A Division of the Spoils

by Paul Scott

  ‘But not any longer?’

  ‘Oh, sometimes. India particularly is rich in possibilities. It is easy here to be a marked man. I spoke of this to our friend Merrick during the interesting conversation I had with him in Mirat.’

  ‘Merrick? Oh, you mean the Mayapore case. Miss Layton’s friend.’

  ‘When I say spoke of it I mean spoke in general to him of being a marked man, of the part played by these young men of random destiny and private passions. I did not mention my own case. Mine after all is illusory. His was real. He had been a marked man ever since Mayapore. Persecuted even, but in subtle ways to remind him that he was not forgotten, that his transfer into the army had not shaken off whoever it was, whoever it is, who wishes him to be under no delusion, but know that his actions in Mayapore will have to be answered for one day. To give him that uncomfortable impression, anyway. My own feeling was that these people were less interested in retribution than in the use that could be made of a controversial figure, such as Merrick’s, to stir young men up to create trouble, to achieve some particular political or religious objective.’

  ‘People like the venerable gentleman from Mayapore? The one you said was in Mirat last year engaged in some tortuous process of intimidation?’

  The train passed over a network of points, rocking gently. The lights dimmed, then brightened, flickered out, came on again. In the very brief spasm of darkness it seemed to Rowan that Bronowsky had altered position. But there would not have been time for him to do so unobserved: a second or two. But he looked different. Rowan could not say in what way. It was strange.

  ‘The venerable gentleman, yes.’ Even his voice had altered, it seemed, but the whole thing must be a trick of the mind, or something to do with a change in the pressure in the carriage. Perhaps the country through which they were passing had altered. Or someone had opened a door or a window further down the coach.

  ‘You mentioned a stone being thrown. Thrown at this man Merrick, did you mean?’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘At the instigation of this slippery customer?’

  ‘How accurately you recall my words. Let us simplify things for each other. His name was Pandit Baba.’

  ‘And he went all the way from Mayapore to Mirat to incite someone to throw a stone at poor Mr Merrick?’

  Bronowsky laughed. He said, ‘Precisely. Such a gesture would also strike me as excessive. The pandit, I think, would not expend energy on such an inconsiderable thing. Which was why I took note. It is too long a story, the story of the stone and Mr Merrick. In itself irrelevant and in its wider context of concern only to me, in so far as it concerns me as well as our chief of police to protect Mirat from these tiresome infiltrations.’

  ‘I’m not quite with you.’

  ‘When you people in British India clamp down, when you have a sweep and clap subversives and firebrands into jails, proscribe political parties or in any way make things unhealthy for Indians who stand up to you, then those who escape your nets go to ground. And where better than in the self-governing princely states where your formal writ does not so easily run? When you had that grand round-up in nineteen-forty-two, at the time of the Quit India campaign, I do not know how many activists, terrorists, anarchists, militant communalists or simple Congress extremists hitched up their dhotis and hot-footed it to places like Mirat. I know which of them turned up in Mirat, because I saw to it that they quickly hitched their dhotis up again and hot-footed it back across our borders.’

  ‘Your chief of police must be very efficient.’

  Bronowsky glanced away, smiling to himself. ‘I suppose one or two escaped our combined vigilance. But we were very vigilant. It is wise to be. The states offer a wide variety of opportunities for political intrigue and some states I think deserve what they get in that way. But I will not have political or communal disturbances stirred up in Mirat by people who do not belong to Mirat. Both the major Indian political parties have been guilty of attempting it in the past twenty years. I need not elaborate. Quite apart from the fact that Nawab Sahib is by definition an autocrat he is also a Muslim. The majority of his subjects are Hindu. My life in Mirat has been spent trying to ensure that the two communities have equal opportunities, which was not always so, that they live in amity and have reason to be perfectly content to live as subjects of the Nawab, and do not hanker after the democratic millennium promised by Gandhiji on the one hand or the theistic paradise-state on earth envisaged by Mr Jinnah on the other.’

  For a while he was silent, looking now at the shoe on his left foot, which was thrust out, the heel on the thick carpet that helped to muffle the drumming of the wheels. He said, ‘Eventually, of course, there can be no separate future for us, and latterly I have been directing my thoughts to the problem of how best to ensure a smooth and advantageous transition.’

  ‘No separate future?’

  ‘When the British finally go. No freedom separate from India’s freedom. No separate future for Mirat nor for any of the states, with the possible exception of the largest and most powerful such as Hyderabad or those whose territories merge into each other and who might combine administratively. The alternative is Balkanization, which of course even if permitted would be disastrous.’

  ‘There is an obligation to the princes on our part. I should say that it’s been made clear often enough that we recognize it.’

