Chp8
Ha-Ha Hee-Hee
“The Lord Yaxley, Your Majesty,” the Major announced into the study, curtsying as was customary and expected of all who came upon ‘the presence’.
Lord Yaxley bowed deeply as well, “Your Majesty,” and awaited to be addressed by the King to speak further.
The King glanced up from the papers strewn across his bureau, and nodding, said, “Lord Yaxley, Bertie, come! Thank you, Major.”
The Major, dismissed so, bowed once more, and withdrew, leaving Lord Yaxley and the King to their affairs.
“I was apprised yesterday by the Prime Minister that you indeed acceded by my nomination to drink from the viceregal chalice, as thoroughly treacherous as it may be! So, I do credit that some felicitations are in order!” the King beamed rather brightly. He arose from the bureau and made for the sideboard where he poured out two glasses of his finest tokay to celebrate.
Lord Yaxley nodded, accepted the offered glass, clinked it with the King’s and downed it deeply and promptly, calling, “To your health, sir.”
“Steady on, lad! I assume then, you craved that tincture of liquid courage?” chuckled the King.
“Indubitably, sir. One suffers in need of some stiffening of the jelly that is the old spine after one is become Daniel heaved in the lions’ den,” argued Bertie with a wry smile.
“Come, come, Bertie! You might be found worthy in the balances yet!” snorted the King, “I am certain that you would make good of the billet proffered and as was with David vers Goliath, rescue what is dearest to us.”
“Therein lies the rub, sir,” muttered Bertie, “I believe the way things are turning with the simmering pot, the only sagacious conclusion would entail my being your final Viceroy to the Indian Empire. Mayhaps, if God and my lot is charitable, I can induce them to be a Dominion of the Crown, but any return to statu quo ante bellum is impracticable and moot at this point, sir, whatever the government may profess in their fooled and feverish fantasies. Should we aspire for the peoples there to regard us with a modicum of amity and alliance, then that is the lone enterprise with a prospect of realisation.”
“The government and my eldest son may take me for a chump or an intractable and cantankerous old goat, Bertie, but I am reasonably adept in reading between the lines too,” spat the King cynically. Then breathing in to soothe himself, he declared, “You are an astute and perspicacious man of some significant faculty, and Jeeves is an intelligent phaenomenon beyond all compare, I’m assured both of you will uncover a way to certify, that, if the worst comes, not all our associations with India are severed, ere the shuttle has crossed the loom.”
For a twinkling, it appeared that Bertie would take certain umbrage at being demoted to the lesser affiliate in the Jeeves-Wooster duopoly, but then the trice had lapsed, and swallowing his wounded pride, Bertie nodded weakly in accord.
“As much as would be within our power or grasp and to the best of our proficiency, sir, it shall be done,” Bertie proclaimed sincerely.
“Twenty years, Bertie! Two decades it has been,” mused the King, “since I have glimpsed India and its vast and enchanting magnetism, and it would be given away without my ever visiting again! My younger sons, never to see it! Keep them with us, Bertie, accomplish that wonder and you shall have my everlasting gratitude, and that of Britain!”
With an imperceptible nod from the King, Bertie recognised he’d been dismissed, and bowing, “Your Majesty”, he retreated, leaving the King to ruminate on the sundry onuses that a crown encumbers its incumbent quarry with, especially a crown that has met a millennium of princes.
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The fantastic flourish of fabulous fanfares announced their arrival with a resplendent descant bursting in bravura into the majestic, no, audaciously ostentatious, Durbar Hall of the Viceroy’s House. More like as not most of Lutyens’ Delhi hearkened to it, if not all the old town. Bertie attempted to fidget in the ceremonial costume, rather gaudy more than expedient if someone solicited him, though alas no one did, and he was obliged to stomach it stoically. His hand, through a will of its own, yearned to make the vexing vestments more comfortable, but, naturally, it was swatted away by the soon-to-be Vicereine.
“Bertie, behave!” she cried, exasperated at Bertie’s juvenile japes, “You are the King-Emperor’s envoy, his vicegerent, the epitome of honour and virtue, not a cossetted boy shorn of his sweets and toys that mama be-dressed to banquet. You speak with the King’s voice, you act with the King’s will, you judge with the King’s mind. So, stop fidgeting with that livery, it’s an enormously essential element of the spectacle, pomp, and circumstance meant to impress and sway!”
“Yes, but, why the bally pomp and circumstance at all? I look hideous in this horrid dress!” Bertie cried back, likewise exasperated, “and this ceremony! It takes the giddy biscuit! I’m convinced even your father wouldn’t stand for it! The ocean of diamonds, rubies, what-have-yous that we must’ve pawned off for the exorbitant cost of this effervescent excess!”
“You must demonstrate to them beyond a shadow of any skepticism or sedition that you mean business, Bertie,” Vicky explained, “That you’re not to be dismissed or disregarded, and certainly not trifled with. And that you hold supreme power here, the first servant of this state, who will not pause for those whose overinflated sense of self-worth manifests itself in dragging their feet at every turn. Also, father prevailed in the Delhi Durbar, with the Imperial State Crown, hefty as it is, held on his head, in the sweltering warmth outside, this is tuppence by contrast”.
“I don’t like it still,” mumbled Bertie with some chagrin, “I think its dreadfully rich to be chummy and gung-ho with the class of ‘friends’ that make you prefer your enemies!”
“Don’t be unkind, love,” Vicky cooed, “I despise those self-styled regionalists and communalists, who haven’t a lick of truth in their libretti, just as much as you, but, we are dispensed this harsh hand and we must fight the good fight, we must keep the faith.”
“Yes, reciting the Bible,” declared Bertie, rolling his eyes, “won’t compel me like these would-be despots any more than I do now. They’re odious reptiles that don’t merit the ‘phantom’ legs they stand on.”
“Honoris causa, love, and quae fiant fiunt or est quid sit if you’re feeling dogmatically doctrinaire,” smiled the Princess, “We make the best of what we have, and make a worthy charge of it. We verify to the world that you’re fashioned of more than drivel, like your Aunt Agatha insists on occasionally to attempt and intimidate you into achieving something she requires, and we establish to the world that Britain advances and amends, it progresses with the times, and the hour for honouring our oaths is come. And, of all the people present here, not all are bad eggs, a good number are level-headed, if a tad naïve. Now, ample shilly-shallying, and quick march!”
As the gargantuan doors unfastened, the herald smote the base thrice with his silvern quaterstaff, allaying the commotion and bidding all awareness of the amassed assemblage at them.
