by John Buchan
“I wish I could found a dynasty,” he writes. He longs to be back among his own hills, and he finds comfort in the Simla landscape. “I was reared in the mountains and the mist, and have suffered from mountain madness all my life. Peaks, passes, and glaciers have a fascination for me. I never saw anything so gorgeous as the view of the snows here yesterday morning — a whole range of peaks towering one above another against the brightness of blue skies and a dark foreground of hills and pinewoods. You must never think I don’t share in your passion for hills and mist.” And again: “You tell me when I come home I may find myself in the turmoil of a Tibetan debate. No, nothing will draw me into the political arena, not even the suffragettes! I shall go straight off to my own Borderland and bury my head in the heather.” He talks, too, with the utmost frankness about party questions at home. He deplores the decadence of the Parliamentary system, and pleads for “some sort of federation in the United Kingdom.” Again, “Though I am enrolled in the ranks of the present Opposition, I often feel that in many ways my inclinations are much more in accord with the views of your side of the House. Yet I suppose in many matters I am diametrically opposed to them. I am afraid I am possessed of that infirmity — a ‘cross-bench mind.’” Of Lord Spencer he writes: “I was a rabid anti-Home Ruler, knowing nothing whatever at all about it — and now, still knowing nothing at all about it, am half inclined to think that you and he were right.” Lord Morley had written of the same statesman: “If ever there was a man to go bear-hunting with, it was he; and if ever I am engaged in shooting tigers, I bargain that you accompany me;” and Minto replied: “You don’t realize how refreshing your words are. If we go tiger-hunting together, it must, I am afraid, be after some political tiger in the Westminster jungle. There seems to be a large preserve of them in that district.”
In October the two colleagues took leave in their letters of their high offices and of each other. “I suppose,” Lord Morley writes, “this will very likely be my last letter to you; and somebody says that to do anything for the last time has always an element of the sorrowful in it. Well, we have had plenty of stiff campaigning together, and it is a comfort, and no discredit to either of us, that we have got to the end of it without any bones broken, or other mischief. There was opportunity enough, if we had not been too sensible. . . . About the time when you get this, you will know by wire that your famous prediction, that you and I should quit Indian government at the same hour, has come true. . . . I think five years of arduous work are a justification for retirement. And I shall have a short span for serene musing on my own virtues. After all, a short span will be quite long enough for so meagre a topic.” A week later Minto wrote his farewell: —
“As I look back upon the years that have passed, I must say, if you will allow me, that few people, as far as I can judge, could have differed so little upon big questions of policy and principle as you and I have. In fact, I really think we have hardly differed at all. About questions of actual administration, or rather of the interpretation of executive authority as it should be wielded at a distance from a supreme Government, I know we do hold different views, and, when we have done so, I have always told you my opinions and the reason for them. We have certainly been through very stormy times together, and after all it is the risks and dangers that strengthen comradeship. No one knows as well as I do how much India owes to the fact of your having been Secretary of State through all this period of development, and I hope you will never think that I have not truly realized the generous support you have so often given me at very critical moments, or that I have not appreciated the peculiar difficulties which have surrounded you at home, and from which I have been spared.”
CHAPTER 12. VICEROY OF INDIA: DEPARTURE
THE positive achievements of Minto’s Viceroyalty may be read by those who seek them in the many volumes of the departmental reports of the Government of India. They include a thousand matters which can only be mentioned in such a memoir as this — matters of administrative and financial reform, such as the reorganization of the railway and education departments; policies of great social import, like the new and vigorous attempt to grapple with the scourge of malaria and the plague; questions of India’s foreign relations, such as the effort to obtain just treatment for Indians in South Africa, the controversy with the home Government over the Convention with Russia, and Minto’s far-sighted representations as to the Bagdad railway, Mesopotamia, and southern Persia. Like all Viceroys, he had a frontier problem to grapple with, and a little frontier war. On the vexed matter of the “open” and the “closed” frontier, he took up, as we have seen, the attitude of a practical soldier, and his contribution to a discussion which is still unconcluded has not been excelled in wisdom; for, while he was as averse as Lord Morley to territorial extension, he held that the strip of border no-man’s-land instead of being a security was a constant peril, unless British influence was brought to bear on it and it was within reason opened up to civilizing and pacifying influences. The strategy of frontier defence could only be complicated by a terra incognita in which unknown mischief might at any moment blow up like a sandstorm in the desert. One temporary safeguard he provided, for he made of the Amir of Afghanistan an attached friend. In military affairs generally, his technical knowledge rendered him an efficient coadjutor to Lord Kitchener in carrying out the changes of machinery made at the beginning of his term of office. For the Indian army he had a deep admiration and care; he laboured, as we have seen, to give Indian gentlemen the right of serving the British Crown on equal terms with the British-born, and the last dispatch he sent home was on this matter.
