
Now the Station wherein all these things happened was, though not a
little one, off the line of rail, and suffered through want of
attention. There were no gardens or bands or amusements worth
speaking of, and it was nearly a day's journey to come into Lahore
for a dance. People were grateful for small things to interest them.
About the beginning of May, and just before the final exodus of
Hill-goers, when the weather was very hot and there were not more
than twenty people in the Station, Saumarez gave a moonlight
riding-picnic at an old tomb, six miles away, near the bed of the
river. It was a "Noah's Ark" picnic; and there was to be the usual
arrangement of quarter-mile intervals between each couple, on account
of the dust. Six couples came altogether, including chaperons.
Moonlight picnics are useful just at the very end of the season,
before all the girls go away to the Hills. They lead to
understandings, and should be encouraged by chaperones; especially
those whose girls look sweetish in riding habits. I knew a case once.
But that is another story. That picnic was called the "Great Pop
Picnic," because every one knew Saumarez would propose then to the
eldest Miss Copleigh; and, beside his affair, there was another which
might possibly come to happiness. The social atmosphere was heavily
charged and wanted clearing.
We met at the parade-ground at ten: the night was fearfully hot.
The horses sweated even at walking-pace, but anything was better than
sitting still in our own dark houses. When we moved off under the
full moon we were four couples, one triplet, and Mr. Saumarez rode
with the Copleigh girls, and I loitered at the tail of the procession,
wondering with whom Saumarez would ride home. Every one was happy and
contented; but we all felt that things were going to happen. We rode
slowly: and it was nearly midnight before we reached the old tomb,
facing the ruined tank, in the decayed gardens where we were going to
eat and drink. I was late in coming up; and before I went into the
garden, I saw that the horizon to the north carried a faint,
dun-colored feather. But no one would have thanked me for spoiling so
well-managed an entertainment as this picnic--and a dust-storm, more
or less, does no great harm.
We gathered by the tank. Some one had brought out a banjo--which
is a most sentimental instrument--and three or four of us sang. You
must not laugh at this. Our amusements in out-of-the-way Stations are
very few indeed. Then we talked in groups or together, lying under
the trees, with the sun-baked roses dropping their petals on our feet,
until supper was ready. It was a beautiful supper, as cold and as
iced as you could wish; and we stayed long over it.
I had felt that the air was growing hotter and hotter; but nobody
seemed to notice it until the moon went out and a burning hot wind
began lashing the orange-trees with a sound like the noise of the
sea. Before we knew where we were, the dust-storm was on us, and
everything was roaring, whirling darkness. The supper-table was
blown bodily into the tank. We were afraid of staying anywhere near
the old tomb for fear it might be blown down. So we felt our way to
the orange-trees where the horses were picketed and waited for the
storm to blow over. Then the little light that was left vanished, and
you could not see your hand before your face. The air was heavy with
dust and sand from the bed of the river, that filled boots and pockets
and drifted down necks and coated eyebrows and moustaches. It was one
of the worst dust-storms of the year. We were all huddled together
close to the trembling horses, with the thunder clattering overhead,
and the lightning spurting like water from a sluice, all ways at once.
There was no danger, of course, unless the horses broke loose. I was
standing with my head downward and my hands over my mouth, hearing the
trees thrashing each other. I could not see who was next me till the
flashes came. Then I found that I was packed near Saumarez and the
eldest Miss Copleigh, with my own horse just in front of me. I
recognized the eldest Miss Copleigh, because she had a pagri round her
helmet, and the younger had not. All the electricity in the air had
gone into my body and I was quivering and tingling from head to
foot--exactly as a corn shoots and tingles before rain. It was a
grand storm. The wind seemed to be picking up the earth and pitching
it to leeward in great heaps; and the heat beat up from the ground
like the heat of the Day of Judgment.
The storm lulled slightly after the first half-hour, and I heard a
despairing little voice close to my ear, saying to itself, quietly
and softly, as if some lost soul were flying about with the wind: "O
my God!" Then the younger Miss Copleigh stumbled into my arms,
saying: "Where is my horse? Get my horse. I want to go home. I
WANT to go home. Take me home."
I thought that the lightning and the black darkness had frightened
her; so I said there was no danger, but she must wait till the storm
blew over. She answered: "It is not THAT! It is not THAT! I want to
go home! O take me away from here!"
I said that she could not go till the light came; but I felt her
brush past me and go away. It was too dark to see where. Then the
whole sky was split open with one tremendous flash, as if the end of
the world were coming, and all the women shrieked.
Almost directly after this, I felt a man's hand on my shoulder and
heard Saumarez bellowing in my ear. Through the rattling of the
trees and howling of the wind, I did not catch his words at once, but
at last I heard him say: "I've proposed to the wrong one! What shall
I do?" Saumarez had no occasion to make this confidence to me. I was
never a friend of his, nor am I now; but I fancy neither of us were
ourselves just then. He was shaking as he stood with excitement, and
I was feeling queer all over with the electricity. I could not think
of anything to say except:--"More fool you for proposing in a
dust-storm." But I did not see how that would improve the mistake.