“His Excellency, the Lord Yaxley, Duke of Albany and Pembroke, and Her Imperial Highness, the Princess Victoria Louise! All Hail!” exclaimed the herald into the hushed hall and straightway the wordless reverie that infolded the room was breached, and camera flares snapped to capture the moment, indisputably to appear in the afternoon or evening editions of as many periodicals and syndicates as possible.
The congregation curtsied row by row as they progressed sedately toward the gilt thrones set beneath the purpure canopy adorned with the ornate Star of India. Most wore deference, some wonder, and some mere formality for the sake of it. As they reached the wide stair leading to the raised dais, the Imperial State Crown, glimmering and shimmering in the lights with its myriad diamonds and gems commanded honour, sat on its pulpit, as the Crown’s personification.
Standing in front of the thrones of the Viceroys of India, as Kings and Emperors did in many a court, Bertie merely nodded for the rite and swearing to commence, eager to conclude it as promptly as possible. The Chief Justice beckoned for the pageboy, some princeling from Rajputana, to bring forth the Sceptre of India, and the Viceregal Coronet. Furnishing Bertie the Sceptre in one hand, the Chief Justice presented him an opulently bound Bible in the other.
“Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, His Imperial Majesty’s Most Loyal Thegn and Lord, Duke and Prince, an oath sworn here, in the eyes of men and God Almighty, upon the words of Christ the Lord enbound in this Bible, are fastened to you in honour and faith, and never set aside,” spake the Chief Justice in a rich resounding tone, into the hushed Hall, “Swear so your oath and stray not, lest the Lord Above claim you, or your liege release you! And may heaven’s light shine bright upon your counsels!”
Gesturing the pageboy to hold up the placard prepared, Bertie launched into his vow, “I, Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, Duke and Prince, Thegn and Loyal Lord, with the Lord Almighty God as witness stanch and noble, swear true allegiance, to His Imperial Majesty, King George V, Emperor of India, and King of his Dominions, Realms, and Territories beyond the Seas, Defender of the Faith, and to all his heirs and successors, so help me God. I pledge, as the Viceroy and Governor-General of his Indian Empire, to govern and minster the divers peoples of India, by law, custom, and ceremony, justly, loyally, and honourably, and in the name of the King-Emperor, to reward fealty with love, loyalty with honour, and treason with lawful justice, so help me God. I affirm, in the name of the King-Emperor, to uphold, renew, recognise, and respect, the rights, privileges, tithes, titles, and honours, of his diverse subject princely vassals, their lands, incomes, and their peoples, so help me God! May Heaven’s Light Be Our Guide! God Save the King!”
Vicky orated a matching oath, though with far less of the quivering violently like a leaf in the wind than Bertie, and with the poise, flair, grace, and all-round sang-froid that befit a noble Princess of Britain.
Then the Chief Justice requested the Archbishop of India to anoint them both and pronounced, “Let it be acknowledged, the Viceroy and Governor-General speaks with the King-Emperor’s voice, acts with the King-Emperor’s will, and thinks with the King-Emperor’s mind. Let no man be cast a turncoat, in waylaying the King-Emperor’s charge! Hail now, your Viceroy, Bertram Wooster, the Lord Yaxley!”
And the crowd returned a roar of ‘God Save the King’ to that. Then, crowned by the Archbishop with the diadems, the new Viceroy and Vicereine were presented to the crowd, in all their imperial slippers. As the Princess sat down, Lord Yaxley lingered, standing, and signalled to speak, so the Hall would silence to hear him.
“I appreciate it is rather unorthodox, or even heretical of me, and perhaps a tad vulgar, to rupture this cloak of ceremony and custom to speak so, but needs must when times press. India, and the Crown, have shared a rapport wracked of much tumult and angst over the past years, of that there is no doubt whatsoever. A Jewel in a Crown only shines brightly in the sun if it is well-cared for, after all. Thus, under an express direction and decree from His Imperial Majesty, the King-Emperor, I have been consigned by his government in Westminster to restore peace, harmony, and tranquillity to this nation, to the best of my ability and power, and return her to the fold. I reckon, the water has raced past that head long ago, and Britain must now honour her promises, made long ago, when pressed by fire and war. India came to Britain’s relief, and though belated, Britain moves in answer to discharge its pledges in return. I would hope and trust, your utmost and ardent cooperation and assistance, will facilitate my efforts in transforming the Sisyphean task into merely a Heraklean one. The Princess and I, hope that with your acquiescence, we may come to a swift sunrise out of this troubling tide of riotous clouds and storms, bound in brotherhood stronger than before! Better is it that thou shouldest not vow, than that thou shouldest vow and not pay – Ecclesiastes 5:5. Let none impugn us for artifice, tangible or illusory, for we come to honour them, and may your counsels succour us in this endeavour. God Save the King and God Defend India!”
Another chant of ‘God Save the King’ went up, followed swiftly by rapturous approbation and the Viceregal couple lay enthroned in ceremony, being thence congratulated by the senior Officers of State, and many Princes and personages beside, ere Bertie was liberated from the confines of formality and his scratchy apparel.
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‘…..My name is John Wellington Wells, I’m a dealer in magic and spells,
In blessings and curses, and ever-filled purses, in prophecies, witches and knells!
If anyone, anything lacks, they’ll find it already in stacks!
They’ve but to look in, on the resident Djinn, at number 70, Simmery Axe.!.....’
“Gilbert and Sullivan again! What is it with their infernal droning bemocking my every turn so smugly, Jeeves? It’s like whats-his-face persecuting the Christians!” I asked, exasperated with the relentless and too-frequent incidence of the blasted ‘lions of English Opera’ at the most inopportune times.
Even Jeeves was entertained at my exasperation, I saw a slight twitch of a smirk on his typically unmoving face before he responded, “I imagine, the composers and their oeuvres are simply enjoying a renaissance of esteem, sir, a rejouissance in the civic perception. I do not believe they intend to mock you in the slightest, sir.”
“Insuperable irritants! Turn off that vile radio all the same, Jeeves, thou shalt not listen to needless twaddle and all the rot, what?” I opined.
“Very good, sir,” concurred Jeeves and flicked off the noise from the wireless.
“So, here we are, eh?” I mumbled, gazing into the sunset, and anticipating for the tea to miraculously materialise into Jeeves’ hands, “What ho, India!”
“Yes, sir,” Jeeves corresponded, “a marvellous realm of myriad mysteries, sir,” as he supplied over the restoring cup of Darjeeling.
“And Halifax made a perfect pig’s breakfast of the whole thing! Tory nitwit!” I fumed, “Its all well and good, them heaving me off here, cap in hand, to muddle through this jam without hair or hide of a scheme to help, and clean up the broken milk jug, deprived of the Lord sprouting manna to keep me fed!”
