Twenty-One Days in India; and, The Teapot Series | Page 3

ladies is sisterly--undemonstratively affectionate. He tows up rajas
to H.E., and stands in the offing. His attitude towards rajas is one of
melancholy reserve. He will perform the prescribed observances, if he
cannot approve of them. Indeed, generally, he disapproves of the Indian
people, though he condones their existence. For a brother in aiguillettes
there is a Masonic smile and a half-embarrassed familiarity, as if found
out in acting his part. But confidence is soon restored with melancholy
glances around, and profane persons who may be standing about move
uneasily away.
An A.D.C. should have no tastes. He is merged in "the house." He must
dance and ride admirably; he ought to shoot; he may sing and paint in
water-colours, or botanise a little, and the faintest aroma of the most
volatile literature will do him no harm; but he cannot be allowed
preferences. If he has a weakness for very pronounced collars and
shirt-cuffs in mufti, it may be connived at, provided he be honestly
nothing else but the man in collars and cuffs.
When a loud, joyful, and steeplechasing Lord, in the pursuit of pleasure
and distant wars, dons the golden cords for a season, the world
understands that this is masquerading, skittles, and a joke. One must
not confound the ideal A.D.C. with such a figure.
The A.D.C. has four distinct aspects or phases--(1) the full summer
sunshine and bloom of scarlet and gold for Queen's birthdays and high
ceremonials; (2) the dark frock-coats and belts in which to canter
behind his Lord in; (3) the evening tail-coat, turned down with light
blue and adorned with the Imperial arms on gold buttons; (4) and,
finally, the quiet disguises of private life.
It is in the sunshine glare of scarlet and gold that the A.D.C. is most
awful and unapproachable; it is in this aspect that the splendour of
vice-Imperialism seems to beat upon him most fiercely. The Rajas of
Rajputana, the diamonds of Golconda, the gold of the Wynaad, the
opium of Malwa, the cotton of the Berars, and the Stars of India seem
to be typified in the richness of his attire and the conscious superiority
of his demeanour. Is he not one of the four satellites of that Jupiter who
swims in the highest azure fields of the highest heavens?

Frock-coated and belted, he passes into church or elsewhere behind his
Lord, like an aërolite from some distant universe, trailing cloudy
visions of that young lady's Paradise of bright lights and music,
champagne, mayonnaise, and "just-one-more-turn," which is situated
behind the flagstaff on the hill.
The tail-coat, with gold buttons, velvet cuffs, and light blue silk lining,
is quite a demi-official, small-and-early arrangement. It is compatible
with a patronising and somewhat superb flirtation in the verandah; nay,
even under the pine-tree beyond the Gurkha sentinel, whence
many-twinkling Jakko may be admired, it is compatible with a certain
shadow of human sympathy and weakness. An A.D.C. in tail-coat and
gold buttons is no longer a star; he is only a fire-balloon; though he
may twinkle in heaven, he can descend to earth. But in the quiet
disguises of private life he is the mere stick of a rocket. He is quite of
the earth. This scheme of clothing is compatible with the tenderest
offices of gaming or love--offices of which there shall be no
recollection on the re-assumption of uniform and on re-apotheosis. An
A.D.C. in plain clothes has been known to lay the long odds at whist,
and to qualify, very nearly, for a co-respondentship.
In addition to furnishing rooms in his own person, an A.D.C. is
sometimes required to copy my Lord's letters on mail-day, and, in due
subordination to the Military Secretary, to superintend the stables,
kitchen, or Invitation Department.
After performing these high functions, it is hard if an A.D.C. should
ever have to revert to the buffooneries of the parade-ground or the
vulgar intimacies of a mess. It is hard that one who has for five years
been identified with the Empire should ever again come to be regarded
as "Jones of the 10th," and spoken of as "Punch" or "Bobby" by old
boon companions. How can a man who has been behind the curtain,
and who has seen la première danseuse of the Empire practising her
steps before the manager Strachey, in familiar chaff and talk with the
Council ballet, while the little scene-painter and Press Commissioner
stood aside with cocked ears, and the privileged violoncellist made his
careless jests--how, I say, can one who has thus been above the clouds

on Olympus ever associate with the gaping, chattering, irresponsible
herd below?
It is well that our Ganymede should pass away from heaven into
temporary eclipse; it is well that before being exposed to the rude gaze
of the world he should