I and Clive were friends—and why not? Friends! I think you laugh, my lad.
Clive it was gave England India, while your father gives—egad,
England nothing but the graceless boy who lures him on to speak—
“Well, Sir, you and Clive were comrades—” with a tongue thrust in your cheek!
Very true: in my eyes, your eyes, all the world’s eyes, Clive was man,
I was, am, and ever shall be—mouse, nay, mouse of all its clan
Sorriest sample, if you take the kitchen’s estimate for fame;
While the man Clive—he fought Plassy, spoiled the clever foreign game,
Conquered and annexed and Englished!
Never mind! As o’er my punch
(You away) I sit of evenings,—silence, save for biscuit crunch,
Black, unbroken,—thought grows busy, thrids each pathway of old years,
Notes this forthright, that meander, till the long past life appears
Like an outspread map of country plodded through, each mile and rood,
Once, and well remembered still,—I’m startled in my solitude
Ever and anon by—what’s the sudden mocking light that breaks
On me as I slap the table till no rummer-glass but shakes
While I ask—aloud, I do believe, God help me!—“Was it thus?
Can it be that so I faltered, stopped when just one step for us—”
(Us,—you were not born, I grant, but surely some day born would be)
“—One bold step had gained a province” (figurative talk, you see)
“Got no end of wealth and honour,—yet I stood stock-still no less?”
—“For I was not Clive,” you comment: but it needs no Clive to guess
Wealth were handy, honour ticklish, did no writing on the wall
Warn me “Trespasser, ’ware man-traps!” Him who braves that notice—call
Hero! None of such heroics suit myself who read plain words,
Doff my hat, and leap no barrier. Scripture says, the land’s the Lord’s:
Louts then—what avail the thousand, noisy in a smock-frocked ring,
All-agog to have me trespass, clear the fence, be Clive their king?
Higher warrant must you show me ere I set one foot before
T’other in that dark direction, though I stand for evermore
Poor as Job and meek as Moses. Evermore? No! By and by
Job grows rich and Moses valiant, Clive turns out less wise than I.
Don’t object “Why call him friend, then?” Power is power, my boy, and still
Marks a man,—God’s gift magnific, exercised for good or ill.
You’ve your boot now on my hearth-rug, tread what was a tiger’s skin;
Rarely such a royal monster as I lodged the bullet in!
True, he murdered half a village, so his own death came to pass;
Still, for size and beauty, cunning, courage—ah, the brute he was!
Why, that Clive,—that youth, that greenhorn, that quill-driving clerk, in fine,—
He sustained a siege in Arcot ... But the world knows! Pass the wine.
Where did I break off at? How bring Clive in? Oh, you mentioned “fear!”
Just so: and, said I, that minds me of a story you shall hear.
We were friends then, Clive and I: so, when the clouds, about the orb
Late supreme, encroaching slowly, surely threaten to absorb
Ray by ray its noontide brilliance,—friendship might, with steadier eye
Drawing near, hear what had burned else, now no blaze—all majesty.
Too much bee’s-wing floats my figure? Well, suppose a castle’s new:
None presume to climb its ramparts, none find foothold sure for shoe
’Twixt those squares and squares of granite plating the impervious pile
As his scale-mail’s warty iron cuirasses a crocodile.
Reels that castle thunder-smitten, storm-dismantled? From without
Scrambling up by crack and crevice, every cockney prates about
Towers—the heap he kicks now! Turrets—just the measure of his cane!
Will that do? Observe moreover—(same similitude again)—
Such a castle seldom crumbles by sheer stress of cannonade:
’Tis when foes are foiled, and fighting’s finished that vile rains invade,
Grass o’ergrows, o’ergrows till night-birds congregating find no holes
Fit to build like the topmost sockets made for banner-poles.
So Clive crumbled slow in London, crashed at last.
A week before,
Dining with him,—after trying churchyard chat of days of yore,—
Both of us stopped, tired as tombstones, head-piece, foot-piece, when they lean
Each to other, drowsed in fog-smoke, o’er a coffined Past between.
As I saw his head sink heavy, guessed the soul’s extinguishment
By the glazing eyeball, noticed how the furtive fingers went
Where a drug-box skulked behind the honest liquor,—“One more throw
Try for Clive!” thought I: “Let’s venture some good rattling question!” So—
“Come Clive, tell us”—out I blurted—“what to tell in turn, years hence,
When my boy—suppose I have one—asks me on what evidence
I maintain my friend of Plassy proved a warrior every whit
Worth your Alexanders, Cæsars, Marlboroughs, and—what said Pitt?—
Frederick the Fierce himself! Clive told me once”—I want to say—
“Which feat out of all those famous doings bore the bell away
—In his own calm estimation, mark you, not the mob’s rough guess—
Which stood foremost as evincing what Clive called courageousness!
Come! What moment of the minute, what speck-centre in the wide
Circle of the action saw your mortal fairly deified?
(Let alone that filthy sleep-stuff, swallow bold this wholesome Port!)
If a friend has leave to question,—when were you most brave, in short?”
Up he arched his brows o’ the instant—formidably Clive again.