“An explicably natural sentiment, sir,” comforted Jeeves, “you have been elected as the sole pilot to navigate the vessel out from the eye of the storm, a prospect that would upset weathered doyens away, sir. I do have confidence, nonetheless, that should your parleys with all those who dominate the Indians’ respect and fidelity be candid, frank, and forthright, sir, a resolution may yet be uncovered.”
“But I don’t sense the Spirit moving me across the camps!” I exhaled, “I’m not as thick as Barmy or Tuppy, nor as easily led astray as Bingo or Gussie, but you’re the one with the brains bursting out of the old cranium, Jeeves!”
“Thank you, sir,” beamed Jeeves, in his own inimitable way, “I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir. My service shall remain yours to the best of my capacity, sir.”
“I know that Jeeves!” I acknowledged, “the feudal spirit moves you more than the old rattling engine of my wit moves me. I haven’t been ‘Lord Yaxley’ seven years and I’m already making a poncy clown of myself. Recall the girls’ school, Jeeves?”
“Not your finest moment, sir,” affirmed Jeeves with a slight smile, “however, you have made an admirable Lord Yaxley in the estimation of all your peers, sir. The Earl of Emsworth’s butler, Mr. Beech, remarked to me not too long ago of how the Lord Emsworth heaped copious commendation on your accomplishments to his brother Mr. Threepwood, sir. It is merely the Lady Worplesdon who wishes fervidly that you develop further, sir, in accordance to her own wishes.”
“Aunt Agatha never ceases to remind me of that,” I rolled my eyes, “and how was I intended to know the bally roof would do the Charleston on Uncle George? It’s not as if we all didn’t overhear the vicar yowling for donations from Twing to Tangier for the weeks we spent with the Wickhammersleys!”
“Lady Worplesdon may have judged you to be too youthful to ascend to the eminence and obligations of a Marquess, sir,” argued Jeeves soothingly, “and her strategies to espouse you to the young Lady Honoria were thwarted and stymied by the Princess at every turn. She may have brooked affront in such failure, sir.”
“For seven years!?” I exclaimed, “mighty great umbrage that is! Mount Olympus would look like a sandhill by compare. Come, Jeeves, I know you to be a good man and a respectable fibber, when need be, and that was not a virtuous falsehood of any kind.”
“No, sir,” granted Jeeves.
“Still,” I expressed nonchalantly, “It’s not so bad with her, eh?”
“No, sir,” nodded Jeeves.
“So, my deliverer,” I grinned, “You have a cunning plan, I suspect? That my livelihood and life are not swept away in the Plagues?”
“One endeavours to give satisfaction, sir,” Jeeves resolved, rather enigmatically.
“Well?” I probed, “out with it, Jeeves, we can’t have ambiguities to decipher when the world is drowning.”
“The design cannot be made to flower until we reach New Delhi, sir,” said Jeeves, “I anticipate then to have plentiful tidings to apprise you on its success with, if you would consent, sir?”
“Very well, Jeeves,” I nodded, “See to it that no-one bumps me off the pram or chucks me out with the bathwater, would you?”
“Very good, sir.”
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“Oh! Catching birds, that is my trade,
In woods and fields, in sun and shade!
Young Papageno is my name,
From old to young is spread my fame!
I frolick in this forest green,
From dawn to dark, and whiles between!
I see and hear all birds that sing,
And all of them that fly a-wing!
I either spy them in the glen,
Or learn their songs to ‘rapture them!
For when I play beneath a tree,
They flutter down and call to me!
I wish like birds, I’d charm and woo,
A maiden fair, a lover true!
Who’d bring more joy and cheer in life,
When joined are we as man and wife!
... ”
A noticeably rum rendition of Mozart’s Magic Flute restrained me from wrenching my hair as I droned into the bluntly dreadful testimonies on my bureau. The height of unmingled callousness and carnage was giving me a headache ferocious enough to wobble the Caesars’ throne.
“Mr. Nehru to see you, sir,” came Jeeves’s easing pitch to release me from that budding banging in my head, as the radio gradually died out.
“Eh?” I queried, “Wasn’t it intended to be Mr. Gandhi in the first audience? Says so here on this chart they saddled me with, don’t you know!”
“Mr. Gandhi is presently marching here from the tram-halt at the far end of the Kingsway, sir, beyond the War Memorial, and has stalwartly declined all bids to be driven in,” reacted Jeeves smoothly, “I expect he shall be some time away yet, sir.”
“Ah, so it is, what?” I mused.
“Precisely, sir,” Jeeves nodded.
“Bung in this cove then, Jeeves,” I muttered, “might as well get it over and done with, what? Oh, and Jeeves, I say?”
“Sir?” Jeeves inquired with his raised eyebrow.
“One of the crème de la crème of your fiery lifesavers, if you would, the one that particularly makes the eyeballs bulge, one needs the juice in the nog steaming away at full capacity,” I claimed.
“Very good, sir,” Jeeves chimed and went to bung the blighter in.
I slunk back into the examining those bleak and ghastly reports from the Civil Service, with Papageno’s jolly aria doing its little bit to soothe the spreading aches. I disregarded the door opening and sought to compile my reflections and discipline my features into what Jeeves and Vicky labelled my ‘Lord’s Face’ to fitly astonish the chappie.
“Your Excellency,” bowed the young Mr. Nehru on appearing.
Peering at him, one would scarce suspect that a redoubtable political career lay before him, at the helm or through the shadows. A shrewd man, I could see from his eyes, satisfies why Jeeves printed ‘tread carefully’ next to his initials on the plot of the coves I was to meet.
Jeeves strode to stand next to me, with the serving dish bearing my ambrosia, but I couldn’t twitch to paw at it when the bloke was look intently at me. So I had to heave-ho and plunge lacking my saving grace, to my dread.
“Mr Nehru, thank you for calling on me,” I countered cautiously.
Jeeves had instructed me to shepherd these appointments like the King with his PMs, and Vicky had declared in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t to deny him in his finest hour. So I was to, by the desires of Jeeves-Athena, direct the lot at my stride and I wasn’t to allow the chappies getting cosy. I frankly didn’t comprehend why the latter was crucial, though, I twigged the need of the former. So, I had pledged to make my heart stone.
I believe this Nehru cove could foresee that I was slinking like a serpent eyeing its quarry, so he playacted along on the waltz of sizing each other up, the contest of wills.
