hither Indian soldier and civilians
send their wives in the hot weather and whither they retire themselves
under medical advice. It is not unlike any other warm and idle city of
rest where there is every kind of expensive amusement provided for a
migratory population. Mr Kipling has failed to make Simla interesting,
because Simla is Biarritz and Monte Carlo or any place which in fiction
is frequented by people who behave naughtily and enjoy themselves, and
in real life is frequented by the upper middle classes mechanically
passing the time. Mr Kipling's ingenious pretences regarding Simla are
amusing, but they cannot long conceal from his readers that these
tales, apart from literary exhibition, were really not worth the
telling. Mr Kipling pretends, of course, even at twenty-four, to know
of all that passes between women unlacing after a ball; but Mr
Kipling's pretended omniscience is part of his literary method, and he
does not quite carry it off in the Simla tales. He gives us not Simla
or any place under the sun, but a sparkling stage version of Simla--all
dancing and delight, a little intrigue, a touch of sentiment, patches
of excellent fun, and now and then a streak of Indian mystery. But Mr
Kipling's heart is not really in this business. His Simla tales will
not endure, and they have been given too much prominence in the popular
idea of his work. They are not plain tales, but tales very artfully
coloured. They fall far short of the standard to which Mr Kipling has
raised the English short story. Yet even here we may note the skill
with which the author has concealed his failure. Mrs Hawksbee may be
taken as a symbol of the distinction between the work of an inspired
author and the work of an author playing with his tools. Mr Kipling of
_The Jungle Books_ and _The Day's Work_ is an inspired author. Mr
Kipling of the Simla tales, on the other hand, is simply concerned to
show that he can work a conventional formula of the day as well as any
man; that he can redeem the formula with individual touches beyond the
reach of most; and can enliven it with impudent pretences which please
by virtue of their being utterly preposterous. Take, for example, the
pretence that Mrs Hawksbee is a charming woman. Mrs Hawksbee is really
nothing of the kind. She is an anthology of witty phrases. She is the
abstract perfection of what a clever head and a good heart is expected
to be in a fashionable comedy. But Mr Kipli