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A stupendous historical drama had been scheduled for last week?there had never been anything like it before, on any stage—but in the acting it proved to be highly undramatic, at least to U.S. spectators. The greatest empire since Rome was offering self-rule to the vast and legendary subcontinent of India?and there was not one quotable line or breathtaking episode.
If history thus refused the spectacular, it was partly because the principal actor, Sir Stafford Cripps, was anything but glamorous. He stretched out the hand of British friendship, begging India to "accept and trust" it, but the proffered hand hung limp and ungrasped in the hot air of New Delhi.
As the drama bogged down in the unreadable "statements" of politicians, it was energized from the wings. Two magnificent prompters were heard: the President of the great republic of the New World sent a personal messenger with a note to "someone" on the Indian stage; and a Chinese soldier, Chiang Kaishek, publicly intervened to advise India to join with the white man's empire to fight for freedom everywhere. Meanwhile, the enemy advanced—a horde of savage fighters from the far-off islands of Japan, and, looming beyond the northwest mountains, Hitler's Legions of Nihilism.
But as this week began, Sir Stafford was still the central actor; he might yet bring off a climax worthy of the times.
After two weeks of brilliant and pains taking labor, the "Red Squire" looked years older. So great had been his confidence in the plan that he had expected to be on his way back to London this week. It was almost inconceivable to him that his beloved Indians would not readily and cheerfully accept his English version of Christian idealism.
But Sir Stafford had fought too many tough legal battles to quit after the first round. And this was the biggest battle of his life. If Sir Stafford succeeded, he might be a hero for all time. If he failed, people might admire him for having undertaken a stupendous task, but his political future might be jeopardized. If he failed, the future of both Britain and India would be dark. If he succeeded, a new and better world might be born of the travail of empire.
All week, in his modest Queen Victoria Road bungalow, the tall, prim-mouthed, high-domed intellectual worked and conferred. He accepted no social engagements. Rising shortly after 7, he donned an ill-fitting suit and high stiff collar, breakfasted lightly at 8, then spent several hours conferring with his staff, writing dispatches, seeing the press. Except for a 25-minute break for lunch, he interviewed Indian leaders from midmorning until 8 p.m. He met them on the porch, led them through the large-pillared hall to his study, offered them cigarets and then got down to business. After dinner and more staff talks, he called on the Viceroy, the Marquess of Linlithgow, at 10.