A passage to India
didn’t want to communicate with anyone, not even with God. She sat
motionless with horror, and, when old Mohammed Latif came up to
her, thought he would notice a difference. For a time she thought,
“I am going to be ill,” to comfort herself, then she surrendered
to the vision. She lost all interest, even in Aziz, and the
affectionate and sincere words that she had spoken to him seemed
no longer hers but the air’s.
CHAPTER XV
Miss Quested and Aziz and a guide continued the slightly tedious
expedition. They did not talk much, for the sun was getting high.
The air felt like a warm bath into which hotter water is trickling
constantly, the temperature rose and rose, the boulders said, “I
am alive,” the small stones answered, “I am almost alive.” Between
the chinks lay the ashes of little plants. They meant to climb to
the rocking-stone on the summit, but it was too far, and they
contented themselves with the big group of caves. _En route_ for
these, they encountered several isolated caves, which the guide
persuaded them to visit, but really there was nothing to see; they
lit a match, admired its reflection in the polish, tested the echo
and came out again. Aziz was “pretty sure they should come on some
interesting old carvings soon,” but only meant he wished there were
some carvings. His deeper thoughts were about the breakfast.
Symptoms of disorganization had appeared as he left the camp. He
ran over the menu: an English breakfast, porridge and mutton chops,
but some Indian dishes to cause conversation, and pan afterwards.
He had never liked Miss Quested as much as Mrs. Moore, and had
little to say to her, less than ever now that she would marry a
British official.
Nor had Adela much to say to him. If his mind was with the
breakfast, hers was mainly with her marriage. Simla next week, get
rid of Antony, a view of Thibet, tiresome wedding bells, Agra in
October, see Mrs. Moore comfortably off from Bombay—the procession
passed before her again, blurred by the heat, and then she turned
to the more serious business of her life at Chandrapore. There were
real difficulties here—Ronny’s limitations and her own—but she
enjoyed facing difficulties, and decided that if she could control
her peevishness (always her weak point), and neither rail against
Anglo-India nor succumb to it, their married life ought to be happy
and profitable. She mustn’t be too theoretical; she would deal with
each problem as it came up, and trust to Ronny’s common sense and
her own. Luckily, each had abundance of common sense and good will.
But as she toiled over a rock that resembled an inverted saucer,
she thought, “What about love?” The rock was nicked by a double
row of footholds, and somehow the question was suggested by them.
Where had she seen footholds before? Oh yes, they were the pattern
traced in the dust by the wheels of the Nawab Bahadur’s car. She
and Ronny—no, they did not love each other.
“Do I take you too fast?” enquired Aziz, for she had paused, a
doubtful expression on her face. The discovery had come so suddenly
that she felt like a mountaineer whose rope had broken. Not to love
the man one’s going to marry! Not to find it out till this moment!
Not even to have asked oneself the question until now! Something
else to think out. Vexed rather than appalled, she stood still,
her eyes on the sparkling rock. There was esteem and animal contact
at dusk, but the emotion that links them was absent. Ought she to
break her engagement off? She was inclined to think not—it would
cause so much trouble to others; besides, she wasn’t convinced that
love is necessary to a successful union. If love is everything,
few marriages would survive the honeymoon. “No, I’m all right,
thanks,” she said, and, her emotions well under control, resumed
the climb, though she felt a bit dashed. Aziz held her hand, the
guide adhered to the surface like a lizard and scampered about as
if governed by a personal centre of gravity.
“Are you married, Dr. Aziz?” she asked, stopping again, and
frowning.
“Yes, indeed, do come and see my wife”—for he felt it more artistic
to have his wife alive for a moment.
“Thank you,” she said absently.
“She is not in Chandrapore just now.”
“And have you children?”
“Yes, indeed, three,” he replied in firmer tones.
“Are they a great pleasure to you?”
“Why, naturally, I adore them,” he laughed.
“I suppose so.” What a handsome little Oriental he was, and no
doubt his wife and children were beautiful too, for people usually
get what they already possess. She did not admire him with any
personal warmth, for there was nothing of the vagrant in her blood,
but she guessed he might attract women of his own race and rank,
and she regretted that neither she nor Ronny had physical charm.
It does make a difference in a relationship—beauty, thick hair, a
fine skin. Probably this man had several wives—Mohammedans always
insist on their full four, according to Mrs. Turton. And having no
one else to speak to on that eternal rock, she gave rein to the
subject of marriage and said in her honest, decent, inquisitive
way: “Have you one wife or more than one?”
The question shocked the young man very much. It challenged a new
conviction of his community, and new convictions are more sensitive
than old. If she had said, “Do you worship one god or several?” he
would not have objected. But to ask an educated Indian Moslem how
many wives he has—appalling, hideous! He was in trouble how to
conceal his confusion. “One, one in my own particular case,” he
sputtered, and let go of her hand. Quite a number of caves were at
the top of the track, and thinking, “Damn the English even at their
best,” he plunged into one of them to recover his balance. She
followed at her leisure, quite unconscious that she had said the
wrong thing, and not seeing him, she also went into a cave, thinking
with half her mind “sight-seeing bores me,” and wondering with the
other half about marriage.
