A passage to India
“Miss Derek and—the victim herself. . . .” He nearly broke down,
unable to repeat the girl’s name.
“Miss Quested herself definitely accuses him of——”
He nodded and turned his face away.
“Then she’s mad.”
“I cannot pass that last remark,” said the Collector, waking up to
the knowledge that they differed, and trembling with fury. “You
will withdraw it instantly. It is the type of remark you have
permitted yourself to make ever since you came to Chandrapore.”
“I’m excessively sorry, sir; I certainly withdraw it unconditionally.”
For the man was half mad himself.
“Pray, Mr. Fielding, what induced you to speak to me in such a
tone?”
“The news gave me a very great shock, so I must ask you to forgive
me. I cannot believe that Dr. Aziz is guilty.”
He slammed his hand on the table. “That—that is a repetition of
your insult in an aggravated form.”
“If I may venture to say so, no,” said Fielding, also going white,
but sticking to his point. “I make no reflection on the good faith
of the two ladies, but the charge they are bringing against Aziz
rests upon some mistake, and five minutes will clear it up. The
man’s manner is perfectly natural; besides, I know him to be
incapable of infamy.”
“It does indeed rest upon a mistake,” came the thin, biting voice
of the other. “It does indeed. I have had twenty-five years’
experience of this country”—he paused, and “twenty-five years”
seemed to fill the waiting-room with their staleness and
ungenerosity—“and during those twenty-five years I have never known
anything but disaster result when English people and Indians
attempt to be intimate socially. Intercourse, yes. Courtesy, by
all means. Intimacy—never, never. The whole weight of my authority
is against it. I have been in charge at Chandrapore for six years,
and if everything has gone smoothly, if there has been mutual
respect and esteem, it is because both peoples kept to this simple
rule. New-comers set our traditions aside, and in an instant what
you see happens, the work of years is undone and the good name of
my District ruined for a generation. I—I—can’t see the end of this
day’s work, Mr. Fielding. You, who are imbued with modern ideas—no
doubt you can. I wish I had never lived to see its beginning, I
know that. It is the end of me. That a lady, that a young lady
engaged to my most valued subordinate—that she—an English girl
fresh from England—that I should have lived——”
Involved in his own emotions, he broke down. What he had said was
both dignified and pathetic, but had it anything to do with Aziz?
Nothing at all, if Fielding was right. It is impossible to regard
a tragedy from two points of view, and whereas Turton had decided
to avenge the girl, he hoped to save the man. He wanted to get away
and talk to McBryde, who had always been friendly to him, was on
the whole sensible, and could, anyhow, be trusted to keep cool.
“I came down particularly on your account—while poor Heaslop got
his mother away. I regarded it as the most friendly thing I could
do. I meant to tell you that there will be an informal meeting at
the club this evening to discuss the situation, but I am doubtful
whether you will care to come. Your visits there are always
infrequent.”
“I shall certainly come, sir, and I am most grateful to you for
all the trouble you have taken over me. May I venture to ask—where
Miss Quested is.”
He replied with a gesture; she was ill.
“Worse and worse, appalling,” he said feelingly.
But the Collector looked at him sternly, because he was keeping
his head. He had not gone mad at the phrase “an English girl fresh
from England,” he had not rallied to the banner of race. He was
still after facts, though the herd had decided on emotion. Nothing
enrages Anglo-India more than the lantern of reason if it is
exhibited for one moment after its extinction is decreed. All over
Chandrapore that day the Europeans were putting aside their normal
personalities and sinking themselves in their community. Pity,
wrath, heroism, filled them, but the power of putting two and two
together was annihilated.
Terminating the interview, the Collector walked on to the platform.
The confusion there was revolting. A chuprassi of Ronny’s had been
told to bring up some trifles belonging to the ladies, and was
appropriating for himself various articles to which he had no
right; he was a camp follower of the angry English. Mohammed Latif
made no attempt to resist him. Hassan flung off his turban, and
wept. All the comforts that had been provided so liberally were
rolled about and wasted in the sun. The Collector took in the
situation at a glance, and his sense of justice functioned though
he was insane with rage. He spoke the necessary word, and the
looting stopped. Then he drove off to his bungalow and gave rein
to his passions again. When he saw the coolies asleep in the
ditches or the shopkeepers rising to salute him on their little
platforms, he said to himself: “I know what you’re like at last;
you shall pay for this, you shall squeal.”
CHAPTER XVIII
Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most
reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had
read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy
marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much
of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost
his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was
almost reassuring. “I have to detain you until you get bail,” he
said, “but no doubt your friends will be applying for it, and of
course they will be allowed to visit you, under regulations. I am
given certain information, and have to act on it—I’m not your
judge.” Aziz was led off weeping. Mr. McBryde was shocked at his
downfall, but no Indian ever surprised him, because he had a theory
about climatic zones. The theory ran: “All unfortunate natives are
criminals at heart, for the simple reason that they live south of
latitude 30. They are not to blame, they have not a dog’s chance—we
should be like them if we settled here.” Born at Karachi, he seemed
to contradict his theory, and would sometimes admit as much with
a sad, quiet smile.
