A passage to India
has it as regards sunrises. Do you remember Grasmere?”
“Ah, dearest Grasmere!” Its little lakes and mountains were beloved
by them all. Romantic yet manageable, it sprang from a kindlier
planet. Here an untidy plain stretched to the knees of the Marabar.
“Good morning, good morning, put on your topis,” shouted Aziz from
farther down the train. “Put on your topis at once, the early sun
is highly dangerous for heads. I speak as a doctor.”
“Good morning, good morning, put on your own.”
“Not for my thick head,” he laughed, banging it and holding up pads
of his hair.
“Nice creature he is,” murmured Adela.
“Listen—Mohammed Latif says ‘Good morning’ next.” Various pointless
jests.
“Dr. Aziz, what’s happened to your hills? The train has forgotten
to stop.”
“Perhaps it is a circular train and goes back to Chandrapore
without a break. Who knows!”
Having wandered off into the plain for a mile, the train slowed up
against an elephant. There was a platform too, but it shrivelled
into insignificance. An elephant, waving her painted forehead at
the morn! “Oh, what a surprise!” called the ladies politely. Aziz
said nothing, but he nearly burst with pride and relief. The
elephant was the one grand feature of the picnic, and God alone
knew what he had gone through to obtain her. Semi-official, she
was best approached through the Nawab Bahadur, who was best
approached through Nureddin, but he never answered letters, but
his mother had great influence with him and was a friend of
Hamidullah Begum’s, who had been excessively kind and had promised
to call on her provided the broken shutter of the purdah carriage
came back soon enough from Calcutta. That an elephant should depend
from so long and so slender a string filled Aziz with content, and
with humorous appreciation of the East, where the friends of
friends are a reality, where everything gets done sometime, and
sooner or later every one gets his share of happiness. And Mohammed
Latif was likewise content, because two of the guests had missed
the train, and consequently he could ride on the howdah instead of
following in a cart, and the servants were content because an
elephant increased their self-esteem, and they tumbled out the
luggage into the dust with shouts and bangs, issuing orders to one
another, and convulsed with goodwill.
“It takes an hour to get there, an hour to get back, and two hours
for the caves, which we will call three,” said Aziz, smiling
charmingly. There was suddenly something regal about him. “The
train back is at eleven-thirty, and you will be sitting down to
your tiffin in Chandrapore with Mr. Heaslop at exactly your usual
hour, namely, one-fifteen. I know everything about you. Four
hours—quite a small expedition—and an hour extra for misfortunes,
which occur somewhat frequently among my people. My idea is to plan
everything without consulting you; but you, Mrs. Moore, or Miss
Quested, you are at any moment to make alterations if you wish,
even if it means giving up the caves. Do you agree? Then mount this
wild animal.”
The elephant had knelt, grey and isolated, like another hill. They
climbed up the ladder, and he mounted shikar fashion, treading
first on the sharp edge of the heel and then into the looped-up
tail. When Mohammed Latif followed him, the servant who held the
end of the tail let go of it according to previous instructions,
so that the poor relative slipped and had to cling to the netting
over the buttocks. It was a little piece of Court buffoonery, and
distressed only the ladies, whom it was intended to divert. Both
of them disliked practical jokes. Then the beast rose in two
shattering movements, and poised them ten feet above the plain.
Immediately below was the scurf of life that an elephant always
collects round its feet—villagers, naked babies. The servants flung
crockery into tongas. Hassan annexed the stallion intended for
Aziz, and defied Mahmoud Ali’s man from its altitude. The Brahman
who had been hired to cook for Professor Godbole was planted under
an acacia tree, to await their return. The train, also hoping to
return, wobbled away through the fields, turning its head this way
and that like a centipede. And the only other movement to be seen
was a movement as of antennae, really the counterpoises of the
wells which rose and fell on their pivots of mud all over the plain
and dispersed a feeble flow of water. The scene was agreeable
rather than not in the mild morning air, but there was little
colour in it, and no vitality.
As the elephant moved towards the hills (the pale sun had by this
time saluted them to the base, and pencilled shadows down their
creases) a new quality occurred, a spiritual silence which invaded
more senses than the ear. Life went on as usual, but had no
consequences, that is to say, sounds did not echo or thoughts
develop. Everything seemed cut off at its root, and therefore
infected with illusion. For instance, there were some mounds by
the edge of the track, low, serrated, and touched with whitewash.
What were these mounds—graves, breasts of the goddess Parvati? The
villagers beneath gave both replies. Again, there was a confusion
about a snake which was never cleared up. Miss Quested saw a thin,
dark object reared on end at the farther side of a watercourse,
and said, “A snake!” The villagers agreed, and Aziz explained: yes,
a black cobra, very venomous, who had reared himself up to watch
the passing of the elephant, But when she looked through Ronny’s
field-glasses, she found it wasn’t a snake, but the withered and
twisted stump of a toddy-palm. So she said, “It isn’t a snake.”
The villagers contradicted her. She had put the word into their
minds, and they refused to abandon it. Aziz admitted that it looked
like a tree through the glasses, but insisted that it was a black
cobra really, and improvised some rubbish about protective mimicry.
