The three musketeers* in "Plain tales from the hills"
Rudyard Kipling
5 pages 1887 - Royaume-Uni Nouvelle
Intérêt: *
Les trois mousquetaires écrit par Kipling? Le célèbre
écrivain britannique a effectivement publié une brève
nouvelle sous ce titre, incluse dans le recueil Simples
contes des collines.
L’intrigue en est des plus
simples. Les «trois mousquetaires» sont trois soldats de
l’armée britannique des Indes. Un lord en visite exige
de passer la troupe en revue deux jours après son
arrivée, ce qui dérange sérieusement la quiétude des
soldats, qui jurent de l’en empêcher.
Les trois hommes soudoient un conducteur de voiture
indien qui entraîne le lord hors de la ville. Là, dans
les collines, ils paient quelques gamins pour simuler
une attaque de brigands. Les trois hommes interviennent
alors pour « sauver » le lord mort de peur.
De retour au camp, le lord les récompense généreusement
pour leur héroïsme et va à l’hôpital se remettre de ses
émotions. La revue est annulée.
Comme on le voit, ce récit n’est guère sophistiqué. Il
vaut en fait surtout en tant qu’exercice de style. Les
«trois mousquetaires» de Kipling sont en effet
originaires d’Irlande, du Yorkshire et des quartiers
populaires de Londres, et l’écrivain s’est amusé à
rendre leur façon de parler. Au point que le texte,
entremêlé en outre de vocabulaire hindi, est fort
difficile à lire… (voir ci-dessous).
Et Dumas, dans tout ça? Les soldats de Kipling ne
rappellent guère, il faut bien le dire, les
mousquetaires. Leurs personnalités, notamment, ne
correspondent pas à Athos, Porthos et Aramis. Tout au
plus peut-on considérer que leur astuce, leur art des
mauvais coups, leur préoccupation constante pour trouver
de l’argent afin de boire dans la première taverne venus
rappellent les mousquetaires des débuts de la trilogie,
lors de l’épisode du siège de La Rochelle, par exemple.
Reste qu’en donnant ce titre à ce récit, Kipling, qui a
consacré ensuite de nombreuses nouvelles à ces trois
soldats, a bien évidemment voulu saluer Alexandre Dumas.
Et qu’un tel hommage de la part d’un écrivain de ce
calibre, doit être relevé.
Texte intégral
An’ when the war began, we chased the bold Afghan,
An’ we made the bloomin’ Ghazi for to flee, boys O!
An’ we marched into Kabul, an’ we tuk the Balar ’Issar,
An’ we taught ’em to respec’ the British Soldier.
Barrack Room Ballad
Mulvaney, Ortheris, and Learoyd are Privates in B
Company of a Line Regiment, and personal friends of
mine. Collectively, I think, but am not certain, they
are the worst men in the regiment so far as genial
blackguardism goes.
They told me this story in the Umballa Refreshment Room
while we were waiting for an up-train. I supplied the
beer. The tale was cheap at a gallon and a half.
All men know Lord Benira Trig. He is a Duke, or an
Earl, or something unofficial; also a Peer; also a
Globe-trotter. On all three counts, as Ortheris says,
‘’e didn’t deserve no consideration.’ He was out in
India for three months collecting materials for a book
on ‘Our Eastern Impedimenta,’ and quartering himself
upon everybody, like a Cossack in evening-dress.
His particular vice—because he was a Radical, men
said—was having garrisons turned out for his inspection.
He would then dine with the Officer Commanding, and
insult him, across the Mess table, about the appearance
of the troops. That was Benira’s way.
He turned out troops once too often. He came to
Helanthami Cantonment on a Tuesday. He wished to go
shopping in the bazars on Wednesday, and he ‘desired’
the troops to be turned out on a Thursday. On-a-Thursday.
The Officer Commanding could not well refuse; for Benira
was a Lord. There was an indignation meeting of
subalterns in the Mess Room, to call the Colonel pet
names.