CHAPTER XVI
He waited in his cave a minute, and lit a cigarette, so that he
could remark on rejoining her, “I bolted in to get out of the
draught,” or something of the sort. When he returned, he found the
guide, alone, with his head on one side. He had heard a noise, he
said, and then Aziz heard it too: the noise of a motor-car. They
were now on the outer shoulder of the Kawa Dol, and by scrambling
twenty yards they got a glimpse of the plain. A car was coming
towards the hills down the Chandrapore road. But they could not
get a good view of it, because the precipitous bastion curved at
the top, so that the base was not easily seen and the car
disappeared as it came nearer. No doubt it would stop almost
exactly beneath them, at the place where the pukka road degenerated
into a path, and the elephant had turned to sidle into the hills.
He ran back, to tell the strange news to his guest. The guide
explained that she had gone into a cave. “Which cave?”
He indicated the group vaguely.
“You should have kept her in sight, it was your duty,” said Aziz
severely. “Here are twelve caves at least. How am I to know which
contains my guest? Which is the cave I was in myself?”
The same vague gesture. And Aziz, looking again, could not even be
sure he had returned to the same group. Caves appeared in every
direction—it seemed their original spawning place—and the orifices
were always the same size. He thought, “Merciful Heavens, Miss
Quested is lost,” then pulled himself together, and began to look
for her calmly.
“Shout!” he commanded.
When they had done this for awhile, the guide explained that to
shout is useless, because a Marabar cave can hear no sound but its
own. Aziz wiped his head, and sweat began to stream inside his
clothes. The place was so confusing; it was partly a terrace,
partly a zigzag, and full of grooves that led this way and that
like snake-tracks. He tried to go into every one, but he never knew
where he had started. Caves got behind caves or confabulated in
pairs, and some were at the entrance of a gully.
“Come here!” he called gently, and when the guide was in reach, he
struck him in the face for a punishment. The man fled, and he was
left alone. He thought, “This is the end of my career, my guest is
lost.” And then he discovered the simple and sufficient explanation
of the mystery.
Miss Quested wasn’t lost. She had joined the people in the
car—friends of hers, no doubt, Mr. Heaslop perhaps. He had a sudden
glimpse of her, far down the gully—only a glimpse, but there she
was quite plain, framed between rocks, and speaking to another
lady. He was so relieved that he did not think her conduct odd.
Accustomed to sudden changes of plan, he supposed that she had run
down the Kawa Dol impulsively, in the hope of a little drive. He
started back alone towards his camp, and almost at once caught
sight of something which would have disquieted him very much a
moment before: Miss Quested’s field-glasses. They were lying at
the verge of a cave, half-way down an entrance tunnel. He tried to
hang them over his shoulder, but the leather strap had broken, so
he put them into his pocket instead. When he had gone a few steps,
he thought she might have dropped something else, so he went back
to look.
But the previous difficulty recurred: he couldn’t identify the
cave. Down in the plain he heard the car starting; however, he
couldn’t catch a second glimpse of that. So he scrambled down the
valley-face of the hill towards Mrs. Moore, and here he was more
successful: the colour and confusion of his little camp soon
appeared, and in the midst of it he saw an Englishman’s topi, and
beneath it—oh joy!—smiled not Mr. Heaslop, but Fielding.
“Fielding! Oh, I have so wanted you!” he cried, dropping the “Mr.”
for the first time.
And his friend ran to meet him, all so pleasant and jolly, no
dignity, shouting explanations and apologies about the train.
Fielding had come in the newly arrived car—Miss Derek’s car—that
other lady was Miss Derek. Chatter, chatter, all the servants
leaving their cooking to listen. Excellent Miss Derek! She had met
Fielding by chance at the post office, said, “Why haven’t you gone
to the Marabar?” heard how he missed the train, offered to run him
there and then. Another nice English lady. Where was she? Left with
car and chauffeur while Fielding found camp. Car couldn’t get
up—no, of course not—hundreds of people must go down to escort Miss
Derek and show her the way. The elephant in person. . . .
“Aziz, can I have a drink?”
“Certainly not.” He flew to get one.
“Mr. Fielding!” called Mrs. Moore, from her patch of shade; they
had not spoken yet, because his arrival had coincided with the
torrent from the hill.
“Good morning again!” he cried, relieved to find all well.
“Mr. Fielding, have you seen Miss Quested?”
“But I’ve only just arrived. Where is she?”
“I do not know.”
“Aziz! Where have you put Miss Quested to?” Aziz, who was returning
with a drink in his hand, had to think for a moment. His heart was
full of new happiness. The picnic, after a nasty shock or two, had
developed into something beyond his dreams, for Fielding had not
only come, but brought an uninvited guest. “Oh, she’s all right,”
he said; “she went down to see Miss Derek. Well, here’s luck!
Chin-chin!”
“Here’s luck, but chin-chin I do refuse,” laughed Fielding, who
detested the phrase. “Here’s to India!”
“Here’s luck, and here’s to England!”
Miss Derek’s chauffeur stopped the cavalcade which was starting to
escort his mistress up, and informed it that she had gone back with
the other young lady to Chandrapore; she had sent him to say so.
She was driving herself.
“Oh yes, that’s quite likely,” said Aziz. “I knew they’d gone for
a spin.”