But it is customary to judge a Viceroy by those parts of his work which constitute a new departure in policy, which are not merely “carrying-on” but initiation. On this view Minto had to his credit two notable achievements. The first was that into a fevered and disturbed India he introduced by the sheer force of his personality a new harmony and confidence. The official hierarchy, the educated classes, the ruling chiefs, were all, in 1905, in a state of discomfort and discontent. Their nerves had been frayed by startling changes; often their feelings had been wounded by blunders in tact, by a dictatorial tone insulting to their pride, by the left-handedness of an able man whose delicacy of perception was not equal to his earnestness of purpose. On this side Minto was able to realize the hope which he had expressed before leaving England of “giving the horse a rest in its gallops.” His personality alone, apart from his acts, was soothing and engaging. He was both trusted and liked by his officials, for they realized that he asked only for candour and honest service, and had no vanity to be offended by plain dealing; that he was loyalty itself, and would never leave a colleague in the lurch. The educated Indian recognized in him one who believed in the fundamental good sense of the Indian people, and who was warmly sympathetic towards all that was honourable and reasonable in Indian arms. Though he passed more repressive laws and acted more absolutely than any Viceroy since Canning, he did not lose the confidence even of the classes most opposed to his measures. Lastly, his relations with the ruling chiefs were cordial and straightforward, as of one gentleman to others. They understood him as he understood them. He showed a scrupulous regard for their rights and dignities, and a wise appreciation of their difficulties. By his speech at Udaipur he dispelled the last remnants of their distrust of the Government of India, which had been growing up during the previous regime, and by his personal relations he made of them devoted allies and friends.*
* The Begum of Bhopal, on receiving a letter written by the Viceroy himself, was so elated that she ordered her troopa to parade with the letter held at the saluting point, while twenty-one guns were fired in its honour.
This aspect of his constructive work — and there is no greater constructive task than to create confidence out of distrust — was primarily a triumph of character. There were not wanting critics who complained that he reigned but did not govern, because he refused to turn his office into a fussy satrapy, based upon c
onstant personal interference. There were critics who saw in his avoidance of pedantry and his love of sport the proof of a secondrate mind. “What can you expect,” one of these was reported to have asked, “when they send out as Viceroy of India a pleasant-spoken gentleman who jumps hedges?” The critic was blind to the spell which, since the world began, has been exercised by honesty, kindness, and simplicity. Minto’s was not a subtle character, for it was built on broad and simple lines, but his qualities were those which men at the bottom of their hearts prize most, and he had a rare power of communicating them. Good breeding is happily not uncommon, but Minto’s was of that rare type which the French call politesse du coeur. He was friendly to everybody, because he liked everybody; and he could judge men shrewdly because he had learned the ways of human nature not only in an office but on the turf, in the hunting field, in many wars, and in much travelling in strange countries. Old Ayub Khan, the victor of Maiwand, who had been given an interview, declared: “The Viceroy rained gentlemanliness upon me.” Sir George Roos-Keppel wrote: “If I had a son I would ask you to let him come and stay for a month at Minto in order to show him what a perfect English gentleman should be.” Bhupendra Nath Basu, who might be considered an unprejudiced witness, said, “The Viceroy has the power of drawing out the best side of a man, because he makes them feel affection for him.” To the long-descended chiefs he was one whose every taste and quality they whole-heartedly understood. They respected him as a fine horseman and a bold shikari, and after his sedentary predecessors rejoiced in a Viceroy who galloped on to the parade ground; they admired the unhesitating courage which made him treat an attempt at assassination as a trifle and take the risk of driving through narrow streets to show his trust in the people. Old Sir Pertab, after his fashion, put it all down to good family. “Viceroy has good pedigree. Why for sending man no pedigree? I not buying horse no pedigree, not buying dog no pedigree, not buying buffalo no pedigree, why for man no pedigree?” But lest ruling chiefs should be held to be biased, we may quote from Mrs. Besant’s words when in September 1910 Minto visited the Hindu college at Benares: —