‘But the rale dimonstrashin,’ said Mulvaney, ‘was in B
Comp’ny barrick; we three headin’ it.’
Mulvaney climbed on to the refreshment-bar, settled
himself comfortably by the beer, and went on, ‘Whin the
row was at ut’s foinest an’ B Comp’ny was fur goin’ out
to murther this man Thrigg on the p’rade-groun’, Learoyd
here takes up his helmut an’ sez—fwhat was ut ye said?’
‘Ah said,’ said Learoyd, ‘gie us t’ brass. Tak oop a
subscripshun, lads, for to put off t’ p’rade, an’ if t’
p’rade’s not put off, ah’ll gie t’ brass back agean.
Thot’s wot ah said. All B Coomp’ny knawed me. Ah took
oop a big subscripshun—fower rupees eight annas’twas—an’
ah went oot to turn t’ job over. Mulvaney an’ Orth’ris
coom with me.’
‘We three raises the Divil in couples gin’rally,’
explained Mulvaney.
Here Ortheris interrupted. ‘’Ave you read the papers?’
said he.
‘Sometimes,’ I said.
‘We ’ad read the papers, an’ we put hup a faked
decoity, a—a sedukshun.’
‘Abdukshin, ye cockney,’ said Mulvaney.
‘Abdukshun or sedukshun - no great
odds. Any ’ow, we arranged to taik an’ put Mister
Benhira out o’ the way till Thursday was hover, or ’e
too busy to rux ’isself about p’raids. Hi was
the man wot said, “ We’ll make a few rupees off o’ the
business.”’
‘We hild a Council av War,’ continued Mulvaney,
‘walkin’ roun’ by the Artill’ry Lines. I was Prisidint,
Learoyd was Minister av Finance, an’ little Orth’ris
here was—’
‘A bloomin’ Bismarck! Hi made the ’ole show
pay.’
‘This interferin’ bit av a Benira man,’ said Mulvaney,
‘did the thrick for us himself; for, on me sowl, we
hadn’t a notion av what was to come afther the next
minut. He was shoppin’ in the bazar on fut. ’Twas
dhrawin’ dusk thin, an’ we stud watchin’ the little man
hoppin’ in an’ out av the shops, thryin’ to injuce the
naygurs to mallum his bat.
Prisintly, he sthrols up, his arrums full av thruck, an’
he sez in a consiquinshal way, shticking out his little
belly, “Me good men,” sez he, “have ye seen the Kernel’s
b’roosh? ”—“B’roosh?” says Learoyd. “There’s no b’roosh
here—nobbut a hekka.” “Fwhat’s that?” sez
Thrigg. Learoyd shows him wan down the sthreet, an’ he
sez, “How thruly Orientil ! I will ride on a hekka.”
I saw thin that our Rigimintal Saint was for givin’
Thrigg over to us neck an’ brisket. I purshued a hekka,
an’ I sez to the dhriver-divil, I sez, “Ye black limb,
there’s a Sahib comin’ for this hekka.
He wants to go jildi to the Padsahi
Jhil”—’twas about to moiles away—” to shoot snipe—chirria.
You dhrive Jehannum ke marfik, mallum—like
Hell? ’Tis no manner av use bukkin’ to the Sahib,
bekaze he doesn’t samjao your talk. Av he bolos
anything, just you choop and chel. Dekker?
Go arsty for the first arder mile
from cantonmints. Thin chel, Shaitan ke marfik,
an’ the chooper you choops an’ the jildier
you chels the better kooshy will
that Sahib be; an’ here’s a rupee for ye?”
‘The hekka-man knew there was somethin’ out
av the common in the air. He grinned an’ sez, “Bote
achee ! I goin’ damn fast.” I prayed that the
Kernel’s b’roosh wudn’t arrive till me darlin’ Benira by
the grace av God was undher weigh. The little man puts
his thruck into the hekka an’ scuttles in like
a fat guinea-pig; niver offerin’ us the price av a
dhrink for our services in helpin’ him home. “He’s off
to the Padsahi jhil,” sez I to the others.’