“When was I most brave? I’d answer, were the instance half as plain
As another instance that’s a brain-lodged crystal—curse it!—here
Freezing when my memory touches—ugh!—the time I felt most fear.
Ugh! I cannot say for certain if I showed fear—anyhow,
Fear I felt, and, very likely, shuddered, since I shiver now.”
“Fear!” smiled I. “Well, that’s the rarer: that’s a specimen to seek,
Ticket up in one’s museum, Mind-Freaks, Lord Clive’s Fear, Unique!”
Down his brows dropped. On the table painfully he pored as though
Tracing, in the stains and streaks there, thoughts encrusted long ago.
When he spoke ’twas like a lawyer reading word by word some will,
Some blind jungle of a statement,—beating on and on until
Out there leaps fierce life to fight with.
“This fell in my factor-days.
Desk-drudge, slaving at Saint David’s, one must game, or drink, or craze.
I chose gaming: and,—because your high-flown gamesters hardly take
Umbrage at a factor’s elbow, if the factor pays his stake,—
I was winked at in a circle where the company was choice,
Captain This and Major That, men high of colour, loud of voice,
Yet indulgent, condescending to the modest juvenile
Who not merely risked, but lost his hard-earned guineas with a smile.
“Down I sat to cards, one evening,—had for my antagonist
Homebody whose name’s a secret—you’ll know why—so, if you list,
Call him Cock o’ the Walk, my scarlet son of Mars from head to heel!
Play commenced: and, whether Cocky fancied that a clerk must feel
Quite sufficient honour came of bending over one green baize,
I the scribe with him the warrior, guessed no penman dared to raise
Shadow of objection should the honour stay but playing end
More or less abruptly,—whether disinclined he grew to spend
Practice strictly scientific on a booby born to stare
At—not ask of—lace-and-ruffles if the hand they hide plays fair,—
Anyhow, I marked a movement when he bade me ‘Cut!’
“I rose.
‘Such the new manœuvre, Captain? I’m a novice: knowledge grows.
What, you force a card, you cheat, Sir?’
“Never did a thunder-clap
Cause emotion, startle Thyrsis locked with Chloe in his lap,
As my word and gesture (down I flung my cards to join the pack)
Fired the man of arms, whose visage, simply red before, turned black.
“When he found his voice, he stammered ‘That expression once again!’
“‘Well, you forced a card and cheated!’
“‘Possibly a factor’s brain,
Busied with his all important balance of accounts, may deem
Weighing words superfluous trouble: cheat to clerkly ears may seem
Just the joke for friends to venture: but we are not friends, you see!
When a gentleman is joked with,—if he’s good at repartee,
He rejoins, as do I—Sirrah, on your knees, withdraw in full!
Beg my pardon, or be sure a kindly bullet through your skull
Lets in light and teaches manner to what brain it finds! Choose quick—
Have your life snuffed out or, kneeling, pray me trim yon candle-wick!’
“‘Well, you cheated!’
“Then outbroke a howl from all the friends around.
To his feet sprang each in fury, fists were clenched and teeth were ground.
‘End it! no time like the present! Captain, yours were our disgrace!
No delay, begin and finish! Stand back, leave the pair a space!
Let civilians be instructed: henceforth simply ply the pen,
Fly the sword! This clerk’s no swordsman? Suit him with a pistol, then!
Even odds! A dozen paces ’twixt the most and least expert
Make a dwarf a giant’s equal: nay, the dwarf, if he’s alert,
Likelier hits the broader target!’
“Up we stood accordingly.
As they handed me the weapon, such was my soul’s thirst to try
Then and there conclusions with this bully, tread on and stamp out
Every spark of his existence, that,—crept close to, curled about
By that toying, tempting, teasing, fool-forefinger’s middle joint,—
Don’t you guess?—the trigger yielded. Gone my chance! and at the point
Of such prime success moreover: scarce an inch above his head
Went my ball to hit the wainscot. He was living, I was dead.
“Up he marched in flaming triumph—’twas his right, mind!—up, within
Just an arm’s length. ‘Now, my clerkling,’ chuckled Cocky, with a grin
As the levelled piece quite touched me, ‘Now, Sir Counting-House, repeat
That expression which I told you proved bad manners! Did I cheat?’
“‘Cheat you did, you knew you cheated, and, this moment, know as well.
As for me, my homely breeding bids you—fire and go to Hell!’
“Twice the muzzle touched my forehead. Heavy barrel, flurried wrist.
Either spoils a steady lifting. Thrice: then, ‘Laugh at Hell who list,
I can’t! God’s no fable either. Did this boy’s eye wink once? No!
There’s no standing him and Hell and God all three against me,—so,
I did cheat!’
“And down he threw the pistol, out rushed—by the door
Possibly, but, as for knowledge if by chimney, roof or floor,
He effected disappearance—I’ll engage no glance was sent
That way by a single starer, such a blank astonishment
Swallowed up their senses: as for speaking—mute they stood as mice.
“Mute not long, though! Such reaction, such a hubbub in a trice!
