While “If” was only published in 1910, Kipling had been working on it since 1895.
I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the summer of 1895, and we were living in Trenton, New Jersey, the place I was born. My father and mother, along with myself, had moved into my grandfather’s house a couple of years earlier. My father had gotten a new job as a manager in a textile mill that was close to my grandfather’s house, plus my grandfather’s health was getting worse, so my mother decided we should move in so she could look after her father.
There was a knock at the door; my father was at work, my mother was baking, and I was getting ready for the ball game the day after. I opened the door to a distinguished man with a top hat, wire-rimmed spectacles, and, as my grandfather would say, a fine moustache. Every gentleman needs a good piece of facial hair. I had facial hair, as did my grandfather, but although my grandfather never said anything, I knew it was yet to reach the lofty heights of a good piece of facial hair like his.
I sometimes, even to this day, many years after his passing, find myself looking in the mirror, wondering if he would approve. I then hear a voice say, “A good piece of facial hair, my son However, I sometimes hear a snigger and look around to find my wife or daughter smiling, nodding, and saying, “I think he’d like it,” as I’ve told them both about my grandfather, who sadly neither of them ever met.
The gentleman at the door took his hat off, gave a slight bow, and said
“Do I have the pleasure of being at the home of Mr. Frederic Hayter?”
There were a couple of things that struck me: one, this gentleman wasn’t from New Jersey, and two, why was he asking me if it was my home? Then it struck me that he must have meant my grandfather; I was named after him.
It is, sir, but you must mean Frederic Hayter, my grandfather. I’m named after him.
“That I do, young Mr. Hayter, as the first time I met your grandfather, he was older than you are now, and it’s been many years since I saw him”.
May I ask who is calling?
“Mr. Kipling, Mr. Rudyard Kipling”.
He handed me a card on which was printed Mr. Rudyard Kipling The Northern Star.
I introduced him to my mother then took him into my grandfathers room.
It was strange to see my grandfather as he was. What I had seen of him when I was growing up was that he was a bear of a man, with a barrel instead of a chest, arms that looked like a gorilla, hands the size of a shovel, and legs like oak trees. That was how I pictured him when I was younger, but you always picture your heroes in a different light than what they actually look like. My grandfather was my hero; he always was and always will be.
Hello, my dear friend, Mr. Kipling said to my grandfather as he entered the room.
My dear Mr. Kipling I must apologise that you find me in this poor state.
Think nothing of it; I see the man that I saw in India those many years ago—the same man who swatted the evil away, the same man who I interviewed for the Northern Star, the man who had my readers transfixed with his stories of India and the adventures he had in America before he travelled the world.
Mr. Kipling left that evening after spending some time alone with my grandfather, talking of their adventures in India.
In the morning, I took my Grandfather a cup of tea as I usually did. He looked at peace; he had passed away during the night. On his nightstand was a letter to my mother; my mother’s name was in his handwriting, but there was also a letter to me, but not in his writing.
Dear Frederic.
Your Grandfather was too frail to write these words, so I wrote them for him. They are his words, and I give you my solemn vow on that.
Mr. Rudyard Kipling your loyal servant.
I could not be more proud of my Grandson as I am at this moment in time. I know I will not be at your game today, in body at least, but I know full well my soul will be there. The trunk in the wardrobe is for you, it’s full of my memories and I hope that your future memories will sit next to them.
My mind had been on my grandfather; I had forgotten the note within the letter that Mr Kipling had said “If you ever feel alone read the note, the poem was inspired by another but could easily have been your grandfather, a truely inspirational man there wull be a day when I finish it”.
If you can keep your head when it’s all about you,
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
I read the poem, or what there was of it; of course, they were Mr. Kipling’s words, but while I read the words, I could hear my Grandfather reading the words with me.
The Trenton Millers won the game that day, beating local rivals the Trenton Stars 4-0. I was the starting pitcher for the Millers, giving up two hits. I think my Grandfather would forgive me for the hits. I still have the letter that Mr. Kipling wrote, and when I doubt myself, I’ll read it and hear my grandfather’s voice. The championship medal I won that day, well, that’s with my hero.