  ‘Well. Come. Come. You are all going, aren’t you? One day. When? In five years? Ten years? Even five is not long. Perhaps I shan’t live to see it. On the whole I hope not, because when you go the princes will be abandoned. In spite of all your protestations to the contrary. They will be abandoned. I have told Nawab Sahib so. He pretends not to believe it. I show him the map. I point to the tiny isolated yellow speck that is Mirat and to the pink areas that surround it which are the provinces directly ruled by the British. Since India passed under the Crown, I say to him, you have relied on the pink bits to honour the treaty that allows the yellow speck to exist. But you cannot have a treaty with people who have disappeared and taken the crown with them. The treaty will not be torn up but it will have no validity. It will be a piece of paper. A new treaty will have to be made with the people who have taken the pink parts over from the British. You will have to negotiate a new treaty with Mr Gandhi and Mr Nehru. You can forget Mr Jinnah because even if he gets Pakistan it will be so far away from you that it will be meaningless. So you will have to bargain for the continuing existence of the yellow speck which is Mirat with Mr Nehru and the Congress High Command. Nawab Sahib smiles. He can see it as clearly as I can see it – the form such bargaining might take. But he smiles also at what he likes to persuade himself is my simplicity. No, Dmitri, he says, we have supplied the British with money and men in two world wars. And there are over five hundred little yellow specks, and some not so little. The British are pledged to protect our rights and our privileges and our authority. I nod my head. I say, this is true, Nawab Sahib. But they are pledged as well one day to hand over their rights and privileges and authority to Mr Gandhi and Mr Nehru. They are pledged in two directions but can only go in one. Nawab Sahib smiles again. That, Dmitri, is where they are so cunning. He does not say what cunning he sees. He knows that if he puts it into words his illusion of it will collapse. So the words will not come. But in his mind he tells himself that the pledge to Mr Gandhi and to Mr Nehru cannot be fulfilled because of the pledge to the princes, or that it can only be fulfilled if the princes agree that it should be and that the princes will only agree if their territories are first secured to them in perpetuity. Therefore, my dear Captain Rowan, with Nawab Sahib adopting this reverent attitude to his piece of paper, you will appreciate that I am very much alone in this business of working and planning for the most advantageous position for my prince. And because I need peace and quiet to work and plan I do not welcome venerable gentlemen from Mayapore, or any of their like from wheresoever, who seek to cause the sort of unrest which our future masters will point to as proof that Nawab S
ahib’s subjects groan under the yoke of an iron, archaic dictatorship. A Muslim dictatorship at that. I do not welcome venerable gentlemen from Mayapore, because in their wake, in their footsteps, springing up like sharp little teeth, are these dark young men of random destiny and private passions – destinies and passions that can be shaped and directed to violent ends.’

  Rowan nodded, leaving Bronowsky to guess what opinion he himself held about the future of the states. Since he had accepted Malcolm’s invitation to officiate at the transfer of Mohammed Ali Kasim to the protection of the Nawab, he had been checking on Mirat’s status. There was no political agent actually resident in the state. Mirat’s relationship with the crown was conducted through the Resident in Gopalakand and this was old Robert Conway, whom Rowan knew only by reputation. It had surprised him a bit when Lady Manners mentioned him as an old friend of hers. Holding a high opinion of Lady Manners he decided there was probably more warmth in Conway than people usually admitted, but even she had described him as an unemotional man with rigid views. Bronowsky would not find it easy to communicate with him, nor – Rowan imagined – was Conway a man who would encourage Bronowsky in what he called his search for the most advantageous position for his prince. From what Rowan heard of Conway he suspected the Nawab would be encouraged to believe that he would be abandoned only over Conway’s dead body and the dead bodies of every member of the Political Department.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘let’s hope the venerable gentleman stays clear. Some other time you must tell me about the stone. It does seem a bit far-fetched to go to all that trouble. I suppose he’s safe now.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Miss Layton’s friend – Merrick.’

  ‘Frankly I doubt he was ever in much danger. Harming a white man in this country is a hazardous occupation. But I agree he’s probably safe from further persecution, if only because he’s probably long since served his most useful purpose from Pandit Baba’s point of view. His own purpose – well – that is another matter. And who can say what is the purpose of a man like that?’

  Rowan stretched. ‘Perhaps just to do his job.’

  ‘Few men have aims as simple as that.’

  ‘Are he and Miss Layton old friends?’

  ‘As I remember they met only at the wedding. He wasn’t even a close friend of the bridegroom. What you might call a last-minute substitute for a best man who was ill. No one knew he was the Merrick in the Bibighar Gardens case until the wedding-day. He’d kept it dark, but it came out then because of the stone and because I identified him at once directly I heard this Captain Merrick had been in the Indian Police. The stone, by the way, hit the poor bridegroom. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Only that she seemed such a nice girl and that it would be tough on her if they’re committed to one another.’

  ‘Committed to one another?’

  ‘Engaged, for instance.’

  ‘Tough on her because of his lost left arm?’

  ‘She didn’t strike me as the sort of girl who would back out, and it would be hard on her, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, I agree. I doubt that Miss Layton would back out. But such a thing hadn’t occurred to me.’ With the ebony cane clasped in both hands he raised it to his chin and put his head back, gazed at the ornate ceiling. ‘Committed. Such a thing hadn’t occurred to me. There would hardly have been time for such a relationship to develop when they were in Mirat and no opportunity for it to have done so since, except by correspondence. No. I doubt there could have been time for a relationship of that nature even to begin, even if everything else had been normal.’