“Your Excellency’s address was most poignant, and in the scarce succinct statements, I, and many of my fellows, received much, sir. Is it then, by any prospect, sir, that you have been awarded plenipotentiary powers?” he asked with a smirk.
“Ha! Truly, remarkable!” I whispered; Jeeves was spot-on! Not that I strictly ever doubted the man, Jeeves was an arrow which seldom missed the mark. Doing my finest to emulate Aunt Dahlia’s glare that stifled the howling hounds in her chivvying days, I persisted “and what if I have, my good sir?”
“But then, Your Excellency will indeed succeed!” he declared eagerly, though he squirmed a slight where he stood. Hah! Aunt Dahlia wins again! Round one was mine, and I owed Vicky, whose plan the scowl of the flesh and blood was, a groat.
“Too kind, Mr Nehru,” I grinned as I gulped the lifesaver Jeeves placed next to me. I felt the fire burn through me, and then, like those new built steam engines, the fatigued bonce was nursed into gently chugging away.
“His Imperial Majesty’s Government desires to reinstate peace to the Crown Jewel of the Empire, in aspirations of further self-government being endowed upon its people, something fairer than that rash and daft Diarchy proposal,” I professed genuinely. Candour with the feller would take me further than flattery, I had gathered from the notes I had been given on him, and, I suppose, he inferred much the same.
“And Your Excellency considers that is not adequate,” he pondered, “In that, sir, I would say you are utterly and reasonably exact. I say that not out of my own venal yearning to see my country chart its own fortune outwith Britain’s shade, we’ll have that with or without Westminster’s collaboration ultimately, but the tiger needs more than bones to gnaw at.”
Jeeves spoke up then, “As a conspicuous voice in the Congress Party, and with acquaintances across the spectrum of India’s many popular representatives, Mr. Nehru, you are supremely disposed to relay the pleas of the Indian people before the Crown’s plenipotentiary actor, the man who controls the hunter and the hind, so to say, sir.”
Nehru nodded,“I will be blunt then, Your Excellency. India wishes Britain out. The intrusion, the confinement of our people at gunpoint to bow and scrape at every one of Britain’s caprices, the stifling of our commerce, the scarcity of takings from us spent back in India, the apartheid, and so many more of the contraventions of Empire must end. The Congress Party understands, such a thorough fracture, save for all-out war is impracticable, Britain holds the upper hand for now, even with our advantage in manpower and means once they are fully marshalled. In the end, it would result in far too much blood being frittered on ravaging the country with neither side a true champion. So, we at least are prepared to come to a settlement by suitable compromise.”
“Frankness, hey ho, then, say I!” I responded, “Neither Westminster, nor the King would be thrilled in any sense of the word to have war, and nor would I. Our stomach for war is stuffed from the Great one. I cannot, however, cede all you require to the breadth of its measure, or heads will roll. My head will roll the second I depart office, or perhaps while I’m still in it! I would entreat that you and all fellows who share your aspirations and ambitions the charter a petition, addressed to His Imperial Majesty, requesting to negotiate on full frank terms with His Majesty’s government of Westminster. And I recognise such has been attempted in the past to little avail, but you have my every assurance, this appeal will be received, by hook or by crook.”
The chappie nodded solemnly, “I can appreciate your predicament, sir. Should you tender a public issue of a guarantee, that through your endeavours and sway, our petition will receive all due diligence and consideration of His Majesty and his government in Westminster, the Congress Party will assist you in the task you wish to accomplish. Mr. Gandhi has committed us to non-violence, after all. Sardar Patel and I don’t always settle on approaches to employ, but I can see the benefit of cooperation and reconciliation here.”
“It is incumbent on you, Mr. Nehru, as a wordsmith from the Inner Temple that you are, to safeguard, the prose in the petition does not challenge or censure. We have far too many blighters in the House whose excessively fragile egos are easily bruised beyond reason, and who alas are in positions of much power as of now, that they may exact an operose price in vengeance,” I warned the man straightforwardly.
“We have always been ready to cooperate, Your Excellency, and we shall do so now just as well,” the man smiled, lying through his teeth, “Our petition will be as you ask”. As if I didn’t understand the malicious mischief that the streets of Cawnpore were enduring at the behest of the Congress Party fermenting the flickers, all thanks to over-eager commanders wanting a ruthless reprisal.
“None of the protests and strikes and the epidemic vandalic hooliganism, unless there is a very cogent justification, will be borne, Mr. Nehru, while we have this gentlemen’s agreement,” I spoke firmly, “No more of the fanning fumes to flames, as has been endemic in the papers so far, or I will liberally exercise the excessive force that lost my predecessor his billet, consequences be damned.”
“The Party must have a vote, Your Excellency,” he answered glibly, “to make such colossal modifications to its way of making its voice known.”
“We both know the party follows you, Mr. Patel, and Mr. Gandhi like lost little ducklings notwithstanding Mr. Bose’s firebrand rhetoric,” I expressed, rolling my eyes at his barefaced stab to win more compromises.
“You might think that sir,” he smirked, “I couldn’t possibly comment.”
“As a gesture of goodwill and approaching amity, Mr. Nehru,” Jeeves spoke a second time, “His Excellency will circulate a Viceregal decree to open all direct-rule provinces and agencies to elections for their Provincial Assemblies by universal franchise for all the seats filled proportionally by vote, to be held three months from now. The Congress, shall of course, be free to make ready to contest before the other parties have received the decree.”
“And the Princes?” He questioned, rather wide-eyed at such a bargain.
“They are free to do as they will, as the Crown’s leal vassals,” I nodded. “I shall, however, commend to them such words that the protestations of democratic government do not fall entirely on deaf ears.”
Beholding the shrewd light come into the chappie’s eyes, I smiled, “Naturally, the Congress Party may hope to manipulate its extensive influence in the press to induce the Princes to alter their ways. I would ‘fiercely’ advise against it, but, short of detaining all Congress members and most of the free press, I would be powerless to stand against this suit.”
He nodded with a grin. “Your Excellency makes a most convincing and compelling plea of peace. Rest assured; Your Excellency shall find most members of the Congress Party in a most sudden and loyal turn of mood.”
“Very well then,” I sighed as I stood up, indicating this first meeting was at a close.
“We have an agreement?” I asked, as I held out my hand, walking toward him.
He shook it firmly the once and then bowing, left.
I plonked down on the settee and slumped into it a bit. “Did I do well, Jeeves?” I inquired, picking at the chart in nerves.
“Most splendidly, sir,” he beamed brightly in the way he does and that was all the affirmation a chappie sought to receive. I imagine, the feudal spirit moved him from saying more but it worked all the same.
