I HAVE not yet mentioned the one matter of all the grievous matters that
came under his observation in India, about which Mr. Batcham was
particularly grieved. So bitterly, so loudly, and so persistently did he
grieve about this, that one might almost have thought he came out for
the purpose, absurd as it may seem. I cannot do better than describe it
in Mr. Batcham’s own terms as “the grinding of the faces of the poor,
through our culpable neglect in failing to provide India with the humane
limitations of a Factories Act.” For years past English labour had been
thus happily conditioned, and who could measure the benefit to the
toiling millions on whose behalf the law had been made! It was
incalculable. As a matter of fact the only result of its operation,
which could be computed with accuracy, was to be found in the out-turn
of the mills. There Mr. Batcham knew to a yard how valuable the
Factories Act was to the operatives; but this was not a view of the
question upon which he dwelt much in India. While he was with us indeed
all practical considerations were swallowed up, for Mr. Batcham, in the
contemplation of the profundity of our iniquity in allowing the
factories of this country pretty much to manage their own affairs. He
did not even permit himself to consider that the enormous product of
Indian looms, together with the cheapness of the cost of production, was
having a prejudicial effect upon the market. He certainly never
mentioned it. His business was with the poor, the down-trodden, the
victims of the rapacity of the capitalist, as much among her Majesty’s
subjects on India’s coral strand as in the crowded tenements of
Manchester or Birmingham. His duty towards these unfortunates was plain,
and heaven forbid that he should think of anything but his duty!
And so Mr. Batcham lamented high and low over the woes of the
unprotected factory “hand” in India. He began his lament as soon as
ever he was informed—though he knew it before—that protection did not
exist; on the face of it, oppression must then be rampant. He himself
was in the trade, he knew the temptations of the capitalist, and he
would not go so far as to say that, if a wise and just law did not
prevent him, the exigencies of the market would never lead him to
be—inconsiderate—toward his _employés_. Reflect then upon the result
of almost unlimited power in the hands of the Indian manufacturer!
This being Mr. Batcham’s pronounced opinion, even before he gave his
personal attention to the subject of Indian manufactures, his
investigations naturally had the effect of heightening it—one might say
they were undertaken with that object. They did not heighten it,
however, as satisfactorily or as definitely as Mr. Batcham could have
wished. After inspecting a cotton factory in Bombay, a woollen factory
in Cawnpore, a jute factory in Calcutta, he found that the notes left
too much to the imagination; and it would be useless to appeal to the
imagination of the House; the House was utterly devoid of it. True, he
had seen hundreds of operatives working in miserable nakedness under the
unpitying eye of a Eurasian overseer; but then it was certainly very
warm, and the overseer had not been sufficiently considerate to kick any
of them in Mr. Batcham’s presence. They certainly began early and worked
late, but then they ate and slumbered in the middle of the day, chewing
betel for casual delectation the rest of the time. Something might
possibly be done with that if he were careful to avoid dwelling upon the
siesta, and he would be sorry to lay stress upon any trifling
amelioration in the condition of these poor wretches. Mr. Batcham
pondered long upon the betel-nut, but saw no salvation there. If it
could be proved that these miserable beings were compelled to resort to
an injurious stimulant to keep their flagging energies up to the
incredible amount of labour required of them—and Mr. Batcham had no
doubt whatever that this was the case—it might be useful to cite the
betel-nut, but there seemed to be a difficulty about proving it. The
only tangible deplorable fact that Mr. Batcham had to go upon, was that
the pay of a full-grown operative, not a woman or a child, but a man,
was represented by the shockingly incredible sum of eight
annas—eightpence!—a day! When he heard this Mr. Batcham thought of the
colossal wages paid to factory hands in England and shuddered. He was so
completely occupied in shuddering over this instance of the rapacity of
the Indian manufacturer, that the statement of what it cost the same
operative to live according to the immemorial custom of his people—about
five shillings a month—entirely escaped his observation. In the stress
of his emotion Mr. Batcham failed to notice one or two other facts that
would have tended to alleviate it, the fact that a factory operative is
paid twice as much as a domestic servant and three times as much as a
cooly, though the cost of life weighs no more heavily upon him than upon
them. The fact that he often works only two or three months of the year
at gunny-bags, and spends the rest of his time in the more leisurely and
congenial scratching of his fields, and above all, the fact that in
India the enterprises of the foreigner accommodate themselves—not of
philanthropy but of necessity—to the customs of the country. It is not
the service of the sahib, with his few thousand personal establishments,
his few hundred plantations and shops, his few dozen factory chimneys
rising along the Hooghly, tainting the sea breeze of Bombay, that can
revolutionise their way of life for two hundred and fifty million people
with whom custom is religion and religion is more than rice. But Mr.
