A passage to India
“His Highness’s Private Secretary, probably.”
“Where is he, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because not a soul’s been near us since we arrived.”
“Really.”
“I wrote beforehand to the Durbar, and asked if a visit was
convenient. I was told it was, and arranged my tour accordingly;
but the Guest House servants appear to have no definite instructions,
we can’t get any eggs, also my wife wants to go out in the boat.”
“There are two boats.”
“Exactly, and no oars.”
“Colonel Maggs broke the oars when here last.”
“All four?”
“He is a most powerful man.”
“If the weather lifts, we want to see your torchlight procession
from the water this evening,” he pursued. “I wrote to Godbole about
it, but he has taken no notice; it’s a place of the dead.”
“Perhaps your letter never reached the Minister in question.”
“Will there be any objection to English people watching the
procession?”
“I know nothing at all about the religion here. I should never
think of watching it myself.”
“We had a very different reception both at Mudkul and Deora, they
were kindness itself at Deora, the Maharajah and Maharani wanted
us to see everything.”
“You should never have left them.”
“Jump in, Ralph”—they had reached the carriage.
“Jump in, Mr. Quested, and Mr. Fielding.”
“Who on earth is Mr. Quested?”
“Do I mispronounce that well known name? Is he not your wife’s
brother?”
“Who on earth do you suppose I’ve married?”
“I’m only Ralph Moore,” said the boy, blushing, and at that moment
there fell another pailful of the rain, and made a mist round their
feet. Aziz tried to withdraw, but it was too late.
“Quested? Quested? Don’t you know that my wife was Mrs. Moore’s
daughter?”
He trembled, and went purplish grey; he hated the news, hated
hearing the name Moore.
“Perhaps this explains your odd attitude?”
“And pray what is wrong with my attitude?”
“The preposterous letter you allowed Mahmoud Ali to write for you.”
“This is a very useless conversation, I consider.”
“However did you make such a mistake?” said Fielding, more friendly
than before, but scathing and scornful. “It’s almost unbelievable.
I should think I wrote you half a dozen times, mentioning my wife
by name. Miss Quested! What an extraordinary notion!” From his
smile, Aziz guessed that Stella was beautiful. “Miss Quested is
our best friend, she introduced us, but . . . what an amazing
notion. Aziz, we must thrash this misunderstanding out later on.
It is clearly some devilry of Mahmoud Ali’s. He knows perfectly
well I married Miss Moore. He called her ‘Heaslop’s sister’ in his
insolent letter to me.”
The name woke furies in him. “So she is, and here is Heaslop’s
brother, and you his brother-in-law, and good-bye.” Shame turned
into a rage that brought back his self-respect. “What does it
matter to me who you marry? Don’t trouble me here at Mau is all I
ask. I do not want you, I do not want one of you in my private
life, with my dying breath I say it. Yes, yes, I made a foolish
blunder; despise me and feel cold. I thought you married my enemy.
I never read your letter. Mahmoud Ali deceived me. I thought you’d
stolen my money, but”—he clapped his hands together, and his
children gathered round him—“it’s as if you stole it. I forgive
Mahmoud Ali all things, because he loved me.” Then pausing, while
the rain exploded like pistols, he said, “My heart is for my own
people henceforward,” and turned away. Cyril followed him through
the mud, apologizing, laughing a little, wanting to argue and
reconstruct, pointing out with irrefragable logic that he had
married, not Heaslop’s betrothed, but Heaslop’s sister. What
difference did it make at this hour of the day? He had built his
life on a mistake, but he had built it. Speaking in Urdu, that the
children might understand, he said: “Please do not follow us,
whomever you marry. I wish no Englishman or Englishwoman to be my
friend.”
He returned to the house excited and happy. It had been an uneasy,
uncanny moment when Mrs. Moore’s name was mentioned, stirring
memories. “Esmiss Esmoor . . .”—as though she was coming to help
him. She had always been so good, and that youth whom he had
scarcely looked at was her son, Ralph Moore, Stella and Ralph, whom
he had promised to be kind to, and Stella had married Cyril.
CHAPTER XXXVI
All the time the palace ceased not to thrum and tum-tum. The
revelation was over, but its effect lasted, and its effect was to
make men feel that the revelation had not yet come. Hope existed
despite fulfilment, as it will be in heaven. Although the God had
been born, His procession—loosely supposed by many to be the
birth—had not taken place. In normal years, the middle hours of
this day were signalized by performances of great beauty in the
private apartments of the Rajah. He owned a consecrated troupe of
men and boys, whose duty it was to dance various actions and
meditations of his faith before him. Seated at his ease, he could
witness the Three Steps by which the Saviour ascended the universe
to the discomfiture of Indra, also the death of the dragon, the
mountain that turned into an umbrella, and the saddhu who (with
comic results) invoked the God before dining. All culminated in
the dance of the milkmaidens before Krishna, and in the still
greater dance of Krishna before the milkmaidens, when the music
and the musicians swirled through the dark blue robes of the actors
into their tinsel crowns, and all became one. The Rajah and his
guests would then forget that this was a dramatic performance, and
would worship the actors. Nothing of the sort could occur to-day,
because death interrupts. It interrupted less here than in Europe,
its pathos was less poignant, its irony less cruel. There were two
claimants to the throne, unfortunately, who were in the palace now
and suspected what had happened, yet they made no trouble, because
religion is a living force to the Hindus, and can at certain
moments fling down everything that is petty and temporary in their
natures. The festival flowed on, wild and sincere, and all men
loved each other, and avoided by instinct whatever could cause
inconvenience or pain.
