A passage to India
The poem for Mr. Bhattacharya never got written, but it had an
effect. It led him towards the vague and bulky figure of a
mother-land. He was without natural affection for the land of his
birth, but the Marabar Hills drove him to it. Half closing his
eyes, he attempted to love India. She must imitate Japan. Not until
she is a nation will her sons be treated with respect. He grew
harder and less approachable. The English, whom he had laughed at
or ignored, persecuted him everywhere; they had even thrown nets
over his dreams. “My great mistake has been taking our rulers as
a joke,” he said to Hamidullah next day; who replied with a sigh:
“It is far the wisest way to take them, but not possible in the
long run. Sooner or later a disaster such as yours occurs, and
reveals their secret thoughts about our character. If God himself
descended from heaven into their club and said you were innocent,
they would disbelieve him. Now you see why Mahmoud Ali and self
waste so much time over intrigues and associate with creatures like
Ram Chand.”
“I cannot endure committees. I shall go right away.”
“Where to? Turtons and Burtons, all are the same.”
“But not in an Indian state.”
“I believe the Politicals are obliged to have better manners. It
amounts to no more.”
“I do want to get away from British India, even to a poor job. I
think I could write poetry there. I wish I had lived in Babur’s
time and fought and written for him. Gone, gone, and not even any
use to say ‘Gone, gone,’ for it weakens us while we say it. We need
a king, Hamidullah; it would make our lives easier. As it is, we
must try to appreciate these quaint Hindus. My notion now is to
try for some post as doctor in one of their states.”
“Oh, that is going much too far.”
“It is not going as far as Mr. Ram Chand.”
“But the money, the money—they will never pay an adequate salary,
those savage Rajahs.”
“I shall never be rich anywhere, it is outside my character.”
“If you had been sensible and made Miss Quested pay——”
“I chose not to. Discussion of the past is useless,” he said, with
sudden sharpness of tone. “I have allowed her to keep her fortune
and buy herself a husband in England, for which it will be very
necessary. Don’t mention the matter again.”
“Very well, but your life must continue a poor man’s; no holidays
in Kashmir for you yet, you must stick to your profession and rise
to a highly paid post, not retire to a jungle-state and write
poems. Educate your children, read the latest scientific periodicals,
compel European doctors to respect you. Accept the consequences of
your own actions like a man.”
Aziz winked at him slowly and said: “We are not in the law courts.
There are many ways of being a man; mine is to express what is
deepest in my heart.”
“To such a remark there is certainly no reply,” said Hamidullah,
moved. Recovering himself and smiling, he said: “Have you heard
this naughty rumour that Mohammed Latif has got hold of?”
“Which?”
“When Miss Quested stopped in the College, Fielding used to visit
her . . . rather too late in the evening, the servants say.”
“A pleasant change for her if he did,” said Aziz, making a curious
face.
“But you understand my meaning?”
The young man winked again and said: “Just! Still, your meaning
doesn’t help me out of my difficulties. I am determined to leave
Chandrapore. The problem is, for where? I am determined to write
poetry. The problem is, about what? You give me no assistance.”
Then, surprising both Hamidullah and himself, he had an explosion
of nerves. “But who does give me assistance? No one is my friend.
All are traitors, even my own children. I have had enough of
friends.”
“I was going to suggest we go behind the purdah, but your three
treacherous children are there, so you will not want to.”
“I am sorry, it is ever since I was in prison my temper is strange;
take me, forgive me.”
“Nureddin’s mother is visiting my wife now. That is all right, I
think.”
“They come before me separately, but not so far together. You had
better prepare them for the united shock of my face.”
“No, let us surprise them without warning, far too much nonsense
still goes on among our ladies. They pretended at the time of your
trial they would give up purdah; indeed, those of them who can
write composed a document to that effect, and now it ends in
humbug. You know how deeply they all respect Fielding, but not one
of them has seen him. My wife says she will, but always when he
calls there is some excuse—she is not feeling well, she is ashamed
of the room, she has no nice sweets to offer him, only Elephants’
Ears, and if I say Elephants’ Ears are Mr. Fielding’s favourite
sweet, she replies that he will know how badly hers are made, so
she cannot see him on their account. For fifteen years, my dear
boy, have I argued with my begum, for fifteen years, and never
gained a point, yet the missionaries inform us our women are
down-trodden. If you want a subject for a poem, take this: The
Indian lady as she is and not as she is supposed to be.”
CHAPTER XXXI
Aziz had no sense of evidence. The sequence of his emotions decided
his beliefs, and led to the tragic coolness between himself and
his English friend. They had conquered but were not to be crowned.
Fielding was away at a conference, and after the rumour about Miss
Quested had been with him undisturbed for a few days, he assumed
it was true. He had no objection on moral grounds to his friends
amusing themselves, and Cyril, being middle-aged, could no longer
expect the pick of the female market, and must take his amusement
where he could find it. But he resented him making up to this
particular woman, whom he still regarded as his enemy; also, why
had he not been told? What is friendship without confidences? He
himself had told things sometimes regarded as shocking, and the
Englishman had listened, tolerant, but surrendering nothing in
return.