Batcham had no heart to be comforted by such trivialities. He made
emotional notes, dwelt upon the “eight anna daily pittance,” and felt a
still more poignant private grief that there was no cause for louder
sorrow.
At first Mr. Debendra Lal Banerjee was inclined to assure his honourable
friend that there was not the slightest need for any beneficent
interference with the condition of his humble compatriots, to praise but
to deprecate Mr. Batcham’s enthusiasm in the matter, and to point out
that the only true and lasting elevation of her Majesty’s most loyal
subjects in India must be brought about through that much maligned and
little understood body, the Indian Congress. But it was a very, very
short time indeed before Mr. Debendra Lal Banerjee found himself in full
union with the noble aims of this British benefactor. He had only to
learn—and he learned very quickly—that his sympathy would be
appreciated, to bestow it with all the gushing fulness of which the
Bengali soul is capable, and Mr. Debendra Lal Banerjee’s sympathy was
invaluable to Mr. Batcham. It disclosed points of weakness in the Indian
factory system that would otherwise have escaped his observation to this
day, and suggested interpretations which no simple-minded Briton would
have thought of alone. And it divined Mr. Batcham’s dissatisfaction that
he could not be more dissatisfied with remarkable accuracy.
In taking measures—Bengali measures—to secure the sympathy of the
travelling British M. P. with the grand progressive movement of Bengali
patriotism, it is highly advisable to discover as soon as possible
whether he has any little “movement” of his own in contemplation which
might receive a slight impetus with advantage. It is then generally
possible to combine the two, to arrange reciprocal favours, to induce
the globe-trotting potentate to take “broader views.” Mr. Debendra Lal
Banerjee put the whole of his time, and a vocabulary which no English
dictionary could improve, at Mr. Batcham’s disposal, to convince him
that this factory grievance was one of the first which the Indian
Congress would press upon the ear of the Raj, once it had an official
right to make suggestions to that honourable organ. Although Mr.
Banerjee quite agreed with Mr. Batcham that it would be inadvisable to
wait until that happened, he would like Mr. Batcham to understand how
close the interests of the British manufacturer lay to the bosom of the
Indian Congress—though of course Mr. Banerjee designated them as the
wrongs of the native operatives. In the meantime, however, his
honourable friend was naturally restless, naturally desired to lend his
own helping hand to the cause he had at heart. Mr. Banerjee was overcome
by the sublimity of Mr. Batcham’s devotion, and suggested a little
evidence acquired personally. If it were possible for Mr. Batcham to
_converse_ with any of these unfortunate people!
“It’s the terrible disadvantage of not knowing the language!” responded
Mr. Batcham, in a tone which suggested that the language ought to be
supplied to Members of Parliament. “I _have_ conversed with ’em through
another man, but it was very unsatisfactory. Couldn’t get anything
definite. The fact is, Mr. Banerjee, the other man was an Anglo-Indian,
and I’ve no doubt the poor wretches suffered from a sort of unconscious
intimidation!”
Mr. Banerjee shook his head. The head had a black silk hat on it, and
shook as impressively as it might have done in Lombard street or
Westminster. “I fear,” said Mr. Banerjee, “that it is unhappily but too
probable.” Then he raised his eyebrows in a sadly submissive way, took
out his pocket handkerchief and used it in a manner which suggested—very
respectfully—a general deprecation of Anglo-Indians. Mr. Banerjee must
have used it, I think, for this purpose. I doubt whether he is even yet
sufficiently deteriorated by our civilisation to take out his
handkerchief seriously.
“Above all things,” added Mr. Banerjee, thrusting his fat hand into the
breast of his tightly-buttoned frock coat, and wrapping himself up in
the situation, “above all things it is indispensable that your evidence
shall be unbiased in every particular. There is no doubt, I deplore to
tell you, that here in India the poor and the needy amongst us will
sometimes be wrongly influenced by the fear of being deprived of the
staff of life. I have even known cases where, under unjust and
reprehensible intimidation, _perjury_”—Mr. Banerjee’s tone suggested, “I
hardly expected you to believe it!”—“has been committed!”
“Dear me, I dare say,” said Mr. Batcham, “that happens everywhere.”
But Mr. Banerjee had more than sentimental reflections upon the moral
turpitude of his fellow Aryans to contribute to the difficulty of his
honourable friend. He had given his honourable friend’s difficulty the
very fullest attention. He had chased it through the most private
labyrinth of his mind, where he had come into sudden and violent contact
with Ambica Nath Mitter. And in the joyful shock of collision with
Ambica Nath Mitter, Debendra Lal Banerjee had said to himself, “Why
didn’t I think of him before?”
“There is a very intelligent young man in my office,” said Mr. Banerjee,
“who was formerly employed as clerk in a jute mill here. I think he
would most willingly obtain for you any grievances you may require.” Mr.