Ortheris took up the tale—
‘Jist then, little Buldoo kim up,’oo was the son of one
of the Artillery grooms—’e would’av made a’evinly
newspaper-boy in London, bein’ sharp an’ fly to all
manner o’ games.’E’ad bin watchin’ us puttin’ Mister
Benhira into’is temporary baroush, an’’e sez, “What’ave
you been a doin’ of, Sahibs?” sez’e. Learoyd
’e caught ’im by the ear an ’e sez-’
‘Ah says,’ went on Learoyd, “Young mon, that mon’s
gooin’ to have t’ goons out o’ Thursday —to-morrow — an’
thot’s more work for you, young mon. Now, sitha, tak’ a
tat an’ a lookri, an’ ride tha
domdest to t’ Padsahi Jhil. Cotch thot there hekka,
and tell t’ driver iv your lingo thot you’ve coom to
tak’ his place. T’ Sahib doesn’t speak t’ bat,
an’ he’s a little mon. Drive t’ hekka into t’
Padsahi Jhil into t’ watter. Leave t’ Sahib
theer an’ roon hoam ; an’ here’s a rupee for tha.”’
Then Mulvaney and Ortheris spoke together in alternate
fragments: Mulvaney leading [You must pick out the two
speakers as best you can]—‘He was a knowin’ little divil
was Bhuldoo,—’e sez bote achee an’ cuts—wid a
wink in his oi—but Hi sez there’s money to be
made—an’ I wanted to see the ind av the campaign—so Hi
says we’ll double hout to the Padsahi Jhil—an’ save the
little man from bein’ dacoited by the murtherin’
Bhuldoo—an’ turn hup like reskooers in a Vic’oria
Melodrama—so we doubled for the jhil, an’
prisintly there was the divil av a hurroosh behind us
an’ three bhoys on grasscuts’ ponies come by, poundin’
along for the dear life—s’elp me Bob, hif Buldoo ’adn’t
raised a rig’lar harmy of decoits—to do the
job in shtile. An’ we ran, an’ they ran, shplittin’ with
laughin’, till we gets near the jhil—and ’ears
sounds of distress floatin’ molloncolly on the hevenin’
hair.’ [Ortheris was growing poetical under the
influence of the beer. The duet recommenced: Mulvaney
leading again.]
‘Thin we heard Bhuldoo, the dacoit, shoutin’ to the hekka
man, an’ wan of the young divils brought his stick down
on the top av the hekka-cover, an’ Benira
Thrigg inside howled “Murther an’ Death.” Buldoo takes
the reins and dhrives like mad for the jhil,
havin’ dishpersed the hekka-dhriver—’oo cum up
to us an’ ’e sez, sez ’e, “That Sahib’s nigh
mad with funk ! Wot devil’s work ’ave you led me into?”
—“Hall right,” sez we, “you catch that there pony an’
come along. This Sahib’s been decoited, an’
we’re going to resky ’im !” Says the driver, “Decoits !
Wot decoits? That’s Buldoo the budmash”—“Bhuldoo
be shot!” sez we. “’Tis a woild dissolute Pathan frum
the hills. There’s about eight av thim coercin’ the Sahib.
You remimber that an you’ll get another rupee!” Thin we
heard the whop-whop-whop av the hekka
turnin’ over, an’ a splash av water an’ the voice av
Benira Thrigg callin’ upon God to forgive his sins—an’
Buldoo an’ ’is friends squatterin’ in the water like
boys in the Serpentine.’
Here the Three Musketeers retired simultaneously into
the beer.
‘Well? What came next?’ said I.
