by John Buchan
The Viceroy and the Secretary of State had been at one in every major detail of the reforms. They were at one, too, in the perspective with which they regarded them, though Lord Morley may have placed the main emphasis on the increase of elected representatives in the legislatures, and Minto on the executive partisanship of which the first step was the admission of natives to the executive councils. Neither thought that the scheme would be a final settlement; both believed that it was “that just measure of change required to meet what was reasonable in the current demands.” The words of the Secretary of State in the letter of 2nd April would have been willingly subscribed to by the Viceroy: —
“It may be that the notion of co-operation between foreigners and alien subjects is a dream. Very likely. Then the alternative is pure Repression and the Naked Sword. But that is as dangerous and uncertain as Conciliation, be that as bad as Balfour thinks, because it is impossible that the Native Army can for ever escape contagion. And railways and telegraphs put new and formidable implements in the hands of even the civil population, if they break into mutiny. Our Liberal expedients may fail. The Tory experiment of grudging and half-and-half concessions is sure . . . to end in dangerous impotence. The only chance, be it a good chance or a bad chance, is to do our best to make English rulers friends with Indian leaders, and at the same time to do our best to train them in habits of political responsibility.”
But there was one question on which at no time the two men saw fully eye to eye. This was the matter of the deportations. Lord Morley, though he had assented to the strong measures of the previous winter, was never enamoured of them, and he was perpetually haunted by doubts as to their advisability — doubts which it pleased certain young Conservatives in the House of Commons to increase in their search for cause of offence against the Government. The question arose on the political disqualification of deportees for which Minto argued. The mere right of veto in the Viceroy after election seemed to him to be attended with the gravest disadvantages, and he proposed a general disqualification, with the right of the Viceroy to permit candidature in special cases. Minto stated his views, as he felt it his duty to do, with vigour and frankness: —
“What is our main duty? Surely it is, in the first place, to govern India with due regard to the welfare and peace of its population — not to attempt, irrespective of those interests, to conform with principles which the political training of years may have rendered dear to the people of England, but which are totally unadapted to the conditions we have now to deal with in this country. . . . It is such guidance of the Government of India by a Parliament totally ignorant of local conditions which, if it is to represent a generally accepted principle in our administration of India, is, I must regretfully say, in my opinion certain to prove disastrous. . . . Political disqualification in England, and in India just awakening to political life and governed largely by the mere prestige of British authority, cannot be judged by the same standard. A released political prisoner who becomes a member of Parliament in no way threatens the safety of the constitution, but the election of Lajpat Rai to the Viceroy’s Legislative Council would set India in a blaze. . . . We must not forget . . . that our councils will be comparatively small, and that the introduction into them of a stormy petrel would have a very different effect to a similar introduction into the historic atmosphere of the House of Commons.”
The matter was finally settled by permitting the Viceroy by regulation to give to himself and the local governments the power to prevent the nomination of any irreconcilable — which was, of course, a more stringent precaution than the disqualification of deportees as such. On a second point the controversy was still warmer. Lord Morley, not unnaturally, wished to signalize the completion of the Reform scheme by some notable act of clemency. “The continued detention of the deportees,” he telegraphed on 21st October, “makes a mockery of the language we are going to use about reform. It makes a thoroughly self-contradictory situation.” He therefore wished to announce their release simultaneously with the publication of the regulations. The Secretary of State was being much badgered on the matter, and he wished to get rid of so embarrassing a burden.
“A very clever Tory lawyer, F. E. Smith,” he wrote to the Viceroy in May, “the rising hope of his party and not at all a bad fellow, has joined the hunt. . . . You will understand that I have no notion whatever of giving way, whatever happens, unless you see a chance of releasing some or all of the detenus one of these days. . . . The mischief to India of a long stream of nagging questions and attacks, especially if even a handful of Tories join my knot of critics, rather perturbs me. . . . F. E. Smith said to a friend of mine, ‘I would not object to deportation in an emergency if the man who imposed it was an English country gentleman.’ ‘But then,’ was my answer, ‘what else is Lord Minto?’ . . . Don’t be offended if I say boldly that, if I were Governor-General to-day, I would make up my mind to have an amnesty on the day when the new Councils Act comes into force. As you know, I could argue the other way if I liked, but I have an instinct that this is the way that would redound most to the credit and honour for courage acquired by you already.”
