WRESSLEY OF THE FOREIGN OFFICE.
I closed and drew for my love's sake, That now is false to me, And I slew the Riever of Tarrant Moss, And set Dumeny free.
And ever they give me praise and gold, And ever I moan my loss, For I struck the blow for my false love's sake, And not for the men at the Moss.
Tarrant Moss.
One of the many curses of our life out here is the want of atmosphere inthe painter's sense. There are no half-tints worth noticing. Men standout all crude and raw, with nothing to tone them down, and nothing toscale them against. They do their work, and grow to think that there isnothing but their work, and nothing like their work, and that they arethe real pivots on which the administration turns. Here is an instanceof this feeling. A half-caste clerk was ruling forms in a Pay Office. Hesaid to me:--"Do you know what would happen if I added or took away onesingle line on this sheet?" Then, with the air of a conspirator:--"Itwould disorganize the whole of the Treasury payments throughout thewhole of the Presidency Circle! Think of that?"
If men had not this delusion as to the ultra-importance of their ownparticular employments, I suppose that they would sit down and killthemselves. But their weakness is wearisome, particularly when thelistener knows that he himself commits exactly the same sin.
Even the Secretariat believes that it does good when it asks anover-driven Executive Officer to take census of wheat-weevils through adistrict of five thousand square miles.
There was a man once in the Foreign Office--a man who had grownmiddle-aged in the department, and was commonly said, by irreverentjuniors, to be able to repeat Aitchison's "Treaties and Sunnuds"backwards, in his sleep. What he did with his stored knowledge only theSecretary knew; and he, naturally, would not publish the news abroad.This man's name was Wressley, and it was the Shibboleth, in those days,to say:--"Wressley knows more about the Central Indian States than anyliving man." If you did not say this, you were considered one of meanunderstanding.
Now-a-days, the man who says that he knows the ravel of the inter-tribalcomplications across the Border is of more use; but in Wressley's time,much attention was paid to the Central Indian States. They were called"foci" and "factors," and all manner of imposing names.
And here the curse of Anglo-Indian life fell heavily. When Wressleylifted up his voice, and spoke about such-and-such a succession tosuch-and-such a throne, the Foreign Office were silent, and Headsof Departments repeated the last two or three words of Wressley'ssentences, and tacked "yes, yes," on them, and knew that they were"assisting the Empire to grapple with serious political contingencies."In most big undertakings, one or two men do the work while the rest sitnear and talk till the ripe decorations begin to fall.
Wressley was the working-member of the Foreign Office firm, and, to keephim up to his duties when he showed signs of flagging, he was mademuch of by his superiors and told what a fine fellow he was. He did notrequire coaxing, because he was of tough build, but what he receivedconfirmed him in the belief that there was no one quite so absolutelyand imperatively necessary to the stability of India as Wressley of theForeign Office. There might be other good men, but the known, honoredand trusted man among men was Wressley of the Foreign Office. We had aViceroy in those days who knew exactly when to "gentle" a fractious bigman and to hearten up a collar-galled little one, and so keep all histeam level. He conveyed to Wressley the impression which I have justset down; and even tough men are apt to be disorganized by a Viceroy'spraise. There was a case once--but that is another story.
All India knew Wressley's name and office--it was in Thacker and Spink'sDirectory--but who he was personally, or what he did, or what hisspecial merits were, not fifty men knew or cared. His work filled allhis time, and he found no leisure to cultivate acquaintances beyondthose of dead Rajput chiefs with Ahir blots in their 'scutcheons.Wressley would have made a very good Clerk in the Herald's College hadhe not been a Bengal Civilian.
Upon a day, between office and office, great trouble came toWressley--overwhelmed him, knocked him down, and left him gaspingas though he had been a little school-boy. Without reason, againstprudence, and at a moment's notice, he fell in love with a frivolous,golden-haired girl who used to tear about Simla Mall on a high, roughwaler, with a blue velvet jockey-cap crammed over her eyes. Her name wasVenner--Tillie Venner--and she was delightful. She took Wressley's heartat a hand-gallop, and Wressley found that it was not good for man tolive alone; even with half the Foreign Office Records in his presses.
Then Simla laughed, for Wressley in love was slightly ridiculous. He didhis best to interest the girl in himself--that is to say, his work--andshe, after the manner of women, did her best to appear interested inwhat, behind his back, she called "Mr. Wressley's Wajahs"; for shelisped very prettily. She did not understand one little thing aboutthem, but she acted as if she did. Men have married on that sort oferror before now.