“The Lord Yaxley, Your Majesty,” the Major announced into the study, curtsying as was customary and expected of all who came upon ‘the presence’.
Lord Yaxley bowed deeply as well, “Your Majesty,” and awaited to be addressed by the King to speak further.
The King glanced up from the papers strewn across his bureau, and nodding, said, “Lord Yaxley, Bertie, come! Thank you, Major.”
The Major, dismissed so, bowed once more, and withdrew, leaving Lord Yaxley and the King to their affairs.
“I was apprised yesterday by the Prime Minister that you indeed acceded by my nomination to drink from the viceregal chalice, as thoroughly treacherous as it may be! So, I do credit that some felicitations are in order!” the King beamed rather brightly. He arose from the bureau and made for the sideboard where he poured out two glasses of his finest tokay to celebrate.
Lord Yaxley nodded, accepted the offered glass, clinked it with the King’s and downed it deeply and promptly, calling, “To your health, sir.”
“Steady on, lad! I assume then, you craved that tincture of liquid courage?” chuckled the King.
“Indubitably, sir. One suffers in need of some stiffening of the jelly that is the old spine after one is become Daniel heaved in the lions’ den,” argued Bertie with a wry smile.
“Come, come, Bertie! You might be found worthy in the balances yet!” snorted the King, “I am certain that you would make good of the billet proffered and as was with David vers Goliath, rescue what is dearest to us.”
“Therein lies the rub, sir,” muttered Bertie, “I believe the way things are turning with the simmering pot, the only sagacious conclusion would entail my being your final Viceroy to the Indian Empire. Mayhaps, if God and my lot is charitable, I can induce them to be a Dominion of the Crown, but any return to statu quo ante bellum is impracticable and moot at this point, sir, whatever the government may profess in their fooled and feverish fantasies. Should we aspire for the peoples there to regard us with a modicum of amity and alliance, then that is the lone enterprise with a prospect of realisation.”
“The government and my eldest son may take me for a chump or an intractable and cantankerous old goat, Bertie, but I am reasonably adept in reading between the lines too,” spat the King cynically. Then breathing in to soothe himself, he declared, “You are an astute and perspicacious man of some significant faculty, and Jeeves is an intelligent phaenomenon beyond all compare, I’m assured both of you will uncover a way to certify, that, if the worst comes, not all our associations with India are severed, ere the shuttle has crossed the loom.”
For a twinkling, it appeared that Bertie would take certain umbrage at being demoted to the lesser affiliate in the Jeeves-Wooster duopoly, but then the trice had lapsed, and swallowing his wounded pride, Bertie nodded weakly in accord.
“As much as would be within our power or grasp and to the best of our proficiency, sir, it shall be done,” Bertie proclaimed sincerely.
“Twenty years, Bertie! Two decades it has been,” mused the King, “since I have glimpsed India and its vast and enchanting magnetism, and it would be given away without my ever visiting again! My younger sons, never to see it! Keep them with us, Bertie, accomplish that wonder and you shall have my everlasting gratitude, and that of Britain!”
With an imperceptible nod from the King, Bertie recognised he’d been dismissed, and bowing, “Your Majesty”, he retreated, leaving the King to ruminate on the sundry onuses that a crown encumbers its incumbent quarry with, especially a crown that has met a millennium of princes.
.
.
The fantastic flourish of fabulous fanfares announced their arrival with a resplendent descant bursting in bravura into the majestic, no, audaciously ostentatious, Durbar Hall of the Viceroy’s House. More like as not most of Lutyens’ Delhi hearkened to it, if not all the old town. Bertie attempted to fidget in the ceremonial costume, rather gaudy more than expedient if someone solicited him, though alas no one did, and he was obliged to stomach it stoically. His hand, through a will of its own, yearned to make the vexing vestments more comfortable, but, naturally, it was swatted away by the soon-to-be Vicereine.
“Bertie, behave!” she cried, exasperated at Bertie’s juvenile japes, “You are the King-Emperor’s envoy, his vicegerent, the epitome of honour and virtue, not a cossetted boy shorn of his sweets and toys that mama be-dressed to banquet. You speak with the King’s voice, you act with the King’s will, you judge with the King’s mind. So, stop fidgeting with that livery, it’s an enormously essential element of the spectacle, pomp, and circumstance meant to impress and sway!”
“Yes, but, why the bally pomp and circumstance at all? I look hideous in this horrid dress!” Bertie cried back, likewise exasperated, “and this ceremony! It takes the giddy biscuit! I’m convinced even your father wouldn’t stand for it! The ocean of diamonds, rubies, what-have-yous that we must’ve pawned off for the exorbitant cost of this effervescent excess!”
“You must demonstrate to them beyond a shadow of any skepticism or sedition that you mean business, Bertie,” Vicky explained, “That you’re not to be dismissed or disregarded, and certainly not trifled with. And that you hold supreme power here, the first servant of this state, who will not pause for those whose overinflated sense of self-worth manifests itself in dragging their feet at every turn. Also, father prevailed in the Delhi Durbar, with the Imperial State Crown, hefty as it is, held on his head, in the sweltering warmth outside, this is tuppence by contrast”.
“I don’t like it still,” mumbled Bertie with some chagrin, “I think its dreadfully rich to be chummy and gung-ho with the class of ‘friends’ that make you prefer your enemies!”
“Don’t be unkind, love,” Vicky cooed, “I despise those self-styled regionalists and communalists, who haven’t a lick of truth in their libretti, just as much as you, but, we are dispensed this harsh hand and we must fight the good fight, we must keep the faith.”
“Yes, reciting the Bible,” declared Bertie, rolling his eyes, “won’t compel me like these would-be despots any more than I do now. They’re odious reptiles that don’t merit the ‘phantom’ legs they stand on.”
“Honoris causa, love, and quae fiant fiunt or est quid sit if you’re feeling dogmatically doctrinaire,” smiled the Princess, “We make the best of what we have, and make a worthy charge of it. We verify to the world that you’re fashioned of more than drivel, like your Aunt Agatha insists on occasionally to attempt and intimidate you into achieving something she requires, and we establish to the world that Britain advances and amends, it progresses with the times, and the hour for honouring our oaths is come. And, of all the people present here, not all are bad eggs, a good number are level-headed, if a tad naïve. Now, ample shilly-shallying, and quick march!”
As the gargantuan doors unfastened, the herald smote the base thrice with his silvern quaterstaff, allaying the commotion and bidding all awareness of the amassed assemblage at them.
