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Lord Dufferin to Lord Lansdowne:—
SO here’s your Empire. No more wine, then? Good. | |
| We’ll clear the Aides and khitmutgars away. | |
| (You’ll know that fat old fellow with the knife— | |
| He keeps the Name Book, talks in English, too, | |
| And almost thinks himself the Government.) | 5 |
| O Youth, Youth, Youth! Forgive me, you’re so young. | |
| Forty from sixty—twenty years of work | |
| And power to back the working. Ay de mi! | |
| You want to know, you want to see, to touch | |
| And, by your lights, to act. It’s natural. | 10 |
| I wonder can I help you? Let me try. | |
| You saw—what did you see from Bombay east? | |
| Enough to frighten any one but me? | |
| Neat that! It frightened Me in Eighty-Four! | |
| You shouldn’t take a man from Canada | 15 |
| And bid him smoke in powder-magazines; | |
| Nor with a Reputation such as—Bah! | |
| That ghost has haunted me for twenty years, | |
| My Reputation now full-blown. Your fault! | |
| Yours, with your stories of the strife at Home, | 20 |
| Who’s up, who’s down, who leads and who is led— | |
| One reads so much, one hears so little here. | |
| Well, now’s your turn of exile. I go back | |
| To Rome and leisure. All roads lead to Rome. | |
| Or books—the refuge of the destitute. | 25 |
| When you … that brings me back to India. See! | |
| Start clear. I couldn’t. Egypt served my turn. | |
| You’ll never plumb the Oriental mind, | |
| And if you did, it isn’t worth the toil. | |
| Think of a sleek French priest in Canada; | 30 |
| Divide by twenty half-breeds. Multiply | |
| By twice the Sphinx’s silence. There’s your East, | |
| And you’re as wise as ever. So am I. | |
| Accept on trust and work in darkness, strike | |
| At venture, stumble forward, make your mark, | 35 |
| (It’s chalk on granite) then thank God no flame | |
| Leaps from the rock to shrivel mark and man. | |
| I’m clear—my mark is made. Three months of drouth | |
| Had ruined much. It rained and washed away | |
| The specks that might have gathered on my Name. | 40 |
| I took a country twice the size of France, | |
| And shuttered up one doorway in the North. | |
| I stand by those. You’ll find that both will pay, | |
| I pledged my Name on both—they’re yours to-night. | |
| Hold to them—they hold fame enough for two. | 45 |
| I’m old, but I shall live till Burma pays. | |
| Men there—not German traders—Cr-sthw-te knows— | |
| You’ll find it in my papers. For the North | |
| Guns always—quietly—but always guns. | |
| You’ve seen your Council? Yes, they’ll try to rule, | 50 |
| And prize their Reputations. Have you met | |
| A grim lay-reader with a taste for coins, | |
| And faith in Sin most men withhold from God? | |
| He’s gone to England. R-p-n knew his grip | |
| And kicked. A Council always has its H-pes. | 55 |
| They look for nothing from the West but Death | |
Or Bath or Bournemouth. Here’s their ground.
They fight | |
| Until the Middle Classes take them back, | |
| One of ten millions plus a C. S. I., | |
| Or drop in harness. Legion of the Lost? | 60 |
| Not altogether. Earnest, narrow men, | |
| But chiefly earnest, and they’ll do your work, | |
| And end by writing letters to the Times. | |
| (Shall I write letters, answering H-nt-r—fawn | |
| With R-p-n on the Yorkshire grocers? Ugh!) | 65 |
| They have their Reputations. Look to one— | |
| I work with him—the smallest of them all, | |
| White-haired, red-faced, who sat the plunging horse | |
| Out in the garden. He’s your right-hand man, | |
| And dreams of tilting W-ls-y from the throne, | 70 |
| But while he dreams gives work we cannot buy; | |
| He has his Reputation—wants the Lords | |
| By way of Frontier Roads. Meantime, I think, | |
| He values very much the hand that falls | |
| Upon his shoulder at the Council table— | 75 |
| Hates cats and knows his business. Which is yours. | |
| Your business! Twice a hundred million souls. | |
| Your business! I could tell you what I did | |
| Some nights of Eighty-five, at Simla, worth | |
| A Kingdom’s ransom. When a big ship drives | 80 |
| God knows to what new reef, the man at the wheel | |
| Prays with the passengers. They lose their lives, | |
| Or rescued go their way; but he’s no man | |
| To take his trick at the wheel again. That’s worse | |
| Than drowning. Well, a galled Mashobra mule | 85 |
| (You’ll see Mashobra) passed me on the Mall, | |
| And I was—some fool’s wife had ducked and bowed | |
| To show the others I would stop and speak. | |
| Then the mule fell—three galls, a hand-breadth each, | |
| Behind the withers. Mrs. Whatsisname | 90 |
| Leers at the mule and me by turns, thweet thoul! | |
| “How could they make him carry such a load!” | |
| I saw—it isn’t often I dream dreams— | |
| More than the mule that minute—smoke and flame | |
