Part 9 (2/2)
”Its pa.s.sions will rock thee As the storms rock the raven on high; Bright reason will mock thee Like the sun from a wintry sky.
”From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter When leaves fall and cold winds come.”
ALI BABA, K.C.B.
No. XXI
ALI BABA ALONE
THE LAST DAY
”Now the last of many days, All beautiful and bright as thou, The loveliest, and the last is dead, Rise, memory, and write its praise.”
[December 27, 1879.]
How shall I lay this spectre of my own ident.i.ty? Shall I leave it to melt away gracefully in the light of setting suns? It would never do to put it out like a farthing rushlight after it had haunted the Great Ornamental in an aurora of smiles. Is Ali Baba to cease upon the midnight without pain? or is he to lie down like a tired child and weep out the spark? or should he just flit to Elysium? There, seated on Elysian lawns, browsed by none but Dian's (no allusion to little Mrs. Lollipop) fawns, amid the noise of fountains wonderous and the parle of voices thunderous, some wag might scribble on his door, ”Here lies Ali Baba”--as if glancing at his truthfulness. How is he to pa.s.s effectively into the golden silences? How is he to relapse into the still-world of observation? Would four thousand five hundred a month and Simla do it, with nothing to do and allowances, and a seat beside those littered under the swart Dog-Star of India? Or is it to be the mandragora of pension, that he may sleep out the great gap of _ennui_ between this life and something better? How lonely the Government of India would feel! How the world would forget the Government of India!
Voices would ask:--
Do ye sit there still in slumber In gigantic Alpine rows?
The black poppies out of number Nodding, dripping from your brows To the red lees of your wine-- And so kept alive and fine.
Sometimes I think that Ali Baba should be satisfied with the oblivion-mantle of knighthood and relapse into dingy respectability in the Avilion of Brompton or Bath; but since he has taken to wearing stars the accompanying itch for blood and fame has come:--
How doth the greedy K.C.B.
Delight to brag and fight, And gather medals all the day And wear them all the night.
The fear of being out-medalled and out-starred stings him:--
[Consimili ratione ab eodem saepe timore Macerat invidia, ante oculos ilium esse polentem, Illum aspectari, claro qui incedit honore, Ipsi se in tenebris volvi caenoque queruntur Insereunt partim statuarum et nominis ergo.]
Thus the desire to go hustling up the hill to the Temple of Fame with the other starry hosts impels him forward. If you mix yourself up with K.C.B.'s and raise your platform of ambition, you are just where you were at the A B C of your career. Living on a table-land, you experience no sensation of height. For the intoxicating delights of elevation you require a solitary pinnacle, some lonely eminence. Aut Caesar, aut nullus; whether in the zenith or the Nadir of the world's favour.
But how much more comfortable in the cold season than the chill splendours of the pinnacles of fame, where ”pale suns unfelt at distance roll away,” is a comfortable bungalow on the plains, with a little mulled claret after dinner. Here I think Ali Baba will be found, hidden from his creditors, the reading world, in the warm light of thought, singing songs unbidden till a few select cronies are wrought to sympathy with hopes and fears they heeded not--before the mulled claret.
To this symposium the A.-D.-C.-in-Waiting has invited himself on behalf of the Empire. He will sing the Imperial Anthem composed by Mr.
Eastwick, and it will be translated into archaic Persian by an imperial Muns.h.i.+ for the benefit of the Man in Buckram, who will be present. The Man in Buckram, who is suffering from a cold in his heart, will be wrapped up in himself and a c.o.c.ked hat. The Press Commissioner has also asked for an invitation. He will deliver a sentiment:--”Quid sit futurum eras fuge quaerere.” A Commander-in-Chief will tell the old story about the Service going to the dogs; after which there will be an interval of ten minutes allowed for swearing and hiccuping. The Travelling M.P. will take the opportunity to jot down a few hasty notes on Aryan characteristics for the _Twentieth Century_ before being placed under the table. The Baboo will subsequently be told off to sit on the Member's head. During this function the Baboo will deliver some sesquipedalian reflections in the rodomontade mood. The s.h.i.+karry will then tell the twelve-foot-tiger story. Mrs. Lollipop will tell a fib and make tea; and Ali Baba (unless his heart is too full of mulled claret) will make a joke. The company will break up at this point, after receiving a plenary dispensation from the Archdeacon.
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