He met Fielding at the railway station on his return, agreed to
dine with him, and then started taxing him by the oblique method,
outwardly merry. An avowed European scandal there was—Mr. McBryde
and Miss Derek. Miss Derek’s faithful attachment to Chandrapore
was now explained: Mr. McBryde had been caught in her room, and
his wife was divorcing him. “That pure-minded fellow. However, he
will blame the Indian climate. Everything is our fault really. Now,
have I not discovered an important piece of news for you, Cyril?”
“Not very,” said Fielding, who took little interest in distant
sins. “Listen to mine.” Aziz’ face lit up. “At the conference, it
was settled. . . .”
“This evening will do for schoolmastery. I should go straight to
the Minto now, the cholera looks bad. We begin to have local cases
as well as imported. In fact, the whole of life is somewhat sad.
The new Civil Surgeon is the same as the last, but does not yet
dare to be. That is all any administrative change amounts to. All
my suffering has won nothing for us. But look here, Cyril, while
I remember it. There’s gossip about you as well as McBryde. They
say that you and Miss Quested became also rather too intimate
friends. To speak perfectly frankly, they say you and she have been
guilty of impropriety.”
“They would say that.”
“It’s all over the town, and may injure your reputation. You know,
everyone is by no means your supporter. I have tried all I could
to silence such a story.”
“Don’t bother. Miss Quested has cleared out at last.”
“It is those who stop in the country, not those who leave it, whom
such a story injures. Imagine my dismay and anxiety. I could
scarcely get a wink of sleep. First my name was coupled with her
and now it is yours.”
“Don’t use such exaggerated phrases.”
“As what?”
“As dismay and anxiety.”
“Have I not lived all my life in India? Do I not know what produces
a bad impression here?” His voice shot up rather crossly.
“Yes, but the scale, the scale. You always get the scale wrong, my
dear fellow. A pity there is this rumour, but such a very small
pity—so small that we may as well talk of something else.”
“You mind for Miss Quested’s sake, though. I can see from your
face.”
“As far as I do mind. I travel light.”
“Cyril, that boastfulness about travelling light will be your ruin.
It is raising up enemies against you on all sides, and makes me
feel excessively uneasy.”
“What enemies?”
Since Aziz had only himself in mind, he could not reply. Feeling
a fool, he became angrier. “I have given you list after list of
the people who cannot be trusted in this city. In your position I
should have the sense to know I was surrounded by enemies. You
observe I speak in a low voice. It is because I see your sais is
new. How do I know he isn’t a spy?” He lowered his voice: “Every
third servant is a spy.”
“Now, what is the matter?” he asked, smiling.
“Do you contradict my last remark?”
“It simply doesn’t affect me. Spies are as thick as mosquitoes,
but it’s years before I shall meet the one that kills me. You’ve
something else in your mind.”
“I’ve not; don’t be ridiculous.”
“You have. You’re cross with me about something or other.”
Any direct attack threw him out of action. Presently he said: “So
you and Madamsell Adela used to amuse one another in the evening,
naughty boy.”
Those drab and high-minded talks had scarcely made for dalliance.
Fielding was so startled at the story being taken seriously, and
so disliked being called a naughty boy, that he lost his head and
cried: “You little rotter! Well, I’m damned. Amusement indeed. Is
it likely at such a time?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, I’m sure. The licentious Oriental
imagination was at work,” he replied, speaking gaily, but cut to
the heart; for hours after his mistake he bled inwardly.
“You see, Aziz, the circumstances . . . also the girl was still
engaged to Heaslop, also I never felt . . .”
“Yes, yes; but you didn’t contradict what I said, so I thought it
was true. Oh dear, East and West. Most misleading. Will you please
put your little rotter down at his hospital?”
“You’re not offended?”
“Most certainly I am not.”
“If you are, this must be cleared up later on.”
“It has been,” he answered, dignified. “I believe absolutely what
you say, and of that there need be no further question.”
“But the way I said it must be cleared up. I was unintentionally
rude. Unreserved regrets.”
“The fault is entirely mine.”
Tangles like this still interrupted their intercourse. A pause in
the wrong place, an intonation misunderstood, and a whole
conversation went awry. Fielding had been startled, not shocked,
but how convey the difference? There is always trouble when two
people do not think of sex at the same moment, always mutual
resentment and surprise, even when the two people are of the same
race. He began to recapitulate his feelings about Miss Quested.
Aziz cut him short with: “But I believe you, I believe. Mohammed
Latif shall be severely punished for inventing this.”
“Oh, leave it alone, like all gossip—it’s merely one of those
half-alive things that try to crowd out real life. Take no notice,
it’ll vanish, like poor old Mrs. Moore’s tombs.”
“Mohammed Latif has taken to intriguing. We are already much
displeased with him. Will it satisfy you if we send him back to
his family without a present?”
“We’ll discuss M.L. at dinner.”
His eyes went clotted and hard. “Dinner. This is most unlucky—— I
forgot. I have promised to dine with Das.”
“Bring Das to me.”
“He will have invited other friends.”
“You are coming to dinner with me as arranged,” said Fielding,
looking away. “I don’t stand this. You are coming to dinner with
me. You come.”
They had reached the hospital now. Fielding continued round the
Maidan alone. He was annoyed with himself, but counted on dinner