‘Rogue and rascal! Who’d have thought it? What’s to be expected next,
When His Majesty’s Commission serves a sharper as pretext
For ... But where’s the need of wasting time now? Naught requires delay:
Punishment the Service cries for: let disgrace be wiped away
Publicly, in good broad daylight! Resignation? No, indeed!
Drum and fife must play the Rogue’s-March, rank and file be free to speed
Tardy marching on the rogue’s part by appliance in the rear
—Kicks administered shall right this wronged civilian,—never fear,
Mister Clive, for—though a clerk—you bore yourself—suppose we say—
Just as would beseem a soldier?
“‘Gentlemen, attention—pray!
First, one word!’
“I passed each speaker severally in review.
When I had precise their number, names, and styles, and fully knew
Over whom my supervision thenceforth must extend,—why, then—
“Some five minutes since, my life lay—as you all saw, gentlemen—
At the mercy of your friend there. Not a single voice was raised
In arrest of judgment, not one tongue—before my powder blazed—
Ventured “Can it be the youngster plundered, really seemed to mark
Some irregular proceeding? We conjecture in the dark,
Guess at random,—still, for sake of fair play—what if for a freak,
In a fit of absence,—such things have been!—if our friend proved weak
—What’s the phrase?—corrected fortune! Look into the case, at least!”
Who dared interpose between the altar’s victim and the priest?
Yet he spared me! You eleven! Whosoever, all or each,
To the disadvantage of the man who spared me, utters speech
—To his face, behind his back,—that speaker has to do with me:
Me who promise, if positions change, and mine the chance should be,
Not to imitate your friend and waive advantage!’
“Twenty-five
Years ago this matter happened: and ’tis certain,” added Clive,
“Never, to my knowledge, did Sir Cocky have a single breath
Breathed against him: lips were closed throughout his life, or since his death,
For if he be dead or living I can tell no more than you.
All I know is—Cocky had one chance more; how he used it,—grew
Out of such unlucky habits, or relapsed, and back again
Brought the late-ejected devil with a score more in his train,—
That’s for you to judge. Reprieval I procured, at any rate.
Ugh—the memory of that minute’s fear makes gooseflesh rise! Why prate
Longer? You’ve my story, there’s your instance: fear I did, you see!”
“Well”—I hardly kept from laughing—“if I see it, thanks must be
Wholly to your Lordship’s candour. Not that—in a common case—
When a bully caught at cheating thrusts a pistol in one’s face,
I should under-rate, believe me, such a trial to the nerve!
’Tis no joke, at one-and-twenty, for a youth to stand nor swerve.
Fear I naturally look for—unless, of all men alive,
I am forced to make exception when I come to Robert Clive.
Since at Arcot, Plassy, elsewhere, he and death—the whole world knows—
Came to somewhat closer quarters.”
Quarters? Had we come to blows,
Clive and I, you had not wondered—up he sprang so, out he rapped
Such a round of oaths—no matter! I’ll endeavour to adapt
To our modern usage words he—well, ’twas friendly license—flung
At me like so many fire-balls, fast as he could wag his tongue.
“You—a soldier? You—at Plassy? Yours the faculty to nick
Instantaneously occasion when your foe, if lightning-quick,
—At his mercy, at his malice,—has you, through some stupid inch
Undefended in your bulwark? Thus laid open,—not to flinch
—That needs courage, you’ll concede me. Then, look here! Suppose the man,
Checking his advance, his weapon still extended, not a span
Distant from my temple,—curse him!—quietly had bade me, ‘There!
Keep your life, calumniator!—worthless life I freely spare:
Mine you freely would have taken—murdered me and my good fame
Both at once—and all the better! Go, and thank your own bad aim
Which permits me to forgive you!’ What if, with such words as these,
He had cast away his weapon? How should I have borne me, please?
Nay, I’ll spare you pains and tell you. This, and only this, remained—
Pick his weapon up and use it on myself. If so had gained
Sleep the earlier, leaving England probably to pay on still
Rent and taxes for half India, tenant at the Frenchman’s will.”
“Such the turn,” said I, “the matter takes with you? Then I abate
—No, by not one jot nor tittle,—of your act my estimate.
Fear—I wish I could detect there: courage fronts me, plain enough—
Call it desperation, madness—never mind! for here’s in rough
Why, had mine been such a trial, fear had overcome disgrace.
True, disgrace were hard to bear: but such a rush against God’s face
—None of that for me, Lord Plassy, since I go to church at times,
Say the creed my mother taught me! Many years in foreign climes
Rub some marks away—not all, though! We poor sinners reach life’s brink,
Overlook what rolls beneath it, recklessly enough, but think
There’s advantage in what’s left us—ground to stand on, time to call
‘Lord, have mercy!’ ere we topple over—do not leap, that’s all!”
Oh, he made no answer, re-absorbed into his cloud. I caught
Something like “Yes—courage; only fools will call it fear.”
If aught
Comfort you, my great unhappy hero Clive, in that I heard,
Next week, how your own hand dealt you doom, and uttered just the word
“Fearfully courageous!”—this, be sure, and nothing else I groaned.
I’m no Clive, nor parson either: Clive’s worst deed—we’ll hope condoned.