Nothing was explained, and yet there was no romance. Films of heat,
radiated from the Kawa Dol precipices, increased the confusion.
They came at irregular intervals and moved capriciously. A patch
of field would jump as if it was being fried, and then lie quiet.
As they drew closer the radiation stopped.
The elephant walked straight at the Kawa Dol as if she would knock
for admission with her forehead, then swerved, and followed a path
round its base. The stones plunged straight into the earth, like
cliffs into the sea, and while Miss Quested was remarking on this,
and saying that it was striking, the plain quietly disappeared,
peeled off, so to speak, and nothing was to be seen on either side
but the granite, very dead and quiet. The sky dominated as usual,
but seemed unhealthily near, adhering like a ceiling to the summits
of the precipices. It was as if the contents of the corridor had
never been changed. Occupied by his own munificence, Aziz noticed
nothing. His guests noticed a little. They did not feel that it
was an attractive place or quite worth visiting, and wished it
could have turned into some Mohammedan object, such as a mosque,
which their host would have appreciated and explained. His ignorance
became evident, and was really rather a drawback. In spite of his
gay, confident talk, he had no notion how to treat this particular
aspect of India; he was lost in it without Professor Godbole, like
themselves.
The corridor narrowed, then widened into a sort of tray. Here, more
or less, was their goal. A ruined tank held a little water which
would do for the animals, and close above the mud was punched a
black hole—the first of the caves. Three hills encircled the tray.
Two of them pumped out heat busily, but the third was in shadow,
and here they camped.
“A horrid, stuffy place really,” murmured Mrs. Moore to herself.
“How quick your servants are!” Miss Quested exclaimed. For a cloth
had already been laid, with a vase of artificial flowers in its
centre, and Mahmoud Ali’s butler offered them poached eggs and tea
for the second time.
“I thought we would eat this before our caves, and breakfast
after.”
“Isn’t this breakfast?”
“This breakfast? Did you think I should treat you so strangely?”
He had been warned that English people never stop eating, and that
he had better nourish them every two hours until a solid meal was
ready.
“How very well it is all arranged.”
“That you shall tell me when I return to Chandrapore. Whatever
disgraces I bring upon myself, you remain my guests.” He spoke
gravely now. They were dependent on him for a few hours, and he
felt grateful to them for placing themselves in such a position.
All was well so far; the elephant held a fresh cut bough to her
lips, the tonga shafts stuck up into the air, the kitchen-boy
peeled potatoes, Hassan shouted, and Mohammed Latif stood as he
ought, with a peeled switch in his hand. The expedition was a
success, and it was Indian; an obscure young man had been allowed
to show courtesy to visitors from another country, which is what
all Indians long to do—even cynics like Mahmoud Ali—but they never
have the chance. Hospitality had been achieved, they were “his”
guests; his honour was involved in their happiness, and any
discomfort they endured would tear his own soul.
Like most Orientals, Aziz overrated hospitality, mistaking it for
intimacy, and not seeing that it is tainted with the sense of
possession. It was only when Mrs. Moore or Fielding was near him
that he saw further, and knew that it is more blessed to receive
than to give. These two had strange and beautiful effects on
him—they were his friends, his for ever, and he theirs for ever;
he loved them so much that giving and receiving became one. He
loved them even better than the Hamidullahs, because he had
surmounted obstacles to meet them, and this stimulates a generous
mind. Their images remained somewhere in his soul up to his dying
day, permanent additions. He looked at her now as she sat on a
deck-chair, sipping his tea, and had for a moment a joy that held
the seeds of its own decay, for it would lead him to think, “Oh,
what more can I do for her?” and so back to the dull round of
hospitality. The black bullets of his eyes filled with soft
expressive light, and he said, “Do you ever remember our mosque,
Mrs. Moore?”
“I do. I do,” she said, suddenly vital and young.
“And how rough and rude I was, and how good you were.”
“And how happy we both were.”
“Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall I
ever entertain your other children?”
“Do you know about the others? She will never talk about them to
me,” said Miss Quested, unintentionally breaking a spell.
“Ralph and Stella, yes, I know everything about them. But we must
not forget to visit our caves. One of the dreams of my life is
accomplished in having you both here as my guests. You cannot
imagine how you have honoured me. I feel like the Emperor Babur.”
“Why like him?” she enquired, rising.
“Because my ancestors came down with him from Afghanistan. They
joined him at Herat. He also had often no more elephants than one,
none sometimes, but he never ceased showing hospitality. When he
fought or hunted or ran away, he would always stop for a time among
hills, just like us; he would never let go of hospitality and
pleasure, and if there was only a little food, he would have it
arranged nicely, and if only one musical instrument, he would
compel it to play a beautiful tune. I take him as my ideal. He is
the poor gentleman, and he became a great king.”
“I thought another Emperor is your favourite—I forget the name—you
mentioned him at Mr. Fielding’s: what my book calls Aurangzebe.”
“Alamgir? Oh yes, he was of course the more pious. But Babur—never
in his whole life did he betray a friend, so I can only think of
him this morning. And you know how he died? He laid down his life