Then he shouted: "Where's Edith--Edith Copleigh?" Edith was the
youngest sister. I answered out of my astonishment:--"What do you
want with HER?" Would you believe it, for the next two minutes, he
and I were shouting at each other like maniacs--he vowing that it was
the youngest sister he had meant to propose to all along, and I
telling him till my throat was hoarse that he must have made a
mistake! I can't account for this except, again, by the fact that we
were neither of us ourselves. Everything seemed to me like a bad
dream--from the stamping of the horses in the darkness to Saumarez
telling me the story of his loving Edith Copleigh since the first. He
was still clawing my shoulder and begging me to tell him where Edith
Copleigh was, when another lull came and brought light with it, and we
saw the dust-cloud forming on the plain in front of us. So we knew
the worst was over. The moon was low down, and there was just the
glimmer of the false dawn that comes about an hour before the real
one. But the light was very faint, and the dun cloud roared like a
bull. I wondered where Edith Copleigh had gone; and as I was
wondering I saw three things together: First Maud Copleigh's face
come smiling out of the darkness and move towards Saumarez, who was
standing by me. I heard the girl whisper, "George," and slide her arm
through the arm that was not clawing my shoulder, and I saw that look
on her face which only comes once or twice in a lifetime-when a woman
is perfectly happy and the air is full of trumpets and gorgeous-
colored fire and the Earth turns into cloud because she loves and is
loved. At the same time, I saw Saumarez's face as he heard Maud
Copleigh's voice, and fifty yards away from the clump of orange-
trees I saw a brown holland habit getting upon a horse.
It must have been my state of over-excitement that made me so quick
to meddle with what did not concern me. Saumarez was moving off to
the habit; but I pushed him back and said:--"Stop here and explain.
I'll fetch her back!" and I ran out to get at my own horse. I had a
perfectly unnecessary notion that everything must be done decently and
in order, and that Saumarez's first care was to wipe the happy look
out of Maud Copleigh's face. All the time I was linking up the
curb-chain I wondered how he would do it.
I cantered after Edith Copleigh, thinking to bring her back slowly
on some pretence or another. But she galloped away as soon as she
saw me, and I was forced to ride after her in earnest. She called
back over her shoulder--"Go away! I'm going home. Oh, go away!" two
or three times; but my business was to catch her first, and argue
later. The ride just fitted in with the rest of the evil dream. The
ground was very bad, and now and again we rushed through the whirling,
choking "dust-devils" in the skirts of the flying storm. There was a
burning hot wind blowing that brought up a stench of stale brick-kilns
with it; and through the half light and through the dust-devils,
across that desolate plain, flickered the brown holland habit on the
gray horse. She headed for the Station at first. Then she wheeled
round and set off for the river through beds of burnt down
jungle-grass, bad even to ride a pig over. In cold blood I should
never have dreamed of going over such a country at night, but it
seemed quite right and natural with the lightning crackling overhead,
and a reek like the smell of the Pit in my nostrils. I rode and
shouted, and she bent forward and lashed her horse, and the aftermath
of the dust-storm came up and caught us both, and drove us downwind
like pieces of paper.
I don't know how far we rode; but the drumming of the horse-hoofs
and the roar of the wind and the race of the faint blood-red moon
through the yellow mist seemed to have gone on for years and years,
and I was literally drenched with sweat from my helmet to my gaiters
when the gray stumbled, recovered himself, and pulled up dead lame.
My brute was used up altogether. Edith Copleigh was in a sad state,
plastered with dust, her helmet off, and crying bitterly. "Why can't
you let me alone?" she said. "I only wanted to get away and go home.
Oh, PLEASE let me go!"
"You have got to come back with me, Miss Copleigh. Saumarez has
something to say to you."
It was a foolish way of putting it; but I hardly knew Miss
Copleigh; and, though I was playing Providence at the cost of my
horse, I could not tell her in as many words what Saumarez had told
me. I thought he could do that better himself. All her pretence
about being tired and wanting to go home broke down, and she rocked
herself to and fro in the saddle as she sobbed, and the hot wind blew
her black hair to leeward. I am not going to repeat what she said,
because she was utterly unstrung.
This, if you please, was the cynical Miss Copleigh. Here was I,
almost an utter stranger to her, trying to tell her that Saumarez
loved her and she was to come back to hear him say so! I believe I
made myself understood, for she gathered the gray together and made
him hobble somehow, and we set off for the tomb, while the storm went
thundering down to Umballa and a few big drops of warm rain fell. I
found out that she had been standing close to Saumarez when he
proposed to her sister and had wanted to go home and cry in peace, as
an English girl should. She dabbled her eyes with her
pocket-handkerchief as we went along, and babbled to me out of sheer
lightness of heart and hysteria. That was perfectly unnatural; and
yet, it seemed all right at the time and in the place. All the world
was only the two Copleigh girls, Saumarez and I, ringed in with the
lightning and the dark; and the guidance of this misguided world
seemed to lie in my hands.
When we returned to the tomb in the deep, dead stillness that
followed the storm, the dawn was just breaking and nobody had gone
away. They were waiting for our return. Saumarez most of all. His
face was white and drawn. As Miss Copleigh and I limped up, he came
forward to meet us, and, when he helped her down from her saddle, he
kissed her before all the picnic. It was like a scene in a theatre,
and the likeness was heightened by all the dust- white,
ghostly-looking men and women under the orange-trees, clapping their
hands, as if they were watching a play--at Saumarez's choice. I never
knew anything so un-English in my life.
Lastly, Saumarez said we must all go home or the Station would come
out to look for us, and WOULD I be good enough to ride home with Maud
Copleigh? Nothing would give me greater pleasure, I said.
So, we formed up, six couples in all, and went back two by two;
Saumarez walking at the side of Edith Copleigh, who was riding his
The air was cleared; and little by little, as the sun rose, I felt
we were all dropping back again into ordinary men and women and that
the "Great Pop Picnic" was a thing altogether apart and out of the
world--never to happen again. It had gone with the dust-storm and the
tingle in the hot air.
I felt tired and limp, and a good deal ashamed of myself as I went
in for a bath and some sleep.
There is a woman's version of this story, but it will never be
written . . . . unless Maud Copleigh cares to try.