The question of loyalty

The first tale was anecdotal and related to one of the most respected artists of Bangladesh, whom we may call Q. I have no means of ascertaining its absolute accuracy though. Sometime after the emergence of Bangladesh, Q had occasion to visit Paris. A former student of his, whom for the sake of convenience we may call S, was in Paris at that time, pursuing higher studies in art. Naturally enough, S took it upon himself to escort his former professor around Paris. It was even more natural that the Louvre, the inevitable destination of any "pilgrimage" by artists and art lovers, should be one of the first places to take Q. The artist was absolutely enthralled for some time, after which he looked distinctly ill at ease, almost in discomfort and unwell. S, thinking that the confines of a somewhat crowded room was perhaps too stifling, suggested that they step out for some fresh air. Q assented and seemed to pick up after a few minutes in the open. S proposed that they might go back for a quick look at some of the more celebrated paintings. To his surprise, Q declined, wearily, almost wistfully. It was of little use, he felt, at that stage of his artistic career to savour the treasures of the Louvre. A tour of the Louvre three decades or so earlier, would have made such a difference to his thinking and work. Now it would simply emphasize to him poignantly what might have been.

The second tale, by some unknown writer, was one that my friend had come across years back in an obscure anthology. An artist had achieved immense wealth and renown by pioneering a new school of abstract painting. He was popularly known as the Maestro. Critics and experts took pains to interpret his works, which were recognised as profound in meaning and something refreshingly new. As he grew in stature, the Maestro, who lived in well-earned comfort, accepted promising young artists as live-in students on his vast estate. His favourite pupil was one X, who possessed a rare sensitivity and talent and clearly had a bright future as an artist to look forward to. Then one day something totally unexpected happened. In a gathering of artists and art lovers, X denounced the Maestro as a charlatan whose paintings, so widely acclaimed, had as much significance or meaning as would the results of a donkey dipping its tail randomly into cans of paint and then slapping a canvas with it. Those assembled were appalled and incensed. The Maestro was beyond reproach, an untouchable in the world of art; and now this, from his favourite pupil too. The unseemly and wholly unprovoked outburst did not in any way ruffle the Maestro's equanimity. He calmed his admirers with a gesture and responded equably without a hint of hurt or anger. He had always let his pictures speak for themselves and would continue to do so. It was for art lovers ultimately to judge whether or not they liked what his pictures had to say. Assuredly he would not interpose himself between his pictures and lovers of art and thus had no comment to make. Indeed a dignified response, truly worthy of a Maestro, to an almost obscene and inexplicable provocation.

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The incident was over and done with. Time passed and in art circles the Maestro went from strength to strength. X, of course, was finished in the world of art and moved from one makeshift job to another. He did have a few friends from old times who saw in him a once promising artist with a great future behind him. Privately he wondered sometimes why he had behaved as he did. His only explanation to himself: he really believed what he had said in anger and disappointment; he could not at any cost suffer the burlesquing of true art.

The years rolled by. X became inured to a pedestrian existence; hopes and ambitions of celebrity and fortune were only a distant memory. It was a surprise thus when he received word that the Maestro was holidaying by the sea-side, a short train ride from where he was living, and wished to see him. X turned up duly at the Maestro's rented villa and was taken to the great man who was relaxing on the lawns. Maestro seemed pleased and asked all others to withdraw. He wanted to speak to X alone. It was an awkward moment for X. Here was his former mentor, who had given him nothing but affection and encouragement. Was he an ingrate to denounce him as he did? Perhaps, but then he had only said what he genuinely believed as an artist. The Maestro looked peaked as he greeted X with a smile. A few moments of desultory conversation followed before Maestro said what was on his mind. He always believed that X had all the makings of a great artist, the steady hand, the sure touch, the discerning eye and above all else something indefinable and elusive, almost intuitive -- the insight and instinct that distinguished the great artist from lesser ones. X had proved this beyond doubt when he denounced the Maestro, because what he had said was absolutely correct! In his younger days Maestro had wanted to contribute to art but had given up on it. He had to survive and thrive. To be a pioneer, one had to bear with fortitude hardships from which, to be sure, benefits would accrue to posterity. This was beyond his mettle. He was content to observe human nature and give pleasure of a sort to others. This afforded, if not a sense of accomplishment, a certain satisfaction and fun. In well-modulated and mellifluous tones and gentle irony, Maestro added that there were no witnesses to this conversation and X's credibility already in shreds would be non-existent if he tried to make it public. X was transfixed and then overwhelmed by a sense of elation; the meeting with Maestro was his epiphany.