Aziz could not understand this, any more than an average Christian
could. He was puzzled that Mau should suddenly be purged from
suspicion and self-seeking. Although he was an outsider, and
excluded from their rites, they were always particularly charming
to him at this time; he and his household received small courtesies
and presents, just because he was outside. He had nothing to do
all day, except to send the embrocation over to the Guest House,
and towards sunset he remembered it, and looked round his house
for a local palliative, for the dispensary was shut. He found a
tin of ointment belonging to Mohammed Latif, who was unwilling it
should be removed, for magic words had been spoken over it while
it was being boiled down, but Aziz promised that he would bring it
back after application to the stings: he wanted an excuse for a
ride.
The procession was beginning to form as he passed the palace. A
large crowd watched the loading of the State palanquin, the prow
of which protruded in the form of a silver dragon’s head through
the lofty half-opened door. Gods, big and little, were getting
aboard. He averted his eyes, for he never knew how much he was
supposed to see, and nearly collided with the Minister of Education.
“Ah, you might make me late”—meaning that the touch of a non-Hindu
would necessitate another bath; the words were spoken without moral
heat. “Sorry,” said Aziz. The other smiled, and again mentioned
the Guest House party, and when he heard that Fielding’s wife was
not Miss Quested after all, remarked “Ah, no, he married the sister
of Mr. Heaslop. Ah, exactly, I have known that for over a year”—also
without heat. “Why did you not tell me? Your silence plunged me
into a pretty pickle.” Godbole, who had never been known to tell
anyone anything, smiled again, and said in deprecating tones:
“Never be angry with me. I am, as far as my limitations permit,
your true friend; besides, it is my holy festival.” Aziz always
felt like a baby in that strange presence, a baby who unexpectedly
receives a toy. He smiled also, and turned his horse into a lane,
for the crush increased. The Sweepers’ Band was arriving. Playing
on sieves and other emblems of their profession, they marched
straight at the gate of the palace with the air of a victorious
army. All other music was silent, for this was ritually the moment
of the Despised and Rejected; the God could not issue from his
temple until the unclean Sweepers played their tune, they were the
spot of filth without which the spirit cannot cohere. For an
instant the scene was magnificent. The doors were thrown open, and
the whole court was seen inside, barefoot and dressed in white
robes; in the fairway stood the Ark of the Lord, covered with cloth
of gold and flanked by peacock fans and by stiff circular banners
of crimson. It was full to the brim with statuettes and flowers.
As it rose from the earth on the shoulders of its bearers, the
friendly sun of the monsoons shone forth and flooded the world with
colour, so that the yellow tigers painted on the palace walls
seemed to spring, and pink and green skeins of cloud to link up
the upper sky. The palanquin moved. . . . The lane was full of
State elephants, who would follow it, their howdahs empty out of
humility. Aziz did not pay attention to these sanctities, for they
had no connection with his own; he felt bored, slightly cynical,
like his own dear Emperor Babur, who came down from the north and
found in Hindustan no good fruit, no fresh water or witty
conversation, not even a friend.
The lane led quickly out of the town on to high rocks and jungle.
Here he drew rein and examined the great Mau tank, which lay
exposed beneath him to its remotest curve. Reflecting the evening
clouds, it filled the nether-world with an equal splendour, so that
earth and sky leant toward one another, about to clash in ecstasy.
He spat, cynical again, more cynical than before. For in the centre
of the burnished circle a small black blot was advancing—the Guest
House boat. Those English had improvised something to take the
place of oars, and were proceeding in their work of patrolling
India. The sight endeared the Hindus by comparison, and looking
back at the milk-white hump of the palace, he hoped that they would
enjoy carrying their idol about, for at all events it did not pry
into other people’s lives. This pose of “seeing India” which had
seduced him to Miss Quested at Chandrapore was only a form of
ruling India; no sympathy lay behind it; he knew exactly what was
going on in the boat as the party gazed at the steps down which
the image would presently descend, and debated how near they might
row without getting into trouble officially.
He did not give up his ride, for there would be servants at the
Guest House whom he could question; a little information never
comes amiss. He took the path by the sombre promontory that
contained the royal tombs. Like the palace, they were of snowy
stucco, and gleamed by their internal light, but their radiance
grew ghostly under approaching night. The promontory was covered
with lofty trees, and the fruit-bats were unhooking from the boughs
and making kissing sounds as they grazed the surface of the tank;
hanging upside down all the day, they had grown thirsty. The signs
of the contented Indian evening multiplied; frogs on all sides,
cow-dung burning eternally; a flock of belated hornbills overhead,
looking like winged skeletons as they flapped across the gloaming.
There was death in the air, but not sadness; a compromise had been
made between destiny and desire, and even the heart of man
acquiesced.