“It will help you to understand the real nature of the Viceroy if I tell you what happened. . . . When he got into the carriage at the station surrounded by guards, it went at a gallop through Calcutta streets. Reaching Government House, he asked why such a strange pace was adopted. The answer was, ‘Your Excellency, there is danger in the streets.’ ‘Is that the way to meet danger, as if you were running away from it?’ ‘Your Excellency, we removed the Indian guards and replaced them with Scots.’ ‘Take the Scots away and put on my Indian guards. If we do not trust Indians, how can we hope Indians will trust us?’ This when Calcutta was seething with excitement, and he was not alone, but with his wife and children. He tried to draw the two nations together in spite of the difficulties. He inherited many sad traditions, and the wave of life sweeping over India showed itself in many objectionable forms. He rightly struck down violence, but did not refuse the gift of self-government. He has done what few would do in the midst of danger and criticism. He kept a straight course. Flawless justice and perfect courage laid the foundations of self-government within the Empire. Of his own initiative, taking full responsibility, he set free the deportees. A man so strong, far-seeing, and quiet, who makes no boast, says little, does much, is the best type of English gentleman.”
On the eve of his departure a high official wrote to him: “May I add a humble tribute to your healing power. India cried aloud for a healer, and there is not a man in the British Empire who could have healed India as you have done.” “Healing” is the appropriate word to describe the influence of his character. In spite of the tumult of events he had succeeded in giving the horse a rest in its gallops, for he exercised a balancing and moderating power, sweetened the acerbities of life, and calmed anxieties. He radiated a simple kindliness, and accepted criticism, misunderstanding, and set-backs with a smiling face and an unshaken heart. Lord Canning in his troubled years of office declared that he had become “a moral rhinoceros as regards the world at large.” Minto had the same proof armour, woven not of callousness but of simplicity. It is an idle task to compare one Viceroy with another, for there is little uniformity of conditions. Minto did not belong to the school of those who come to India with certain preconceived policies, or those who have far-reaching ideals wedded to lively personal ambitions — a combination which is apt to induce hurry and violence. If we seek a parallel in temperament it will be found in his own great-grandfather, or in some figure like Lord Mayo, whom he resembled in his geniality, his love of sport, and his invincible sangfroid. For the successful administrator the intellectuel is not needed, nor the egoist; a Viceroy should possess the kind of ability required of a Viceroy, and what this is some sentences of Mr. Rivett-Carnac’s, speaking of Lord Mayo, will show. “Your clever man is not what is wanted. Such a one will probably be full of fads, and will rub every one up the wrong way in his desire to assert himself and make himself important, and in doing so will overlook the necessity of keeping the Government machine working steadily and quietly. If you employ a very clever man, the effect will be somewhat the same, as I have seen it described, as using a sharp pen-knife in cutting the leaves of your book. The very sharp blade will run off the line and commence to cut out curves on its own accord, independent of direction. What is wanted for the purpose is in the nature of a good, solid, sound paper-knife, which, working steadily through the folds of the pages, will do its work honestly and neatly.”