“His Excellency, the Lord Yaxley, Duke of Albany and Pembroke, and Her Imperial Highness, the Princess Victoria Louise! All Hail!” exclaimed the herald into the hushed hall and straightway the wordless reverie that infolded the room was breached, and camera flares snapped to capture the moment, indisputably to appear in the afternoon or evening editions of as many periodicals and syndicates as possible.
The congregation curtsied row by row as they progressed sedately toward the gilt thrones set beneath the purpure canopy adorned with the ornate Star of India. Most wore deference, some wonder, and some mere formality for the sake of it. As they reached the wide stair leading to the raised dais, the Imperial State Crown, glimmering and shimmering in the lights with its myriad diamonds and gems commanded honour, sat on its pulpit, as the Crown’s personification.
Standing in front of the thrones of the Viceroys of India, as Kings and Emperors did in many a court, Bertie merely nodded for the rite and swearing to commence, eager to conclude it as promptly as possible. The Chief Justice beckoned for the pageboy, some princeling from Rajputana, to bring forth the Sceptre of India, and the Viceregal Coronet. Furnishing Bertie the Sceptre in one hand, the Chief Justice presented him an opulently bound Bible in the other.
“Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, His Imperial Majesty’s Most Loyal Thegn and Lord, Duke and Prince, an oath sworn here, in the eyes of men and God Almighty, upon the words of Christ the Lord enbound in this Bible, are fastened to you in honour and faith, and never set aside,” spake the Chief Justice in a rich resounding tone, into the hushed Hall, “Swear so your oath and stray not, lest the Lord Above claim you, or your liege release you! And may heaven’s light shine bright upon your counsels!”
Gesturing the pageboy to hold up the placard prepared, Bertie launched into his vow, “I, Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, Duke and Prince, Thegn and Loyal Lord, with the Lord Almighty God as witness stanch and noble, swear true allegiance, to His Imperial Majesty, King George V, Emperor of India, and King of his Dominions, Realms, and Territories beyond the Seas, Defender of the Faith, and to all his heirs and successors, so help me God. I pledge, as the Viceroy and Governor-General of his Indian Empire, to govern and minster the divers peoples of India, by law, custom, and ceremony, justly, loyally, and honourably, and in the name of the King-Emperor, to reward fealty with love, loyalty with honour, and treason with lawful justice, so help me God. I affirm, in the name of the King-Emperor, to uphold, renew, recognise, and respect, the rights, privileges, tithes, titles, and honours, of his diverse subject princely vassals, their lands, incomes, and their peoples, so help me God! May Heaven’s Light Be Our Guide! God Save the King!”
Vicky orated a matching oath, though with far less of the quivering violently like a leaf in the wind than Bertie, and with the poise, flair, grace, and all-round sang-froid that befit a noble Princess of Britain.
Then the Chief Justice requested the Archbishop of India to anoint them both and pronounced, “Let it be acknowledged, the Viceroy and Governor-General speaks with the King-Emperor’s voice, acts with the King-Emperor’s will, and thinks with the King-Emperor’s mind. Let no man be cast a turncoat, in waylaying the King-Emperor’s charge! Hail now, your Viceroy, Bertram Wooster, the Lord Yaxley!”
And the crowd returned a roar of ‘God Save the King’ to that. Then, crowned by the Archbishop with the diadems, the new Viceroy and Vicereine were presented to the crowd, in all their imperial slippers. As the Princess sat down, Lord Yaxley lingered, standing, and signalled to speak, so the Hall would silence to hear him.
“I appreciate it is rather unorthodox, or even heretical of me, and perhaps a tad vulgar, to rupture this cloak of ceremony and custom to speak so, but needs must when times press. India, and the Crown, have shared a rapport wracked of much tumult and angst over the past years, of that there is no doubt whatsoever. A Jewel in a Crown only shines brightly in the sun if it is well-cared for, after all. Thus, under an express direction and decree from His Imperial Majesty, the King-Emperor, I have been consigned by his government in Westminster to restore peace, harmony, and tranquillity to this nation, to the best of my ability and power, and return her to the fold. I reckon, the water has raced past that head long ago, and Britain must now honour her promises, made long ago, when pressed by fire and war. India came to Britain’s relief, and though belated, Britain moves in answer to discharge its pledges in return. I would hope and trust, your utmost and ardent cooperation and assistance, will facilitate my efforts in transforming the Sisyphean task into merely a Heraklean one. The Princess and I, hope that with your acquiescence, we may come to a swift sunrise out of this troubling tide of riotous clouds and storms, bound in brotherhood stronger than before! Better is it that thou shouldest not vow, than that thou shouldest vow and not pay – Ecclesiastes 5:5. Let none impugn us for artifice, tangible or illusory, for we come to honour them, and may your counsels succour us in this endeavour. God Save the King and God Defend India!”
Another chant of ‘God Save the King’ went up, followed swiftly by rapturous approbation and the Viceregal couple lay enthroned in ceremony, being thence congratulated by the senior Officers of State, and many Princes and personages beside, ere Bertie was liberated from the confines of formality and his scratchy apparel.
.
.
.
‘…..My name is John Wellington Wells, I’m a dealer in magic and spells,
In blessings and curses, and ever-filled purses, in prophecies, witches and knells!
If anyone, anything lacks, they’ll find it already in stacks!
They’ve but to look in, on the resident Djinn, at number 70, Simmery Axe.!.....’
“Gilbert and Sullivan again! What is it with their infernal droning bemocking my every turn so smugly, Jeeves? It’s like whats-his-face persecuting the Christians!” I asked, exasperated with the relentless and too-frequent incidence of the blasted ‘lions of English Opera’ at the most inopportune times.
Even Jeeves was entertained at my exasperation, I saw a slight twitch of a smirk on his typically unmoving face before he responded, “I imagine, the composers and their oeuvres are simply enjoying a renaissance of esteem, sir, a rejouissance in the civic perception. I do not believe they intend to mock you in the slightest, sir.”
“Insuperable irritants! Turn off that vile radio all the same, Jeeves, thou shalt not listen to needless twaddle and all the rot, what?” I opined.
“Very good, sir,” concurred Jeeves and flicked off the noise from the wireless.
“So, here we are, eh?” I mumbled, gazing into the sunset, and anticipating for the tea to miraculously materialise into Jeeves’ hands, “What ho, India!”
“Yes, sir,” Jeeves corresponded, “a marvellous realm of myriad mysteries, sir,” as he supplied over the restoring cup of Darjeeling.
“And Halifax made a perfect pig’s breakfast of the whole thing! Tory nitwit!” I fumed, “Its all well and good, them heaving me off here, cap in hand, to muddle through this jam without hair or hide of a scheme to help, and clean up the broken milk jug, deprived of the Lord sprouting manna to keep me fed!”