A few months later Maestro was dead and within days of his passing his solicitors forwarded to X a letter written to him by the great man weeks before, with instructions that it be handed over after his death. The letter was chatty. It recapitulated their last conversation and confirmed what the Maestro had told him, namely his celebrated paintings denoted nothing beyond colour on canvas. Maestro was happy that he had over the years provided grist to the mill for art critics and pleasure to art lovers. In a sense he had been a public benefactor. His one regret, this great joke could not be shared with anyone else.

X was faced with a dilemma. He had in his hand his vindication. True it had come too late to revive his own art career but it should do something for his credibility. But then did he really want to dismantle a loving old fraud, someone who had showered affection on him, had never hurt anyone and had admitted of his own accord and volition to something that no critic or expert had detected? X was torn by a conflict of loyalties; loyalty to a friend and mentor and on the other hand his integrity to his conception of what constituted art. He decided to consult one of his few remaining friends in the art world, a wealthy collector whom we may call Y. Y read the Maestro's letter, fully appreciated the problem and sought a day's time to give his advice. He did not share with X his own turmoil; he owned six paintings by the Maestro, a neat fortune, which would be rendered valueless if the letter was made public. Instead he raced to see Z, an even wealthier individual, the owner of an art gallery. Z was aghast. His gallery owned over 30 of Maestro's paintings -- a sizable investment which would be wiped out if the letter became public. He quavered that at all costs the letter must be suppressed. Y agreed to use all his persuasive skills and goodwill with X to this purpose, for a consideration, of course, namely a gift of four of the Maestro's paintings from the gallery to him! Z agreed promptly and the next day Y persuaded X to destroy the lethal letter. X himself was increasingly moving toward such a decision in any case. He felt vindicated and it was not essential to make this public, especially if the price was a scandal in the art world and the reputation of his kindly old mentor.

Three months elapsed before a second letter from Maestro's solicitors reached X, forwarding, under instructions, yet another letter from the Maestro, a communication from beyond the grave. The second letter, bearing the same date as the first, posed a question and conveyed a message. The question: what had X done with the first letter? Did he make it public or did he suppress or destroy it? The message: Maestro had bequeathed 20 of his paintings from his personal collection to X! Depending on what X did with the earlier letter, he would either be wealthy beyond dreams or would be the beneficiary of a worthless bequest! Maestro prided himself on his judgment of people and if he had it right as he believed he did, X would be a happy man on reading this letter. X felt a touch of moistness as he closed his eyes and thought of his mentor, his smile so often mocking gently at pomposity and affectation and yet also so full of understanding and warmth, the kindly fraud who had played his greatest joke from the great beyond.

Centuries back Seneca, among the wisest of Romans in his time, had written: "Fides sanctissimum humani pectoris bonum est" or in English: "Loyalty is the holiest good in the human heart." In more recent times Pandit Nehru was emphatic that "No policy or manoeuvre can ever be a right one if it involves the forsaking of a colleague." And the famous or infamous Cambridge Five -- Philby, Maclean, Burgess, Blunt and Cairncross -- lived by a creed: "If we ever have to choose between betraying our country or a friend, may God grant us the courage to betray our country." Not too many people would concur or go quite that far! Prince Talleyrand, one-time seminarian, diplomat, statesman and above all survivor par excellence who thrived during the French revolution, under Napoleon, at the Bourbon restoration and also under Louis-Philippe had his own characteristic concept of loyalty. Discussing fidelity with Czar Alexander of Russia, Talleyrand had observed: "That sire is a question of dates."

Loyalty did not weigh much with Mir Zafar but then he was not aware of Pandit Nehru or the Cambridge Five and possibly not Seneca either. Going by media reports that ascribe the capture of Saddam Hussein and the grisly fate of two of his sons to betrayal by close collaborators, it would seem that the Talleyrand variety of loyalty does have adherents in Iraq and possibly elsewhere as well. In its truest sense, of course, loyalty will always be among the kingliest of human attributes, and, possibly for this reason mainly, something rare in this world. More is the pity.