| From Simla to the haze below. That’s weak. | 95 |
| You’re younger. You’ll dream dreams before you’ve done. | |
| You’ve youth, that’s one; good workmen—that means two | |
| Fair chances in your favour. Fate’s the third. | |
| I know what I did. Do you ask me, “Preach?” | |
| I answer by my past or else go back | 100 |
| To platitudes of rule—or take you thus | |
| In confidence and say:—“You know the trick: | |
| “You’ve governed Canada. You know. You know!” | |
| And all the while commend you to Fate’s hand | |
| (Here at the top one loses sight o’ God), | 105 |
| Commend you, then, to something more than you— | |
| The Other People’s blunders and … that’s all. | |
| I’d agonise to serve you if I could. | |
| It’s incommunicable, like the cast | |
| That drops the hackle with the gut adry. | 110 |
| Too much—too little—there’s your salmon lost! | |
| And so I tell you nothing—wish you luck, | |
| And wonder—how I wonder!—for your sake! | |
| And triumph for my own. You’re young, you’re young, | |
| You hold to half a hundred Shibboleths. | 115 |
| I’m old. I followed Power to the last, | |
| Gave her my best, and Power followed Me. | |
| It’s worth it—on my soul I’m speaking plain, | |
| Here by the claret glasses!—worth it all. | |
| I gave—no matter what I gave—I win. | 120 |
| I know I win. Mine’s work, good work that lives! | |
| A country twice the size of France—the North | |
| Safeguarded. That’s my record: sink the rest | |
| And better if you can. The Rains may serve, | |
| Rupees may rise—three pence will give you Fame— | 125 |
| It’s rash to hope for sixpence … If they rise | |
| Get guns, more guns, and lift the salt-tax. Oh! | |
| I told you what the Congress meant or thought? | |
| I’ll answer nothing. Half a year will prove | |
| The full extent of time and thought you’ll spare | 130 |
| To Congress. Ask a Lady Doctor once | |
| How little Begums see the light—deduce | |
| Thence how the True Reformer’s child is born. | |
| It’s interesting, curious … and vile. | |
| I told the Turk he was a gentleman. | 135 |
| I told the Russian that his Tartar veins | |
| Bled pure Parisian ichor; and he purred. | |
| The Congress doesn’t purr. I think it swears. | |
| You’re young—you’ll swear too ere you’ve reached the end | |
| The End! God help you, if there be a God. | 140 |
| (There must be one to startle Gl-dst-ne’s soul | |
| In that new land where all the wires are cut, | |
| And Cr-ss snores anthems on the asphodel.) | |
| God help you! And I’d help you if I could, | |
| But that’s beyond me. Yes, your speech was crude. | 145 |
| Sound claret after olives—yours and mine; | |
| But Medoc slips into vin ordinaire. | |
| (I’ll drink my first at Genoa to your health) | |
| Raise it to Hock. You’ll never catch my style. | |
| And, after all, the middle-classes grip | 150 |
| The middle-class—for Brompton talk Earl’s Court. | |
| Perhaps you’re right. I’ll see you in the Times— | |
| A quarter-column of eye-searing print, | |
| A leader once a quarter—then a war; | |
| The Strand a-bellow through the fog:—“Defeat!” | 155 |
| “’Orrible slaughter!” While you lie awake | |
| And wonder. Oh, you’ll wonder ere you’re free! | |
| I wonder now. The four years slide away | |
| So fast, so fast, and leave me here alone. | |
| R—y, C-lv-n, L—l, R-b-rts, B-ck, the rest, | 160 |
| Princes and Powers of Darkness, troops and trains, | |
| (I cannot sleep in trains), land piled on land, | |
| Whitewash and weariness, red rockets, dust, | |
| White snows that mocked me, palaces—with draughts, | |
| And W-stl-nd with the drafts he couldn’t pay. | 165 |
| Poor W-ls-n reading his obituary | |
| Before he died, and H-pe, the man with bones, | |
| And A-tch-s-n a dripping mackintosh | |
| At Council in the Rains, his grating “Sirrr” | |
| Half drowned by H-nt-r’s silky: “Bât my lahd.” | 170 |
| Hunterian always: M-rsh-l spinning plates | |
| Or standing on his head; the Rent Bill’s roar, | |
| A hundred thousand speeches, much red cloth, | |
| And Smiths thrice happy if I call them Jones, | |
| (I can’t remember half their names) or reined | 175 |
| My pony on the Mall to greet their wives. | |
| More trains, more troops, more dust, and then all’s done … | |
| Four years, and I forget. If I forget, | |
| How will they bear me in their minds? The North | |
| Safeguarded—nearly (R-b-rts knows the rest), | 180 |
| A country twice the size of France annexed. | |
| That stays at least. The rest may pass—may pass— | |
| Your heritage—and I can teach you naught. | |
| “High trust,” “vast honour,” “interests twice as vast,” | |
| “Due reverence to your Council”—keep to those. | 185 |
| I envy you the twenty years you’ve gained, | |
| But not the five to follow. What’s that? One! | |
| Two!—Surely not so late. Good-night. Don’t dream. | |
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