Banerjee spoke absent-mindedly, reflecting upon the qualifications of
Ambica for the task.
“The statement of them,” corrected Mr. Batcham.
“The statement of them—precisely, yes. Young Mitter has had all
facilities for observing the oppression in the factories, and I have no
doubt it made a deep impression upon his excellent heart. He speaks
English also fairly well. I will send him to you.”
“I should like very much to see Mr. Mitter,” Mr. Batcham remarked.
“Mitter, you said?”
“It will not be necessary to remember his name. Call him ‘Baboo’; he
will answer to plain ‘Baboo.’ I am sure he will remember well about the
oppressions.”
“I should be even better pleased,” said Mr. Batcham, “if he brought two
or three of the oppressed with him.”
“I think he could also do that,” replied Mr. Banerjee without
hesitation.
Then Mr. Banerjee went away and explained Mr. Batcham’s difficulty to
Ambica Nath Mitter. Considering how discreetly Mr. Banerjee explained
it, the sympathetic perception shown by Ambica Nath Mitter was
extraordinary. It might possibly be explained by the fact that they both
spoke Hindustani. At all events, Mr. Banerjee dismissed the young man of
the excellent heart with the comfortable feeling that Mr. Batcham’s
difficulty would be solved quite inexpensively.
Two days after, Ambica presented himself at the residence of the
Brownes, accredited to Mr. Batcham by Mr. Debendra Lal Banerjee. Mr.
Browne had gone to office, Mrs. Browne had gone to shop. Mr. Batcham,
ruddy and expansive in the thinnest of flannels, occupied a large
portion of the small veranda alone. The time was most fortuitous, and
Mr. Batcham received Mr. Banerjee’s labour with an agreeable sense of
freedom for the most searching investigations. Having well breakfasted,
digested the morning paper, and fully smoked moreover, Mr. Batcham was
in the mood for the most heartrending revelations.
Ambica was a prepossessing young man, Mr. Batcham thought. His lustrous
long black hair was brushed smoothly back from a forehead that insisted
on its guilelessness. His soft brown eyes were timid but trustful, and
his ambient tissues spread themselves over features of the most
engagingly aquiline character. He was just at the anti-protuberant stage
of baboo-dom, there was no offence in his fatness. He wore spotless
muslin draperies dependent from either shoulder, and his pen behind his
ear. In his rear were three others much like himself, but less savoury,
less lubricated, less comfortable in appearance. They impressed one as
less virtuous too, but this was purely the result of adversity.
Mr. Batcham began by asking “Mr. Mitter” to sit down, which Mr. Mitter
did with alacrity. Never in his life had Mr. Mitter been asked to sit
down by a sahib before. Then Mr. Batcham took out his note-book and
pencil, and said impressively to Mr. Mitter that above all things these
men must understand that they were to tell the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth with regard to the matters upon which he was
about to question them. Then he questioned them.
[Illustration: IN HIS REAR WERE THREE OTHERS MUCH LIKE HIMSELF.]
Perhaps it is unnecessary to go into Mr. Batcham’s questions. They were
put with the fluency and precision of a man of business. Ambica Nath
Mitter understood them perfectly, and explained them admirably. They
elicited exactly what Mr. Batcham wanted to know. His fat, red hand
trembled with avidity as he set down fact after fact of the most
“painful” description—or possibly it was agitated by an indignation
which Mr. Batcham doubtless could not wholly suppress. And, indeed, the
recital of the wrongs which these three miserable men had suffered under
the cruel hand of the tyrannical sirdar,[85] and the indifferent eye of
the callous sahib, would have moved an even less susceptible heart than
that of a British manufacturer in the same line of business. One had
been beaten with stripes—he showed Mr. Batcham the weal on his shoulder,
and Mr. Batcham touched it, for the sake of the dramatic effect of
saying so afterwards. Another had been compelled to work four hours a
day overtime for a week without a pice of extra pay; the third had
humbly begged for a day’s leave to attend the burning of his
grandmother, and when he returned had been abruptly and unjustly
dismissed—the sahib had said he wished to see his face no more. It was
useless to complain; the factory sahibs would cut their wages, and the
other sahibs did not care. They were all poor men; they could not buy
the law. At this point Mr. Batcham grew quite feverish. He unbuttoned
his shirt-collar, and interspersed his notes with interjection-points.
“This is better,” he said to himself—“I mean worse, than I expected.”
The interview took a long time—quite three-quarters of an hour—but Mr.
Batcham was distinctly of the opinion that it had not been misspent. And
when Mr. Batcham closed his note-book, and said to Mr. Mitter that this
was a very sad state of things, but that would do for the present, his
three down-trodden Indian fellow-subjects knelt weeping and kissed the
uppers of Mr. Batcham’s broad British boots, invoking the secular
blessings of heaven upon this “protector of the poor.” Mr. Batcham had
to shuffle his feet under his chair so suddenly that he nearly
dislocated one of his knees. “Don’t!” said he, “pray don’t, not on any
account!” And he raised them with his own hands, very nearly mingled his
tears with theirs, and immediately afterwards made a most dramatic note
of it.