Providence, however, had care of Wressley. He was immensely struck withMiss Venner's intelligence. He would have been more impressed hadhe heard her private and confidential accounts of his calls. He heldpeculiar notions as to the wooing of girls. He said that the best workof a man's career should be laid reverently at their feet. Ruskin writessomething like this somewhere, I think; but in ordinary life a fewkisses are better and save time.
About a month after he had lost his heart to Miss Venner, and had beendoing his work vilely in consequence, the first idea of his "Native Rulein Central India" struck Wressley and filled him with joy. It was, as hesketched it, a great thing--the work of his life--a really comprehensivesurvey of a most fascinating subject--to be written with all the specialand laboriously acquired knowledge of Wressley of the Foreign Office--agift fit for an Empress.
He told Miss Venner that he was going to take leave, and hoped, on hisreturn, to bring her a present worthy of her acceptance. Would she wait?Certainly she would. Wressley drew seventeen hundred rupees a month. Shewould wait a year for that. Her mamma would help her to wait.
So Wressley took one year's leave and all the available documents, abouta truck-load, that he could lay hands on, and went down to Central Indiawith his notion hot in his head. He began his book in the land he waswriting of. Too much official correspondence had made him a frigidworkman, and he must have guessed that he needed the white light oflocal color on his palette. This is a dangerous paint for amateurs toplay with.
Heavens, how that man worked! He caught his Rajahs, analyzed his Rajahs,and traced them up into the mists of Time and beyond, with theirqueens and their concubines. He dated and cross-dated, pedigreed andtriple-pedigreed, compared, noted, connoted, wove, strung, sorted,selected, inferred, calendared and counter-calendared for ten hours aday. And, because this sudden and new light of Love was upon him, heturned those dry bones of history and dirty records of misdeeds intothings to weep or to laugh over as he pleased. His heart and soul wereat the end of his pen, and they got into the link. He was dowered withsympathy, insight, humor and style for two hundred and thirty days andnights; and his book was a Book. He had his vast special knowledge withhim, so to speak; but the spirit, the woven-in human Touch, the poetryand the power of the output, were beyond all special knowledge. But Idoubt whether he knew the gift that was in him then, and thus he mayhave lost some happiness. He was toiling for Tillie Venner, not forhimself. Men often do their best work blind, for some one else's sake.
Also, though this has nothing to do with the story, in India where everyone knows every one else, you can watch men being driven, by the womenwho govern them, out of the rank-and-file and sent to take up pointsalone. A good man once started, goes forward; but an average man, sosoon as the woman loses interest in his success as a tribute to herpower, comes back to the battalion and is no more heard of.
Wressley bore the first copy of his book to Simla and, blushing andstammering, presented it to Miss Venner. She read a little of it. Igive her review verbatim:--"Oh, your book? It's all about
those how-widWajahs. I didn't understand it."
. . . . . . . . .
Wressley of the Foreign Office was broken, smashed,--I am notexaggerating--by this one frivolous little girl. All that he could sayfeebly was:--"But, but it's my magnum opus! The work of my life." MissVenner did not know what magnum opus meant; but she knew that CaptainKerrington had won three races at the last Gymkhana. Wressley didn'tpress her to wait for him any longer. He had sense enough for that.
Then came the reaction after the year's strain, and Wressley went backto the Foreign Office and his "Wajahs," a compiling, gazetteering,report-writing hack, who would have been dear at three hundred rupeesa month. He abided by Miss Venner's review. Which proves that theinspiration in the book was purely temporary and unconnected withhimself. Nevertheless, he had no right to sink, in a hill-tarn, fivepacking-cases, brought up at enormous expense from Bombay, of the bestbook of Indian history ever written.
When he sold off before retiring, some years later, I was turning overhis shelves, and came across the only existing copy of "Native Rule inCentral India"--the copy that Miss Venner could not understand. I readit, sitting on his mule-trucks, as long as the light lasted, and offeredhim his own price for it. He looked over my shoulder for a few pages andsaid to himself drearily:--"Now, how in the world did I come to writesuch damned good stuff as that?" Then to me:--"Take it and keepit. Write one of your penny-farthing yarns about its birth.Perhaps--perhaps--the whole business may have been ordained to thatend."
Which, knowing what Wressley of the Foreign Office was once, struck meas about the bitterest thing that I had ever heard a man say of his ownwork.