The Passing of Empire

by H. Fielding

Now I have often suspected this state of affairs. The substance of the prosecution is clear, but there might be extenuating circumstances. The accused however fights it to the last and will admit nothing. On the evidence I could but take a gloomy view; for, remember, all cases are subject to revision by the High Court, who simply read through the written evidence and are not able to appreciate the subtle effect of tone and manner in witnesses, which tell more sometimes than their words.

I have said that the people have no respect for the Courts because they have lost all respect for the magistrate or judge. In himself he may be worthy of all confidence; but when on the bench he is not himself, he is a mouthpiece of the law, or an umpire; he is not a living force. When you lie in Court you do not deceive a human being who is doing his best for you and others; you only try to counterbalance the injustice of the law by a little judicious weighting of the scales. A man who will tell you the truth as individual to individual will commit perjury before you in Courts and think nothing of it. In fact, he lies at the other side, and doesn't consider you at all. He does it to try to get justice, or what he thinks is justice, in place of law, which otherwise is all he would get. I have often been told this, and I notice the same in England. Truth is a relationship of persons; in a Court now the only persons are the two opponents; the judge is only a sort of machine to weigh evidence. As man to man I have found Orientals as truthful as Englishmen. In twenty-six years' experience I do not remember ever having been told a deliberate lie as man to man. But in the Courts you are not a man, you are an official, and even as an official your hands are tied. The parties have no direct relationship with you. Their relationship is with each other—just as in a duel or a prize-fight the relationship is between party and party, and the umpire is only the onlooker, who may or may not see most of the game. In law he usually sees less because Justice is blind. I am aware that the bandage over the eyes of Justice is supposed to render her just, not discriminating between rich and poor; it does the reverse, of course. And until Justice opens her eyes again to discriminate what is put into her scales she will remain the mock she now is.

In a previous book I have discussed the question of veracity in this connection, and lest anyone should object that what I say is true only of the Burmese I will add this story, which is of a well-known official in the North-West in his younger days.

He was inquiring into a Revenue case, and incidentally an Indian gentleman gave him certain information. The official thought this so important that he summoned the Indian to Court, where, much to the Englishman's surprise, the Indian as a witness gave a totally different story.

They met again, however, later, and the official asked the Indian gentleman what he meant by going back on his words like that. The latter smiled, hesitated, and then the wisdom of experience spoke to the altruism of ignorance in these words: "Sahib," he said, "you are very young."

How the Courts are generally regarded by the people can best be illustrated by giving an account of a dramatic entertainment I witnessed once. The Burmese are fond of the drama. They have old dramas, and they have new dramas up to date—satires for the most part. The play I saw was of the latter. The company was a well-known one, which had toured almost all the province, and its most famous piece was that I witnessed—I forget the name.

The scene was supposed to be the office of a lawyer, barrister, or advocate, and there was a native clerk. To him entered a would-be litigant. The clerk listens to him for a few minutes and then asks him if he has brought any money. The client says "No." The clerk rises in indignation and the client is hustled out.

He returns with a bag of money. The clerk then listens and the client explains his case. The clerk demands if there is any evidence. The client is puzzled and asks what evidence is required. The clerk then tells him slowly and distinctly: you must have a man to swear to this, another to swear to that, a third to swear to something else.

The client remonstrates, saying he doubts if he can get so much evidence. The clerk then tells him that if he cannot get the evidence demanded his master will not take up his case. "But," says the client indignantly, "it is a true case." "What does that matter?" asks the clerk cynically. "No Court cares—or can tell if it did care—whether your case is true or not. It can only tell if you have evidence or not. If you can't get the evidence your case may be the truest in the world, but that won't help you."

The client then wants his money back, but the clerk clings to the bag and the client is again thrown out. The play was a long one, and I can only give a résumé of parts of it. The client goes looking for witnesses in the village. He gets hold of one man and says: "Come and give evidence." "But I saw nothing," says the villager. "And," says the client indignantly, "would you let me, an old friend, lose what you know is a right cause just because you didn't happen to see a trifle like that? What does it matter if you didn't actually see it? It did happen. I am not asking you to tell a lie or invent anything."