But, if we put Minto’s gifts of character as the basis of that constructive work which consisted in bringing a spirit of harmony out of discord, we must set beside them the other achievement which was based upon vigorous powers of mind. He had to face a great emergency and devise a remedy to meet it. The questions of the reforms and the handling of sedition were really one. He had to diagnose a widespread unrest, check with a firm hand its purely mischievous elements, and relieve what was worthy and reasonable. He framed a scheme from his own diagnosis, and that scheme was put into effect; the reforms were primarily his work, and to him must belong whatever merit or demerit history may assign to them. There can be no denying that they met the immediate crisis. Minto did not believe in the possibility of a universally contented India. The land would continue in travail, for West and East were drawing close together, and in their meeting lay endless possibilities of strife. His task was to legislate for the present and the immediate future; all beyond that was in the lap of the gods. The reforms fulfilled the purpose for which they were framed. They satisfied the immediate ambition of educated Indians, they checked the influence of the professional politicians, and for a little they drowned nationalism in provincial and local sentiment. But they did not abolish all the causes of unrest, and in India no system of the kind could hope for permanence. The old secret anarchy remained, weakened but alive, and there was the eternal difficulty — that education had created, and was creating, a class far larger than the opportunities of employing it.
In the reforms there were obvious points of danger. An immovable executive and an irresponsible legislature do not, according to the teaching of political philosophy and the lessons of history, make for harmony. The appointment to high executive posts of Indians of one race or creed, would, in a land of racial and religious rivalry, antagonize those of another race and creed. These objections were considered at the time and dismissed, for, however weighty they might be, they were not final, and certain risks must be taken in all constitution-making. Minto had no wish to add a Brahmin bureaucracy to an English; his aim was simply to remove a barrier to capacity which he felt to be insulting, and so to pave the way for the co-operation of the best brains of the two races. The reforms, again, must be read in conjunction with his policy towards the ruling princes, and with his settled determination to stamp out cruelty and crime. He was aware of the dark worships of the Hindu pantheon, which might blaze into a sudden madness — the fires smouldering beneath the lava crust. But he
believed, too, in the common-sense and decency of the great masses of the Indian people, and while prepared for the worst he sought to give encouragement to the best.
All constitutional experiments must in one sense sooner or later fail. If they are organic things they must be outgrown and superseded. It is probably true to say that even before the outbreak of the Great War, which produced a chemical change so that no constituent was left unaltered, the reforms were in need of revision — the more as they were not accompanied by that firmness and consistency in executive government which Minto had postulated. Both Viceroy and Secretary of State deprecated too long a view in such a matter; sufficient unto them the day, and the day after to-morrow. Could the two men now look back from those Elysian Fields which were always in Lord Morley’s mind, and see the course of India, in what light would they regard their efforts? To Minto there would be certain grounds for satisfaction. He would rejoice at the great achievement of India in the War, and in the fact that at last to Indians had been opened British commissions in the King’s army. He would not be surprised at the continuance of the North-West frontier problem, for he had never believed that Britain’s policy there gave any chance of a final settlement. But both men would be puzzled, and a little perturbed at the dyarchy of the Montagu-Chelmsford scheme, and somewhat sceptical of its continuance. We can imagine Lord Morley quoting some high phrase of Burke’s about “great varieties of untried being,” and shrugging his shoulders. Both would admit — since they constantly admitted it to each other — that reform in India had no fixed limits, and that the Great War with its loud promises of self-determination, accepted literally by many peoples who had no self to determine, made some bold advance inevitable. The ironic spirit of The Dynasts has brooded so long over the modern world that we have ceased to marvel at paradoxes, but a paradox the two would most certainly consider the present government of India. Representative government they believed in, but to both responsible government, even a truncated version of it, would be a startling thought, for each conceived of India, in Mill’s words, as “a kingly government, free from the control, though strengthened by the support, of representative institutions.” Minto would be the first to recover from his surprise; for, since he did not trouble greatly about theories, a theoretic revolution would shock him the less. About India he held the same view as he held about the British Empire, that progress must come mainly by executive co-operation, and for that reason he regarded the addition of native members to the councils as the most potent of the reforms. But it was always his habit to face facts, and, had he read in the facts the need for a long stride forward in India’s education in the responsibilities of government, he would not have shrunk from it. It is significant that in one of his last letters to Lord Morley he declared his view that the future problems of India would be fiscal and economic, matters directly concerning the livelihood of her people, and that in these native opinion must have a controlling voice. He would have assented to any change which promised a real advance in opportunities for political education, though he might have had qualms about a system which invited constant deadlocks, and therefore the revival of the reserved dictatorship of the Government.