“An explicably natural sentiment, sir,” comforted Jeeves, “you have been elected as the sole pilot to navigate the vessel out from the eye of the storm, a prospect that would upset weathered doyens away, sir. I do have confidence, nonetheless, that should your parleys with all those who dominate the Indians’ respect and fidelity be candid, frank, and forthright, sir, a resolution may yet be uncovered.”
“But I don’t sense the Spirit moving me across the camps!” I exhaled, “I’m not as thick as Barmy or Tuppy, nor as easily led astray as Bingo or Gussie, but you’re the one with the brains bursting out of the old cranium, Jeeves!”
“Thank you, sir,” beamed Jeeves, in his own inimitable way, “I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir. My service shall remain yours to the best of my capacity, sir.”
“I know that Jeeves!” I acknowledged, “the feudal spirit moves you more than the old rattling engine of my wit moves me. I haven’t been ‘Lord Yaxley’ seven years and I’m already making a poncy clown of myself. Recall the girls’ school, Jeeves?”
“Not your finest moment, sir,” affirmed Jeeves with a slight smile, “however, you have made an admirable Lord Yaxley in the estimation of all your peers, sir. The Earl of Emsworth’s butler, Mr. Beech, remarked to me not too long ago of how the Lord Emsworth heaped copious commendation on your accomplishments to his brother Mr. Threepwood, sir. It is merely the Lady Worplesdon who wishes fervidly that you develop further, sir, in accordance to her own wishes.”
“Aunt Agatha never ceases to remind me of that,” I rolled my eyes, “and how was I intended to know the bally roof would do the Charleston on Uncle George? It’s not as if we all didn’t overhear the vicar yowling for donations from Twing to Tangier for the weeks we spent with the Wickhammersleys!”
“Lady Worplesdon may have judged you to be too youthful to ascend to the eminence and obligations of a Marquess, sir,” argued Jeeves soothingly, “and her strategies to espouse you to the young Lady Honoria were thwarted and stymied by the Princess at every turn. She may have brooked affront in such failure, sir.”
“For seven years!?” I exclaimed, “mighty great umbrage that is! Mount Olympus would look like a sandhill by compare. Come, Jeeves, I know you to be a good man and a respectable fibber, when need be, and that was not a virtuous falsehood of any kind.”
“No, sir,” granted Jeeves.
“Still,” I expressed nonchalantly, “It’s not so bad with her, eh?”
“No, sir,” nodded Jeeves.
“So, my deliverer,” I grinned, “You have a cunning plan, I suspect? That my livelihood and life are not swept away in the Plagues?”
“One endeavours to give satisfaction, sir,” Jeeves resolved, rather enigmatically.
“Well?” I probed, “out with it, Jeeves, we can’t have ambiguities to decipher when the world is drowning.”
“The design cannot be made to flower until we reach New Delhi, sir,” said Jeeves, “I anticipate then to have plentiful tidings to apprise you on its success with, if you would consent, sir?”
“Very well, Jeeves,” I nodded, “See to it that no-one bumps me off the pram or chucks me out with the bathwater, would you?”
“Very good, sir.”
.
.
.
“Oh! Catching birds, that is my trade,
In woods and fields, in sun and shade!
Young Papageno is my name,
From old to young is spread my fame!
I frolick in this forest green,
From dawn to dark, and whiles between!
I see and hear all birds that sing,
And all of them that fly a-wing!
I either spy them in the glen,
Or learn their songs to ‘rapture them!
For when I play beneath a tree,
They flutter down and call to me!
I wish like birds, I’d charm and woo,
A maiden fair, a lover true!
Who’d bring more joy and cheer in life,
When joined are we as man and wife!
... ”
A noticeably rum rendition of Mozart’s Magic Flute restrained me from wrenching my hair as I droned into the bluntly dreadful testimonies on my bureau. The height of unmingled callousness and carnage was giving me a headache ferocious enough to wobble the Caesars’ throne.
“Mr. Nehru to see you, sir,” came Jeeves’s easing pitch to release me from that budding banging in my head, as the radio gradually died out.
“Eh?” I queried, “Wasn’t it intended to be Mr. Gandhi in the first audience? Says so here on this chart they saddled me with, don’t you know!”
“Mr. Gandhi is presently marching here from the tram-halt at the far end of the Kingsway, sir, beyond the War Memorial, and has stalwartly declined all bids to be driven in,” reacted Jeeves smoothly, “I expect he shall be some time away yet, sir.”
“Ah, so it is, what?” I mused.
“Precisely, sir,” Jeeves nodded.
“Bung in this cove then, Jeeves,” I muttered, “might as well get it over and done with, what? Oh, and Jeeves, I say?”
“Sir?” Jeeves inquired with his raised eyebrow.
“One of the crème de la crème of your fiery lifesavers, if you would, the one that particularly makes the eyeballs bulge, one needs the juice in the nog steaming away at full capacity,” I claimed.
“Very good, sir,” Jeeves chimed and went to bung the blighter in.
I slunk back into the examining those bleak and ghastly reports from the Civil Service, with Papageno’s jolly aria doing its little bit to soothe the spreading aches. I disregarded the door opening and sought to compile my reflections and discipline my features into what Jeeves and Vicky labelled my ‘Lord’s Face’ to fitly astonish the chappie.
“Your Excellency,” bowed the young Mr. Nehru on appearing.
Peering at him, one would scarce suspect that a redoubtable political career lay before him, at the helm or through the shadows. A shrewd man, I could see from his eyes, satisfies why Jeeves printed ‘tread carefully’ next to his initials on the plot of the coves I was to meet.
Jeeves strode to stand next to me, with the serving dish bearing my ambrosia, but I couldn’t twitch to paw at it when the bloke was look intently at me. So I had to heave-ho and plunge lacking my saving grace, to my dread.
“Mr Nehru, thank you for calling on me,” I countered cautiously.
Jeeves had instructed me to shepherd these appointments like the King with his PMs, and Vicky had declared in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t to deny him in his finest hour. So I was to, by the desires of Jeeves-Athena, direct the lot at my stride and I wasn’t to allow the chappies getting cosy. I frankly didn’t comprehend why the latter was crucial, though, I twigged the need of the former. So, I had pledged to make my heart stone.
I believe this Nehru cove could foresee that I was slinking like a serpent eyeing its quarry, so he playacted along on the waltz of sizing each other up, the contest of wills.
