Twenty-One Days in India; and, The Teapot Series | Page 4

moult his rainbow plumage in the Cimmeria of
the Rajas. Here we shall see him again, a blinking ignis fatuus in a dark
land--"so shines a good deed in a naughty world" thinks the Foreign
Office.--ALI BABA.

No. III

WITH THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF

[August 16, 1879.]
At Simla and Calcutta the Government of India always sleeps with a
revolver under its pillow--that revolver is the Commander-in-Chief.
There is a tacit understanding that this revolver is not to be let off;
indeed, sometimes it is believed that this revolver is not loaded.
[The Commander-in-Chief has a seat in Council; but the Military
Member has a voice. This division of property is seen everywhere. The
Commander-in-Chief has many offices; in each there is someone other
than the Commander-in-Chief who discharges all its duties.
What does the Commander-in-Chief command? Armies? No. In India
Commanders-in-Chief command no armies. The Commander-in-Chief
only commands respect.]
The Commander-in-Chief is himself an army. His transport, medical
attendance, and provisioning are cared for departmentally, and watched
over by responsible officers. He is a host in himself; and a corps of
observation.

All the world observes him. His slightest movement creates a
molecular disturbance in type, and vibrates into newspaper paragraphs.
When Commanders-in-Chief are born the world is unconscious of any
change. No one knows when a Commander-in-Chief is born. No joyful
father, no pale mother has ever experienced such an event as the birth
of a Commander-in-Chief in the family. No Mrs. Gamp has ever leant
over the banister and declared to the expectant father below that it was
"a fine healthy Commander-in-Chief." Therefore, a
Commander-in-Chief is not like a poet. But when a
Commander-in-Chief dies, the spirit of a thousand Beethovens sob and
wail in the air; dull cannon roar slowly out their heavy grief; silly rifles
gibber and chatter demoniacally over his grave; and a cocked hat,
emptier than ever, rides with the mockery of despair on his coffin.
On Sunday evening, after tea and catechism, the Supreme Council
generally meet for riddles and forfeits in the snug little cloak-room
parlour at Peterhoff. "Can an army tailor make a
Commander-in-Chief?" was once asked. Eight old heads were
scratched and searched, but no answer was found. No sound was heard
save the seething whisper of champagne ebbing and flowing in the
eight old heads. Outside, the wind moaned through the rhododendron
trees; within, the Commander-in-Chief wept peacefully. He felt the
awkwardness of the situation. [He thought of Ali Musjid, and he
thought of Isandula; he saw himself reflected in the mirror, and he
declared that he gave it up.] An aide-de-camp stood at the door
hiccupping idly. He was known to have invested all his paper currency
in Sackville Street; and he felt in honour bound to say that the riddle
was a little hard on the army tailors. So the subject dropped.
A Commander-in-Chief is the most beautiful article of social
upholstery in India. He sits in a large chair in the drawing-room. Heads
and bodies sway vertically in passing him. He takes the oldest woman
in to dinner; he gratifies her with his drowsy cackle. He says "Yes" and
"No" to everyone with drowsy civility; everyone is conciliated. His
stars dimly twinkle--twinkle; the host and hostess enjoy their light.
After dinner he decants claret into his venerable person, and tells an old

story; the company smile with innocent joy. He rejoins the ladies and
leers kindly on a pretty woman; she forgives herself a month of
indiscretions. He touches Lieutenant the Hon. Jupiter Smith on the
elbow and inquires after his mother; a noble family is gladdened. He is
thus a source of harmless happiness to himself and to those around him.
If a round of ball cartridge has been wasted by a suicide, or a pair of
ammunition boots carried off by a deserter, the Commander-in-Chief
sometimes visits a great cantonment under a salute of seventeen guns.
The military then express their joy in their peculiar fashion, according
to their station in life. The cavalry soldier takes out his charger and
gallops heedlessly up and down all the roads in the station. The
sergeants of all arms fume about as if transacting some important
business between the barracks and their officers' quarters. Subalterns
hang about the Mess, whacking their legs with small pieces of cane and
drinking pegs with mournful indifference. The Colonel sends for
everyone who has not the privilege of sending for him, and says
nothing to each one, sternly and decisively. The Majors and the officers
doing general duty go to the Club and swear before the civilians that
they are worked off their legs, complaining fiercely to themselves that
the Service is going, &c. &c. The
Deputy-Assistant-Quartermaster-General puts on all the gold lace he is
allowed to wear, and gallops to