“Another of them found out,” he thought, as he set to work to draft
his statement to the Magistrate.
He was interrupted by the arrival of Fielding.
He imparted all he knew without reservations. Miss Derek had
herself driven in the Mudkul car about an hour ago, she and Miss
Quested both in a terrible state. They had gone straight to his
bungalow where he happened to be, and there and then he had taken
down the charge and arranged for the arrest at the railway station.
“What is the charge, precisely?”
“That he followed her into the cave and made insulting advances.
She hit at him with her field-glasses; he pulled at them and the
strap broke, and that is how she got away. When we searched him
just now, they were in his pocket.”
“Oh no, oh no, no; it’ll be cleared up in five minutes,” he cried
again.
“Have a look at them.”
The strap had been newly broken, the eye-piece was jammed. The
logic of evidence said “Guilty.”
“Did she say any more?”
“There was an echo that appears to have frightened her. Did you go
into those caves?”
“I saw one of them. There was an echo. Did it get on her nerves?”
“I couldn’t worry her overmuch with questions. She’ll have plenty
to go through in the witness-box. They don’t bear thinking about,
these next weeks. I wish the Marabar Hills and all they contain
were at the bottom of the sea. Evening after evening one saw them
from the club, and they were just a harmless name. . . . Yes, we
start already.” For a visiting card was brought; Vakil Mahmoud Ali,
legal adviser to the prisoner, asked to be allowed to see him.
McBryde sighed, gave permission, and continued: “I heard some more
from Miss Derek—she is an old friend of us both and talks freely;
well—her account is that you went off to locate the camp, and
almost at once she heard stones falling on the Kawa Dol and saw
Miss Quested running straight down the face of a precipice. Well.
She climbed up a sort of gully to her, and found her practically
done for—her helmet off——”
“Was a guide not with her?” interrupted Fielding.
“No. She had got among some cactuses. Miss Derek saved her life
coming just then—she was beginning to fling herself about. She
helped her down to the car. Miss Quested couldn’t stand the Indian
driver, cried, ‘Keep him away’—and it was that that put our friend
on the track of what had happened. They made straight for our
bungalow, and are there now. That’s the story as far as I know it
yet. She sent the driver to join you. I think she behaved with
great sense.”
“I suppose there’s no possibility of my seeing Miss Quested?” he
asked suddenly.
“I hardly think that would do. Surely.”
“I was afraid you’ld say that. I should very much like to.”
“She is in no state to see anyone. Besides, you don’t know her
well.”
“Hardly at all. . . . But you see I believe she’s under some
hideous delusion, and that that wretched boy is innocent.”
The policeman started in surprise, and a shadow passed over his
face, for he could not bear his dispositions to be upset. “I had
no idea that was in your mind,” he said, and looked for support at
the signed deposition, which lay before him.
“Those field-glasses upset me for a minute, but I’ve thought since:
it’s impossible that, having attempted to assault her, he would
put her glasses into his pocket.”
“Quite possible, I’m afraid; when an Indian goes bad, he goes not
only very bad, but very queer.”
“I don’t follow.”
“How should you? When you think of crime you think of English
crime. The psychology here is different. I dare say you’ll tell me
next that he was quite normal when he came down from the hill to
greet you. No reason he should not be. Read any of the Mutiny
records; which, rather than the Bhagavad Gita, should be your Bible
in this country. Though I’m not sure that the one and the other
are not closely connected. Am I not being beastly? But, you see,
Fielding, as I’ve said to you once before, you’re a schoolmaster,
and consequently you come across these people at their best. That’s
what puts you wrong. They can be charming as boys. But I know them
as they really are, after they have developed into men. Look at
this, for instance.” He held up Aziz’ pocket-case. “I am going
through the contents. They are not edifying. Here is a letter from
a friend who apparently keeps a brothel.”
“I don’t want to hear his private letters.”
“It’ll have to be quoted in Court, as bearing on his morals. He
was fixing up to see women at Calcutta.”
“Oh, that’ll do, that’ll do.”
McBryde stopped, naively puzzled. It was obvious to him that any
two sahibs ought to pool all they knew about any Indian, and he
could not think where the objection came in.
“I dare say you have the right to throw stones at a young man for
doing that, but I haven’t. I did the same at his age.”
So had the Superintendent of Police, but he considered that the
conversation had taken a turn that was undesirable. He did not like
Fielding’s next remark either.
“Miss Quested really cannot be seen? You do know that for a
certainty?”
“You have never explained to me what’s in your mind here. Why on
earth do you want to see her?”
“On the off chance of her recanting before you send in that report
and he’s committed for trial, and the whole thing goes to blazes.
Old man, don’t argue about this, but do of your goodness just ring
up your wife or Miss Derek and enquire. It’ll cost you nothing.”
“It’s no use ringing up them,” he replied, stretching out for the
telephone. “Callendar settles a question like that, of course. You
haven’t grasped that she’s seriously ill.”