“Your Excellency’s address was most poignant, and in the scarce succinct statements, I, and many of my fellows, received much, sir. Is it then, by any prospect, sir, that you have been awarded plenipotentiary powers?” he asked with a smirk.
“Ha! Truly, remarkable!” I whispered; Jeeves was spot-on! Not that I strictly ever doubted the man, Jeeves was an arrow which seldom missed the mark. Doing my finest to emulate Aunt Dahlia’s glare that stifled the howling hounds in her chivvying days, I persisted “and what if I have, my good sir?”
“But then, Your Excellency will indeed succeed!” he declared eagerly, though he squirmed a slight where he stood. Hah! Aunt Dahlia wins again! Round one was mine, and I owed Vicky, whose plan the scowl of the flesh and blood was, a groat.
“Too kind, Mr Nehru,” I grinned as I gulped the lifesaver Jeeves placed next to me. I felt the fire burn through me, and then, like those new built steam engines, the fatigued bonce was nursed into gently chugging away.
“His Imperial Majesty’s Government desires to reinstate peace to the Crown Jewel of the Empire, in aspirations of further self-government being endowed upon its people, something fairer than that rash and daft Diarchy proposal,” I professed genuinely. Candour with the feller would take me further than flattery, I had gathered from the notes I had been given on him, and, I suppose, he inferred much the same.
“And Your Excellency considers that is not adequate,” he pondered, “In that, sir, I would say you are utterly and reasonably exact. I say that not out of my own venal yearning to see my country chart its own fortune outwith Britain’s shade, we’ll have that with or without Westminster’s collaboration ultimately, but the tiger needs more than bones to gnaw at.”
Jeeves spoke up then, “As a conspicuous voice in the Congress Party, and with acquaintances across the spectrum of India’s many popular representatives, Mr. Nehru, you are supremely disposed to relay the pleas of the Indian people before the Crown’s plenipotentiary actor, the man who controls the hunter and the hind, so to say, sir.”
Nehru nodded,“I will be blunt then, Your Excellency. India wishes Britain out. The intrusion, the confinement of our people at gunpoint to bow and scrape at every one of Britain’s caprices, the stifling of our commerce, the scarcity of takings from us spent back in India, the apartheid, and so many more of the contraventions of Empire must end. The Congress Party understands, such a thorough fracture, save for all-out war is impracticable, Britain holds the upper hand for now, even with our advantage in manpower and means once they are fully marshalled. In the end, it would result in far too much blood being frittered on ravaging the country with neither side a true champion. So, we at least are prepared to come to a settlement by suitable compromise.”
“Frankness, hey ho, then, say I!” I responded, “Neither Westminster, nor the King would be thrilled in any sense of the word to have war, and nor would I. Our stomach for war is stuffed from the Great one. I cannot, however, cede all you require to the breadth of its measure, or heads will roll. My head will roll the second I depart office, or perhaps while I’m still in it! I would entreat that you and all fellows who share your aspirations and ambitions the charter a petition, addressed to His Imperial Majesty, requesting to negotiate on full frank terms with His Majesty’s government of Westminster. And I recognise such has been attempted in the past to little avail, but you have my every assurance, this appeal will be received, by hook or by crook.”
The chappie nodded solemnly, “I can appreciate your predicament, sir. Should you tender a public issue of a guarantee, that through your endeavours and sway, our petition will receive all due diligence and consideration of His Majesty and his government in Westminster, the Congress Party will assist you in the task you wish to accomplish. Mr. Gandhi has committed us to non-violence, after all. Sardar Patel and I don’t always settle on approaches to employ, but I can see the benefit of cooperation and reconciliation here.”
“It is incumbent on you, Mr. Nehru, as a wordsmith from the Inner Temple that you are, to safeguard, the prose in the petition does not challenge or censure. We have far too many blighters in the House whose excessively fragile egos are easily bruised beyond reason, and who alas are in positions of much power as of now, that they may exact an operose price in vengeance,” I warned the man straightforwardly.
“We have always been ready to cooperate, Your Excellency, and we shall do so now just as well,” the man smiled, lying through his teeth, “Our petition will be as you ask”. As if I didn’t understand the malicious mischief that the streets of Cawnpore were enduring at the behest of the Congress Party fermenting the flickers, all thanks to over-eager commanders wanting a ruthless reprisal.
“None of the protests and strikes and the epidemic vandalic hooliganism, unless there is a very cogent justification, will be borne, Mr. Nehru, while we have this gentlemen’s agreement,” I spoke firmly, “No more of the fanning fumes to flames, as has been endemic in the papers so far, or I will liberally exercise the excessive force that lost my predecessor his billet, consequences be damned.”
“The Party must have a vote, Your Excellency,” he answered glibly, “to make such colossal modifications to its way of making its voice known.”
“We both know the party follows you, Mr. Patel, and Mr. Gandhi like lost little ducklings notwithstanding Mr. Bose’s firebrand rhetoric,” I expressed, rolling my eyes at his barefaced stab to win more compromises.
“You might think that sir,” he smirked, “I couldn’t possibly comment.”
“As a gesture of goodwill and approaching amity, Mr. Nehru,” Jeeves spoke a second time, “His Excellency will circulate a Viceregal decree to open all direct-rule provinces and agencies to elections for their Provincial Assemblies by universal franchise for all the seats filled proportionally by vote, to be held three months from now. The Congress, shall of course, be free to make ready to contest before the other parties have received the decree.”
“And the Princes?” He questioned, rather wide-eyed at such a bargain.
“They are free to do as they will, as the Crown’s leal vassals,” I nodded. “I shall, however, commend to them such words that the protestations of democratic government do not fall entirely on deaf ears.”
Beholding the shrewd light come into the chappie’s eyes, I smiled, “Naturally, the Congress Party may hope to manipulate its extensive influence in the press to induce the Princes to alter their ways. I would ‘fiercely’ advise against it, but, short of detaining all Congress members and most of the free press, I would be powerless to stand against this suit.”
He nodded with a grin. “Your Excellency makes a most convincing and compelling plea of peace. Rest assured; Your Excellency shall find most members of the Congress Party in a most sudden and loyal turn of mood.”
“Very well then,” I sighed as I stood up, indicating this first meeting was at a close.
“We have an agreement?” I asked, as I held out my hand, walking toward him.
He shook it firmly the once and then bowing, left.
I plonked down on the settee and slumped into it a bit. “Did I do well, Jeeves?” I inquired, picking at the chart in nerves.
“Most splendidly, sir,” he beamed brightly in the way he does and that was all the affirmation a chappie sought to receive. I imagine, the feudal spirit moved him from saying more but it worked all the same.
