Chapter Chapter 14 · Chapter XIV

. Chapter XIV

Most of life is so dull that there is nothing to be said about it,

and the books and talk that would describe it as interesting are

obliged to exaggerate, in the hope of justifying their own

existence. Inside its cocoon of work or social obligation, the

human spirit slumbers for the most part, registering the distinction

between pleasure and pain, but not nearly as alert as we pretend.

There are periods in the most thrilling day during which nothing

happens, and though we continue to exclaim, “I do enjoy myself,”

or, “I am horrified,” we are insincere. “As far as I feel anything,

it is enjoyment, horror”—it’s no more than that really, and a

perfectly adjusted organism would be silent.

It so happened that Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested had felt nothing

acutely for a fortnight. Ever since Professor Godbole had sung his

queer little song, they had lived more or less inside cocoons, and

the difference between them was that the elder lady accepted her

own apathy, while the younger resented hers. It was Adela’s faith

that the whole stream of events is important and interesting, and

if she grew bored she blamed herself severely and compelled her

lips to utter enthusiasms. This was the only insincerity in a

character otherwise sincere, and it was indeed the intellectual

protest of her youth. She was particularly vexed now because she

was both in India and engaged to be married, which double event

should have made every instant sublime.

India was certainly dim this morning, though seen under the auspices

of Indians. Her wish had been granted, but too late. She could not

get excited over Aziz and his arrangements. She was not the least

unhappy or depressed, and the various odd objects that surrounded

her—the comic “purdah” carriage, the piles of rugs and bolsters,

the rolling melons, the scent of sweet oils, the ladder, the

brass-bound box, the sudden irruption of Mahmoud Ali’s butler from

the lavatory with tea and poached eggs upon a tray—they were all

new and amusing, and led her to comment appropriately, but they

wouldn’t bite into her mind. So she tried to find comfort by

reflecting that her main interest would henceforward be Ronny.

“What a nice cheerful servant! What a relief after Antony!”

“They startle one rather. A strange place to make tea in,” said

Mrs. Moore, who had hoped for a nap.

“I want to sack Antony. His behaviour on the platform has decided

me.”

Mrs. Moore thought that Antony’s better self would come to the

front at Simla. Miss Quested was to be married at Simla; some

cousins, with a house looking straight on to Thibet, had invited

her.

“Anyhow, we must get a second servant, because at Simla you will

be at the hotel, and I don’t think Ronny’s Baldeo . . .” She loved

plans.

“Very well, you get another servant, and I’ll keep Antony with me.

I am used to his unappetizing ways. He will see me through the Hot

Weather.”

“I don’t believe in the Hot Weather. People like Major Callendar

who always talk about it—it’s in the hope of making one feel

inexperienced and small, like their everlasting, ‘I’ve been twenty

years in this country.’”

“I believe in the Hot Weather, but never did I suppose it would

bottle me up as it will.” For owing to the sage leisureliness of

Ronny and Adela, they could not be married till May, and consequently

Mrs. Moore could not return to England immediately after the

wedding, which was what she had hoped to do. By May a barrier of

fire would have fallen across India and the adjoining sea, and she

would have to remain perched up in the Himalayas waiting for the

world to get cooler.

“I won’t be bottled up,” announced the girl. “I’ve no patience with

these women here who leave their husbands grilling in the plains.

Mrs. McBryde hasn’t stopped down once since she married; she leaves

her quite intelligent husband alone half the year, and then’s

surprised she’s out of touch with him.”

“She has children, you see.”

“Oh yes, that’s true,” said Miss Quested, disconcerted.

“It is the children who are the first consideration. Until they

are grown up, and married off. When that happens one has again the

right to live for oneself—in the plains or the hills, as suits.”

“Oh yes, you’re perfectly right. I never thought it out.”

“If one has not become too stupid and old.” She handed her empty

cup to the servant.

“My idea now is that my cousins shall find me a servant in Simla,

at all events to see me through the wedding, after which Ronny

means to reorganize his staff entirely. He does it very well for

a bachelor; still, when he is married no doubt various changes will

have to be made—his old servants won’t want to take their orders

from me, and I don’t blame them.”

Mrs. Moore pushed up the shutters and looked out. She had brought

Ronny and Adela together by their mutual wish, but really she could

not advise them further. She felt increasingly (vision or

nightmare?) that, though people are important, the relations

between them are not, and that in particular too much fuss has been

made over marriage; centuries of carnal embracement, yet man is no

nearer to understanding man. And to-day she felt this with such

force that it seemed itself a relationship, itself a person who

was trying to take hold of her hand.

“Anything to be seen of the hills?”

“Only various shades of the dark.”