Minto had long ago come to the conclusion that the deportees must be released as soon as the reforms were in operation. But he was resolutely opposed to their release till the elections were over, and so strongly did he feel on the matter that at one moment, when it seemed likely that he might be overruled, he took the strong step of asking that the protest of the Government of India should be made public. His argument, which ultimately convinced Lord Morley, seems difficult to resist: —
“One of the great hopes of our Reform scheme was to ‘rally the Moderates.’ Surely it would not be wise to turn loose those firebrands into the political arena just at the very moment when we are hoping that the reasonable and stable characters in Indian society will come forward and range themselves on our side, and on the side of constitutional progress. It seems to me that, if we were to do this, we should indeed be creating a ‘self-contradictory situation,’ in that, having withdrawn the deportees from political life for nine months or so while nothing was going on, we should be liberating them at the very moment when the whole country will be in the turmoil of a general election, and when we are trying for the first time to work out an entirely novel electoral machinery!”*
(* Footnote: The following telegrams may be quoted: —
Secretary of State to Viceroy.
“31st October 1909.
“Regarding the deportees — I earnestly hope that I am not to understand that you reject the unanimous suggestion of the Cabinet. Such a result would be most grave, and I am sure you will consider the situation with a full sense of responsibility, as I sincerely try to do.”
Viceroy to Secretary of State.
“2nd November 1909.
“Your telegram of 31st October. I have always recognized the great importance of our agreement in all matters, and also know the many considerations you have to deal with at home, but the Viceroy and Government of India are answerable to you for the immediate administration of India, and are bound to state their views to you as to the safety or otherwise of action affecting that administration. I have already told you that the decision of my Council against release is unanimous, and is supported by the strong opinions of Lieutenant-Governors. My telegram of 22nd October explains our reasons. I cannot state position more clearly than in last part of my private telegram to you of 31st October, the following portion of which I venture to quote, namely: —
“‘The question is whether the deportees can be released with due regard to the internal peace of India. My Council have twice decided that they cannot now be so released, in which Lieutenant-Governors concerned absolutely agree. We shall be heartily glad to release them when we know that conditions will allow of it, but I must say distinctly that to release them on either of the dates you name would be full of unjustifiable risk, and would be entirely contrary to the reasons for which they were deported — namely, tha
t their freedom endangered the peace of the country.’
“I have most carefully considered the situation, and can only say, with a full knowledge of conditions throughout the whole of India, that the Viceroy and Government of India would be betraying the trust imposed upon them by His Majesty’s Government if they now expressed themselves otherwise than in my telegram of 22nd October. If His Majesty’s Government decides upon the opposite course, the Viceroy and Government of India must accept their instructions, but they could not be held responsible for the results: and, putting aside the renewal of agitation, I feel bound to tell you that, from an Indian point of view, I cannot conceive at the present moment anything more dangerous than that disregard should be had to the matured opinions of the Government of India and local Governments.”)
The period during which the reforms were approaching their consummation was ironically marked by anarchy and outrage. In February the public prosecutor in the Alipore case was murdered; in the early summer secret criminal societies were discovered in Gwalior, the Deccan, and Eastern Bengal; and on 1st July there was perpetrated the hideous murder of Sir William Curzon Wyllie and Dr. Lalkaka at the Imperial Institute in London. The murderer, Dingra, belonged to a most respectable Punjab family, one of whom had written a book which he had dedicated to the Viceroy. There were constant dacoities in Bengal, committed by young Hindus in order to swell the revolutionary funds, and there was disquieting evidence that the mischief might spread from the Bengali student class to the more virile races of the north. Finally, on 21st December, Mr. Jackson, the collector of Nasik in the Deccan, was shot dead by a young Brahmin at a farewell theatrical performance given in his honour. The Nasik case compelled the Government to postpone the return of the deportees and to prepare more stringent measures of precaution. Minto kept his head amid these embarrassments. “I hope,” he wrote to Lord Morley, “that public opinion won’t take the unreasonable view that the deeds of a few anarchists are proof of the doubtful loyalty of all India. Of this I am absolutely certain, that if it had not been for our recognition of Indian political ambitions, we should now have had ranged against us a mass of discontent composed not only of extremists, but of those who are now our most loyal supporters.”
He had himself a share of the attention of the criminals. On 13th November, while on a visit to Ahmedabad, two bombs were thrown at the carriage in which he and Lady Minto were driving. They failed to explode, but one subsequently went off in the hands of a water-carrier who picked it up, causing serious injuries. Both the Viceroy and his wife took the affair with the utmost coolness and courage. Lady Minto in her journal merely records that the day was her birthday and that bombs were an odd kind of birthday present. Minto, writing a short account of it to Lord Morley, prefaced his letter by saying that he was too overworked to send him more than scraps of news, and ended with a mild grumble at the discomfort which attempts on a man’s life entailed: —
“Imagine our portentous precautions! Last night we proceeded solemnly to that awful ordeal, a State Banquet. After being seated some time and no food appearing, various high officials sallied forth to investigate the causes of delay and found two sentries with fixed bayonets standing over the soup, which they refused to admit without a pass!”