‘Fwhat nex’?’ answered Mulvaney, wiping his mouth. ‘Wud
ye let three bould sodger-bhoys lave the ornamint av the
House av Lords to be dhrowned an’ dacoited in a jhil?
We formed line av quarther-column an’ we discinded upon
the inimy. For the better part av tin minutes you could
not hear yerself spake. The tattoo was
screamin’ in chune wid Benira Thrigg an’ Bhuldoo’s army,
an’ the shticks was whistlin’ roun’ the hekka,
an’ Orth’ris was beatin’ the hekka-cover wid
his fistes, an’ Learoyd yellin’, “Look out for their
knives!” an’ me cuttin’ into the dark, right an’ lef’,
dishpersin’ arrmy corps av Pathans. Holy Mother av
Moses! ’twas more disp’rit than Ahmid Kheyl wid Maiwand
thrown in. Afther a while Bhuldoo an’ his bhoys flees.
Have ye iver seen a rale live Lord thryin’ to hide his
nobility undher a fut an’ a half av brown swamp-wather?’
Tis the livin’ image av a water-carrier’s goatskin wid
the shivers. It tuk toime to pershuade me frind Benira
he was not disimbowilled: an’ more toime to get out the
hekka. The dhriver come up afther the battle,
swearin’ he tuk a hand in repulsin’ the inimy. Benira
was sick wid the fear. We escorted him back, very slow,
to cantonmints, for that an’ the chill to soak into him.
It suk! Glory be to the Rigimintil Saint, but it suk to
the marrow av Lord Benira Thrigg!’
Here Ortheris, slowly, with immense pride—‘’E sez, “You
har my noble preservers,” sez ’e. “You har a honour
to the British Harmy,” sez ’e. With that ’e describes
the hawful band of dacoits wot set on ’im. There was
about forty of ’em an’ ’e was hoverpowered by numbers,
so ’e was ; but ’e never lorst ’is presence of mind, so
’e didn’t. ’E guv the hekka-driver five rupees
for ’is noble assistance, an’ ’e said ’e would see to us
after ’e ’ad spoken to the Kernul. For we was a honour
to the Regiment, we was.’
‘An’ we three,’ said Mulvaney, with a seraphic smile,
‘have dhrawn the par-ti-cu-lar attinshin av Bobs Bahadur
more than wanst. But he’s a rale good little man is
Bobs. Go on, Orth’ris, my son.’
‘Then we leaves ’im at the Kernul ’s ’ouse, werry sick,
an’ we cuts hover to B Comp’ny barrick an’ we sez we
’ave saved Benira from a bloody doom, an’ the chances
was agin there bein’ p’raid on Thursday. About ten
minutes later come three envelicks, one for each of us.
S’elp me Bob, if the old bloke ’adn’t guv us a fiver
apiece—sixty-four rupees in the bazar! On Thursday ’e
was in ’orspital recoverin’ from ’is sanguinary
encounter with a gang of Pathans, an’ B Comp’ny was
drinkin’ ’emselves into Clink by squads. So there never
was no Thursday p’raid. But the Kernul, when ’e ’eard of
our galliant conduct, ’e sez, “Hi know there’s been some
devilry somewheres,” sez ’e, “but I can’t bring it ’ome
to you three.”’
‘An’ my privit imprisshin is,’ said Mulvaney, getting
off the bar and turning his glass upside down, ‘that, av
they had known they wudn’t have brought ut home. ’Tis
flyin’ in the face, firstly av Nature, secon’ av the
Rig’lations, an’ third the will av Terence Mulvaney, to
hold p’rades av Thursdays.’
‘Good, ma son!’ said Learoyd ; ‘but, young mon, what’s
t’ notebook for?’
‘Let be,’ said Mulvaney; ‘ this time next month we’re
in the Sherapis. ’Tis immortial fame the
gentleman’s goin’ to give us. But kape it dhark till
we’re out av the range av me little frind Bobs Bahadur.’
And I have obeyed Mulvaney’s order.
|