Part 81 (2/2)

”But I can't understand it!” said the Blastoderm; ”I'm quite sane; but I can't be sure of my mind, it seems--my OWN memory--can I?”

”Go up into the Hills for three months, and don't think about it,” said the Doctor.

”But I can't understand it,” repeated the Blastoderm. ”It was my OWN mind and memory.”

”I can't help it,” said the Doctor; ”there are a good many things you can't understand; and, by the time you have put in my length of service, you'll know exactly how much a man dare call his own in this world.”

The stroke cowed the Blastoderm. He could not understand it. He went into the Hills in fear and trembling, wondering whether he would be permitted to reach the end of any sentence he began.

This gave him a wholesome feeling of mistrust. The legitimate explanation, that he had been overworking himself, failed to satisfy him. Something had wiped his lips of speech, as a mother wipes the milky lips of her child, and he was afraid--horribly afraid.

So the Club had rest when he returned; and if ever you come across Aurelian McGoggin laying down the law on things Human--he doesn't seem to know as much as he used to about things Divine--put your forefinger on your lip for a moment, and see what happens.

Don't blame me if he throws a gla.s.s at your head!

A GERM DESTROYER.

Pleasant it is for the Little Tin G.o.ds, When great Jove nods; But Little Tin G.o.ds make their little mistakes In missing the hour when great Jove wakes.

As a general rule, it is inexpedient to meddle with questions of State in a land where men are highly paid to work them out for you.

This tale is a justifiable exception.

Once in every five years, as you know, we indent for a new Viceroy; and each Viceroy imports, with the rest of his baggage, a Private Secretary, who may or may not be the real Viceroy, just as Fate ordains. Fate looks after the Indian Empire because it is so big and so helpless.

There was a Viceroy once, who brought out with him a turbulent Private Secretary--a hard man with a soft manner and a morbid pa.s.sion for work. This Secretary was called Wonder--John Fennil Wonder. The Viceroy possessed no name--nothing but a string of counties and two-thirds of the alphabet after them. He said, in confidence, that he was the electro-plated figurehead of a golden administration, and he watched in a dreamy, amused way Wonder's attempts to draw matters which were entirely outside his province into his own hands. ”When we are all cherubims together,” said His Excellency once, ”my dear, good friend Wonder will head the conspiracy for plucking out Gabriel's tail-feathers or stealing Peter's keys. THEN I shall report him.”

But, though the Viceroy did nothing to check Wonder's officiousness, other people said unpleasant things. Maybe the Members of Council began it; but, finally, all Simla agreed that there was ”too much Wonder, and too little Viceroy,” in that regime. Wonder was always quoting ”His Excellency.” It was ”His Excellency this,” ”His Excellency that,” ”In the opinion of His Excellency,” and so on. The Viceroy smiled; but he did not heed.

He said that, so long as his old men squabbled with his ”dear, good Wonder,” they might be induced to leave the ”Immemorial East” in peace.

”No wise man has a policy,” said the Viceroy. ”A Policy is the blackmail levied on the Fool by the Unforeseen. I am not the former, and I do not believe in the latter.”

I do not quite see what this means, unless it refers to an Insurance Policy. Perhaps it was the Viceroy's way of saying:--”Lie low.”

That season, came up to Simla one of these crazy people with only a single idea. These are the men who make things move; but they are not nice to talk to. This man's name was Mellish, and he had lived for fifteen years on land of his own, in Lower Bengal, studying cholera. He held that cholera was a germ that propagated itself as it flew through a muggy atmosphere; and stuck in the branches of trees like a wool-flake.

The germ could be rendered sterile, he said, by ”Mellish's Own Invincible Fumigatory”--a heavy violet-black powder--”the result of fifteen years' scientific investigation, Sir!”

Inventors seem very much alike as a caste. They talk loudly, especially about ”conspiracies of monopolists;” they beat upon the table with their fists; and they secrete fragments of their inventions about their persons.

Mellish said that there was a Medical ”Ring” at Simla, headed by the Surgeon-General, who was in league, apparently, with all the Hospital a.s.sistants in the Empire. I forget exactly how he proved it, but it had something to do with ”skulking up to the Hills;” and what Mellish wanted was the independent evidence of the Viceroy--”Steward of our Most Gracious Majesty the Queen, Sir.” So Mellish went up to Simla, with eighty-four pounds of Fumigatory in his trunk, to speak to the Viceroy and to show him the merits of the invention.

But it is easier to see a Viceroy than to talk to him, unless you chance to be as important as Mellishe of Madras. He was a six-thousand-rupee man, so great that his daughters never ”married.” They ”contracted alliances.” He himself was not paid. He ”received emoluments,” and his journeys about the country were ”tours of observation.” His business was to stir up the people in Madras with a long pole--as you stir up stench in a pond--and the people had to come up out of their comfortable old ways and gasp:--”This is Enlightenment and progress. Isn't it fine!”

Then they gave Mellishe statues and jasmine garlands, in the hope of getting rid of him.

Mellishe came up to Simla ”to confer with the Viceroy.” That was one of his perquisites. The Viceroy knew nothing of Mellishe except that he was ”one of those middle-cla.s.s deities who seem necessary to the spiritual comfort of this Paradise of the Middle-cla.s.ses,” and that, in all probability, he had ”suggested, designed, founded, and endowed all the public inst.i.tutions in Madras.” Which proves that His Excellency, though dreamy, had experience of the ways of six-thousand-rupee men.

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