Footnote 85:
Native manager.
Mr. Batcham had not breakfasted the next morning in fact, he was looking
at his watch and wondering why the Brownes were always so confoundedly
late with their meals when his bearer came up and inquired whether the
sahib would see again the three “admi”[86] he had seen the day before,
they waited below in the compound. Breakfast was still ten minutes off,
and Mr. Batcham said he would go down. He went down, received the men
with affability, and learned through his English-speaking bearer that
they had been the victims of great injustice at the hands of Ambica Nath
Mitter. This one, it seemed, had persuaded them to come to the sahib and
leave work for the day on the promise not only of paying them their
day’s wages, but of making the matter right with the sirdar at the
factory. Instead of which, he had paid them only half a day’s wages, and
when they returned that morning they found themselves dismissed.
Therefore, knowing the heart of the sahib that it was full of mercy,
they had come to cast themselves at his feet. They were all poor men, a
very little would satisfy them—two rupees each perhaps.
Footnote 86:
Persons.
“That’s six rupees!” said Mr. Batcham seriously, “two rupees each would
keep you for nearly a month in idleness. You can get employment much
sooner than that.” Mr. Batcham knitted his philanthropic brow. “I’ll see
you after breakfast,” he said, as the kitmutgar came to announce it.
The question of his duty in the matter of the six rupees so agitated Mr.
Batcham that he consulted young Browne about it at the breakfast-table,
and that is the reason why it is I, and not Mr. Batcham, who recount his
experience with Ambica Nath Mitter to the public. Young Browne heard his
guest politely and sympathetically through before he ventured to express
an opinion. Even then he deferred it. “I’ll have a look at your
factory-wallahs,” said young Browne. Presently he sent the bearer for
them, who came up with two. The other, he said, had been taken with a
sudden indisposition and had gone away.
Young Browne put up his eye-glass—he sometimes wore an eye-glass, it was
the purest affectation—and looked at the victims of British oppression
in India as they stood with their hands behind them in acute discomfort,
twining and untwining their dusty toes. As he looked, a smile appeared
under the eye-glass, which gradually broadened and broadened until it
knocked the eye-glass out, and young Browne laughed until the tears came
into his eyes. “It’s too good!” said young Browne brokenly. “It’s _too_
good!” and laughed again until Mr. Batcham’s annoyance became serious
and obvious and it was necessary to explain.
“I don’t know what these men may have learned _incidentally_ about
jute,” said he wiping his eyes, “but that’s not their occupation, Mr.
Batcham, I—I happen to know their faces. They’re both umidwallahs in
Watson and Selwyn’s, indigo people, next door to our place.”
“Dear me, are you _sure_?” asked Mr. Batcham with a judicial contraction
of his eyebrows. “What is an umidwallah?”
“Umid means hope—a man of hope. They come and ask to work in the office
as a favour, and don’t get any pay, expecting to be taken on in case of
a vacancy. These scoundrels have been in Watson and Selwyn’s for the
last year. I venture to state they’ve never been inside a jute mill in
their lives.”
[Illustration: THE OTHER HAD BEEN TAKEN WITH A SUDDEN INDISPOSITION AND
HAD GONE AWAY.]
“Tumera kam, k’on hai?”[87] asked young Browne mockingly of one baboo.
Footnote 87:
Your work, what is it?
The baboo cast down his eyes nervously and said, “Wasson Sewwin company
_kapas, sahib_,”[88] and the other to the same question made the same
answer. They were crushed and sorrowing baboos suffering under a cruel
blow of fate. Why should it have been granted to only one of them to
conclude to be indisposed at the right moment?
Footnote 88:
With Watson Selwyn Company.
I am afraid the savage Anglo-Indian instinct arose in young Browne and
caused him to tease those baboos a little that morning. It was very
wrong of him doubtless, and then it led to the destruction of a number
of Mr. Batcham’s most interesting notes, which is another regrettable
fact. But the only person who really suffered was Ambica Nath Mitter.
Mr. Batcham, of course, thought it his duty to inform Mr. Debendra Lal
Banerjee of the whole unfortunate affair, and Mr. Debendra Lal Banerjee,
in a white heat of indignation, which lasted several days, dismissed
Ambica.
“How could I repose further trust in a man like that!” said Mr. Banerjee
to Mr. Batcham. Besides, privately, Mr. Banerjee thought Ambica
grasping. Mr. Banerjee had entirely intended that out of the five rupees
Ambica received from him, the “factory-wallahs” should be paid in full.
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