  Tapping his chin with the silver knob of the cane Bronowsky continued to contemplate the view above his head. Rowan waited.

  ‘But I see why it might occur to you,’ Bronowsky went on. ‘That she was just back from a long journey undertaken for the reasons she gave but also for her own private emotional satisfaction.’

  The ceiling ceased to interest him. He looked at Rowan but still tapped his chin.

  ‘Let us hope you are wrong. It would be a somewhat onesided affair, I should say. Unless, in Mirat, I was mistaken, which is always possible.’

  ‘Mistaken in what?’

  ‘In my assumption that he didn’t really like women.’

  Rowan said nothing.

  ‘It is what makes the Mayapore case interesting. It was interesting from the beginning but in a rather cliché-ridden way. Well, there was this girl, this poor Miss Manners, recently out from England, untutored in and unsympathetic to the rigid English social system here. Good-natured and intelligent – a little like Miss Layton but in comparison with her an innocent abroad, so far as India was concerned. For a time she lives with her aunt Lady Manners in Rawalpindi, a liberal-minded old lady whose husband once governed Ranpur and incurred the hostility of the die-hards with his pro-Indian policies. Nowadays the old lady has almost more Indian friends than she has British, they say. Her niece, this Miss Manners, is invited by one of them, a Lady Chatterjee, to stay with her in Mayapore where the social structure is even tighter and more provincial than in Rawalpindi. And in Mayapore she becomes friendly with an Indian boy. Not one who moves in the small official circle of socially acceptable Indians but one out of the black town. Cliché number one. The princess and the pauper, but with a racial variation on the theme. And then there is cliché number two: the boy although now a pauper is really a gentleman, brought up in England entirely and educated at an English public school. A family misfortune alone accounts for his presence on the wrong side of the river, from which from time to time he ventures into the cantonment in the capacity of a humble reporter for the local English language newspaper. The friendship with Miss Manners ripens but almost clandestinely because there are so few places where she cango that he can go. But she is impatient of these artificial barriers, so they are noticed together. She is warned against the association. She ignores the warning but the friendship is now under a strain. In other words, cliché number four. And then, what really is the boy after? Cliché number five. The warning proves more than merited, or so it would seem. One night she is attacked and assaulted. She swears she did not see her attackers. Later she swears that although she did not see them she knows who they were not – not in other words the kind of boys who have been arrested who of course include her young Indian friend. Who in Mayapore doubts though, or doesn’t guess who led them? Certainly the head of the police does not doubt. Within an hour of her return home after the assault her boyfriend and his companions were in custody. But now comes cliché number six. The head of the police himself has a regard for Miss Manners of an even tenderer kind than he would feel for any girl of his own race who gets into trouble. How tender a regard? No one is sure but it is whispered that he loves her or loved her once and was spurned. He does not actually deny it. In confidence he will tell you that his erstwhile regard for Miss Manners made it that much more difficult for him to keep a properly detached view and ensure that all his actions are performed dispassionately in the service of justice. Such manly frankness is appealing. If in the past there were people who had marked him down as not quite pukka, as not really out of what you English call the top drawer, they admit that in this business his behaviour has been impeccable as well as energetic. So the story seems to go, proving yet again that if fact is no stranger than fiction it is just as predictable. But did the story go like that? I think not quite. When I met him I talked to him at length and as we talked I got this other impression that Miss Manners had never really interested him at all, that he had scarcely noticed her until her association with the Indian boy had begun, and that he could not avoid noticing her then because he had had his eye on the young man for a long time. The young man was an obsession, an absolute fixation. Perhaps even Mr Merrick does not fully appreciate all the possible reasons why.’ Bronowsky paused. ‘Perhaps that is cliché number seven. At least in life if not in tales. Cliché number eight is that with a job to do in a few hours from now you should get some rest. I wil
l ask the steward to wake you at 4.15, shall I?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Rowan reached for his briefcase.

  ‘I hope it isn’t only good manners that have kept you up. For me sleep is a waste of time, it being my seventieth birthday, although strictly speaking that was yesterday. I’ve enjoyed our talk. I shall cheat for a few hours more, drink some more champagne and read Pushkin.’

  As Rowan got up Bronowsky said, ‘You’d better disregard what I said, unless the question of those boys ever crops up at Government House. I hate to think of them lying forgotten in some inhospitable jail, if they were innocent. I do hope you are wrong, by the way.’

  ‘Wrong?’

  ‘About Miss Layton’s reasons for going so many miles to see the wounded hero. I believe he has a number of admirable qualities but none of them strikes me as likely to promote the cause of anyone else’s happiness. Not even his own. He is one of your hollow men. The outer casing is almost perfect and he carries it off almost to perfection. But, of course, it is a casing he has designed. This loss he has sustained – the left arm – even this fits. If he regrets the loss, presently he will see that he has lost nothing or anyway gained more in compensation. What an interesting thought. I am tempted to say that had he not suffered the loss he might one day have been forced to invent it.’