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It was a joke between the two men to pretend that the British Empire was an aged female patient of
the doctor’s. The doctor had enjoyed this joke for two years without growing tired of it.
‘Ah, doctor,’ said Flory, supine in the long chair, ‘what a joy to be here after that bloody Club.
When I come to your house I feel like a Nonconformist minister dodging up to town and going home
with a tart. Such a glorious holiday from them’–he motioned with one heel in the direction of the
Club–‘from my beloved fellow Empirebuilders. British prestige, the white man’s burden, the pukka
sahib sans peur et sans reproche–you know. Such a relief to be out of the stink of it for a little
while.’
‘My friend, my friend, now come, come, please! That iss outrageous. You must not say such things
of honourable English gentlemen!’
‘You don’t have to listen to the honourable gentlemen talking, doctor. I stood it as long as I could
this morning. Ellis with his “dirty nigger”, Westfield with his jokes, Macgregor with his Latin tags
and please give the bearer fifteen lashes. But when they got on to that story about the old havildar–you
know, the dear old havildar who said that if the British left India there wouldn’t be a rupee or a virgin
between–you know; well, I couldn’t stand it any longer. It’s time that old havildar was put on the
retired list. He’s been saying the same thing ever since the Jubilee in ’eighty-seven.’
The doctor grew agitated, as he always did when Flory criticised the Club members. He was
standing with his plump white-clad behind balanced against the veranda rail, and sometimes
gesticulating. When searching for a word he would nip his black thumb and forefinger together, as
though to capture an idea floating in the air.
‘But truly, truly, Mr Flory, you must not speak so! Why iss it that always you are abusing the pukka
sahibs, ass you call them? They are the salt of the earth. Consider the great things they have done–
consider the great administrators who have made British India what it iss. Consider Clive, Warren
Hastings, Dalhousie, Curzon. They were such men–I quote your immortal Shakespeare–ass, take them
for all in all, we shall not look upon their like again!’
‘Well, do you want to look upon their like again? I don’t.’
‘And consider how noble a type iss the English gentleman! Their glorious loyalty to one another!
The public-school spirit! Even those of them whose manner iss unfortunate–some Englishmen are
arrogant, I concede–have the great, sterling qualities that we Orientals lack. Beneath their rough
exterior, their hearts are of gold.’
‘Of gilt, shall we say? There’s a kind of spurious good-fellowship between the English and this
country. It’s a tradition to booze together and swap meals and pretend to be friends, though we all hate
each other like poison. Hanging together, we call it. It’s a political necessity. Of course drink is what
keeps the machine going. We should all go mad and kill one another in a week if it weren’t for that.
There’s a subject for one of your uplift essayists, doctor. Booze as the cement of empire.’
The doctor shook his head. ‘Really, Mr Flory, I know not what it iss that hass made you so cynical.
It iss so most unsuitable! You–an English gentleman of high gifts and character–to be uttering
seditious opinions that are worthy of the Burmese Patriot!’
‘Seditious?’ Flory said. ‘I’m not seditious. I don’t want the Burmans to drive us out of this country.
God forbid! I’m here to make money, like everyone else. All I object to is the slimy white man’s