Lord Morley wrote: —
“In spite of your magnanimous refusal to attach any political significance to the bombs, one cannot but feel that the miscreants who planned the outrage were animated by politics, if one can give the name of politics to such folly and wickedness. Anyhow it was fine and truly generous of you to say that you stoutly resisted the idea that it represented anything like the heart of the general Indian population. This is one of the utterances that will stick, and will cause your name to be held in honour. Lord Roberts was here the day after, and I read him your first telegram. He said, ‘Ah, Minto is an intrepid fellow! He hasn’t a nerve in him!’ This would be rather an awkward thing for you from the anatomical and physiological point of view; but I knew what he meant!”
II
The year 1909 deprived the Viceroy of two fellowworkers whom he deeply valued. His private secretary, Sir James Dunlop Smith, whose great Indian experience, unfailing loyalty, and tireless industry had been of incalculable service, was appointed to follow Sir W. Curzon Wyllie at the India Office. In August Lord Kitchener ceased to be Commander-in-Chief, and was succeeded by Sir O’Moore Creagh. It was an open secret that Kitchener would have liked to be the next Viceroy; he was made a Field-Marshal and accepted the offer of the Malta command which was pressed on him, but he obtained permission after his long Indian service to indulge himself with a preliminary holiday in the Far East. His relations with Minto had been always those of the most cordial friendship, and the fact is the more remarkable when it is remembered that Minto was himself a soldier and in no way disposed to accept the Commander-in-Chief’s views on army questions without a searching examination of his own. “In military matters,” he wrote to Lord Morley, “I am not quite the same as other Viceroys have been, or are likely to be in the future. For many years I served as a soldier in various capacities all over the world, have seen much active service, and much of other armies besides our own, and this not only from the love of adventure, for I worked hard at the more intellectual requirements of a military career. Consequently the comprehension of military organization and administration comes very naturally to me, and military policy in India is a matter on which I shall always hold decided views of my own, no matter what my Commander-in-Chief may think!” In August he wrote: “I shall miss K. very much, for he has supported me most loyally always, and I look upon him as a real friend. We have differed — as, of course, we must occasionally — over certain things, but I have always found him very open to conviction. He is such a different man to what the outside public suppose him to be. In my humble opinion you could not select for the gadi a more reliable occupant.” Minto had laboured to interpret Kitchener to the Secretary of State, and had met with some success, but on the question of the Viceroyalty he found him adamant. “I should not much care,” wrote Lord Morley, “to be Secretary of State if he were Governor-General, and what is more, my dear Viceroy, I don’t mean to be.” To Lord Morley Kitchener was only a competent and stiff-necked soldier; perhaps it was impossible except for those who worked closely with him to realize that his political sagacity and prescience were more notable than even his talents for tactics or strategy.
Lord Kitchener’s departure was not unattended with sensation. His farewell speech at Simla proved to be largely an adaptation of Lord Curzon’s farewell speech at the Byculla Club in 1905. Parallel columns in the Times showed a damaging identity both in matter and style. There had been no such case of plagiarism since Disraeli cribbed from Thiers his panegyrics on the Duke of Wellington, and the situation was made piquant by the fact that copier and copied were old and unreconciled antagonists. Minto’s letter to Lord Morley explains the affair as far as explanation was possible. Sir Beauchamp Duff had been in the habit of helping Kitchener with his speeches.
“At first I thought the similarity might be mere coincidence — but such a possibility vanishes when one sees the passages side by side. The best explanation I have heard — and I have good reason to think it the true one — is that K. merely told Duff that he would find some good points in Curzon’s speech, but I am firmly convinced that K. never intended that he should use it as he did, and never had any idea that he had done so. But then, as I say — how is Duff’s performance to be accounted for? Of course there are ill-natured explanations beneath contempt. The supposition that it was irony on K.’s part has also gone the rounds here — sheer impossible nonsense. . . . K. is a very bad speaker — hates having even to say a few words — always reads his speeches, and read the one in question particularly badly. . . . I am very sorry about it all. It is lucky for K. that he is on the high seas!”
The arduousness of the Viceroy’s life did not decrease as the months went by. In October he wrote to Lord Morley: “I have be
en in India almost four years now, and during that time I have not had one single free day to myself. Even on the few occasions I have been away in camp, I have never had a day without official work. One must be strong and well to start early in the morning, go through long tiring hours in the sun, and come back to one’s tent to find it full of files and official telegrams and work till midnight or the small hours of the morning. But so it is, and I am thankful to say, so far, I am fit and well.” The relief in such a life was the shifting of base — the move from Calcutta to Simla, and the journeys to distant provinces.