(notes edited by John McGivering
and John Radcliffe)
To ‘Naulakha,’ on a wet day, came from Scribner’s of New York a large young man called Frank Doubleday, with a proposal, among other things, for a complete edition of my then works. One accepts or refuses things that really matter on personal and illogical grounds. We took to that young man at sight, and he and his wife became of our closest friends. In due time, when he was building up what turned into the great firm of Doubleday, Page & Co., and later Doubleday, Doran & Co., I handed over the American side of my business to him. Whereby I escaped many distractions for the rest of my life.Frank's son, Nelson Doubleday (1889-1949), the recipient of the 1935 “Foreword”, followed his father in the firm. A memorial notice for him recalled that Nelson, when a small boy, carried beef-tea to Kipling when he was ill in New York in 1899, and afterwards urged him to write some more Jungle Book stories. When the Just So Stories were published in 1902, Nelson received two cents from his father for every copy sold. (This was recalled by Nelson in a new edition of the Jungle Books published just before his death.)
There was an incessant come and go of young people and grown-ups all willing to play with us—except an elderly person called ‘Browning,’ who took no proper interest in the skirmishes which happened to be raging on his entry. Best of all, immeasurably, was the beloved Aunt herself reading us The Pirate or The Arabian Nights of evenings, when one lay out on the big sofas sucking toffee, and calling our cousins ‘Ho, Son,’ or ‘Daughter of my Uncle’ or ‘ O True Believer.’And Kipling, who loved ships and the sea, liked to use nautical metaphors about his work. Later in Something of Myself (p. 228), he writes:
... I dreamed for many years of building a veritable three-decker out of chosen and longstored timber-teak, green-heart, and ten-year-old oak knees—each curve melting deliciously into the next that the sea might nowhere meet resistance or weakness; the whole suggesting motion even when, her great sails for the moment furled, she lay in some needed haven—a vessel ballasted on ingots of pure research and knowledge, roomy, fitted with delicate cabinet-work below-decks, painted, carved, gilt and wreathed the length of her, from her blazing stern-galleries outlined by bronzy palm-trunks, to her rampant figure-head—an East Indiaman worthy to lie alongside The Cloister and the Hearth.Kipling became an Honourary Master Mariner in June 1927. (See Andrew Lycett p. 549).
Not being able to do this, I dismissed the ambition as 'beneath the thinking mind.'
...the activity of various publishers who, not content with disinterring old newspaper work from the decent seclusion of office files, have in several instances seen fit to embellish it with additions and interpolations.Harold Orel, (in Interviews and Recollections p. 298) reports Frank Doubleday’s horror at finding Kipling burning manuscripts at Bateman’s, presumably work he did not wish to see published.
The Sub-Cantor looked over his shoulder at the pinned-down sheet where the first words of the Magnificat were built up in gold washed with red-lac for a background to the Virgin’s hardly yet fired halo.clinch the clinch secured the inboard end of the long hemp cable. He is saying 'let them talk themselves out to the bitter end'. (See 'the bitter end' in The Oxford Companion to Ships and the Sea, page 86.)
I worked the material in three or four overlaid tints and textures, which might or might not reveal themselves according to the shifting light of sex, youth, and experience. It was like working lacquer and mother-o’-pearl, a natural combination, into the same scheme as niello and grisaille, and trying not to let the joins show.bilges the lowest part of the ship where filthy water etc. accumulates and is regularly pumped out. Some tales are not fit for children.
I was at the moment in Canada, where a young Englishman gave me, as a personal experience, a story of a body-snatching episode in deep snow, perpetrated in some lonely prairie-town and culminating in purest horror. To get it out of the system I wrote it detailedly, and it came away just a shade too good; too well-balanced; too slick. I put it aside, not that I was actively uneasy about it, but I wanted to make sure.salaams courteous gestures (or words) of salutation.
Months passed, and I started a tooth which I took to the dentist in the little American town near ‘Naulakha.’ I had to wait a while in his parlour, where I found a file of bound Harper’s Magazines—say six hundred pages to the volume—dating from the ’fifties. I picked up one, and read as undistractedly as the tooth permitted. There I found my tale, identical in every mark—frozen ground, frozen corpse stiff in its fur robes in the buggy—the inn-keeper offering it a drink—and so on to the ghastly end. Had I published that tale, what could have saved me from the charge of deliberate plagiarism?