“We can’t be far from the place where my hyena was.” She peered

into the timeless twilight. The train crossed a nullah. “Pomper,

pomper, pomper,” was the sound that the wheels made as they trundled

over the bridge, moving very slowly. A hundred yards on came a

second nullah, then a third, suggesting the neighbourhood of higher

ground. “Perhaps this is mine; anyhow, the road runs parallel with

the railway.” Her accident was a pleasant memory; she felt in her

dry, honest way that it had given her a good shake up, and taught

her Ronny’s true worth. Then she went back to her plans; plans had

been a passion with her from girlhood. Now and then she paid

tribute to the present, said how friendly and intelligent Aziz was,

ate a guava, couldn’t eat a fried sweet, practised her Urdu on the

servant; but her thoughts ever veered to the manageable future,

and to the Anglo-Indian life she had decided to endure. And as she

appraised it with its adjuncts of Turtons and Burtons, the train

accompanied her sentences, “pomper, pomper,” the train half asleep,

going nowhere in particular and with no passenger of importance in

any of its carriages, the branch-line train, lost on a low

embankment between dull fields. Its message—for it had one—avoided

her well-equipped mind. Far away behind her, with a shriek that

meant business, rushed the Mail, connecting up important towns such

as Calcutta and Lahore, where interesting events occur and

personalities are developed. She understood that. Unfortunately,

India has few important towns. India is the country, fields,

fields, then hills, jungle, hills, and more fields. The branch line

stops, the road is only practicable for cars to a point, the

bullock-carts lumber down the side tracks, paths fray out into the

cultivation, and disappear near a splash of red paint. How can the

mind take hold of such a country? Generations of invaders have

tried, but they remain in exile. The important towns they build

are only retreats, their quarrels the malaise of men who cannot

find their way home. India knows of their trouble. She knows of

the whole world’s trouble, to its uttermost depth. She calls “Come”

through her hundred mouths, through objects ridiculous and august.

But come to what? She has never defined. She is not a promise, only

an appeal.

“I will fetch you from Simla when it’s cool enough. I will unbottle

you in fact,” continued the reliable girl. “We then see some of

the Mogul stuff—how appalling if we let you miss the Taj!—and then

I will see you off at Bombay. Your last glimpse of this country

really shall be interesting.” But Mrs. Moore had fallen asleep,

exhausted by the early start. She was in rather low health, and

ought not to have attempted the expedition, but had pulled herself

together in case the pleasure of the others should suffer. Her

dreams were of the same texture, but there it was her other children

who were wanting something, Stella and Ralph, and she was explaining

to them that she could not be in two families at once. When she

awoke, Adela had ceased to plan, and leant out of a window, saying,

“They’re rather wonderful.”

Astonishing even from the rise of the civil station, here the

Marabar were gods to whom earth is a ghost. Kawa Dol was nearest.

It shot up in a single slab, on whose summit one rock was poised—if

a mass so great can be called one rock. Behind it, recumbent, were

the hills that contained the other caves, isolated each from his

neighbour by broad channels of the plain. The assemblage, ten in

all, shifted a little as the train crept past them, as if observing

its arrival.

“I’ld not have missed this for anything,” said the girl, exaggerating

her enthusiasm. “Look, the sun’s rising—this’ll be absolutely

magnificent—come quickly—look. I wouldn’t have missed this for

anything. We should never have seen it if we’d stuck to the Turtons

and their eternal elephants.”

As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour

throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity,

was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without

against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the

supreme moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing

occurred. It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount.

The hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in

fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the

morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was prepared, did the

bridegroom not enter with trumpets and shawms, as humanity expects?

The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing

yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touching

the bodies already at work in the fields.

“Ah, that must be the false dawn—isn’t it caused by dust in the

upper layers of the atmosphere that couldn’t fall down during the

night? I think Mr. McBryde said so. Well, I must admit that England

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

for his son. A death far more difficult than battle. They were

caught in the heat. They should have gone back to Kabul for the

bad weather, but could not for reasons of state, and at Agra

Humayun fell sick. Babur walked round the bed three times, and

said, ‘I have borne it away,’ and he did bear it away; the fever

left his son and came to him instead, and he died. That is why I

prefer Babur to Alamgir. I ought not to do so, but I do. However,

I mustn’t delay you. I see you are ready to start.”

“Not at all,” she said, sitting down by Mrs. Moore again. “We enjoy

talk like this very much.” For at last he was talking about what

he knew and felt, talking as he had in Fielding’s garden-house; he

was again the Oriental guide whom they appreciated.

“I always enjoy conversing about the Moguls. It is the chief

pleasure I know. You see, those first six emperors were all most

wonderful men, and as soon as one of them is mentioned, no matter

which, I forget everything else in the world except the other five.

You could not find six such kings in all the countries of the

earth, not, I mean, coming one after the other—father, son.”

“Tell us something about Akbar.”

“Ah, you have heard the name of Akbar. Good. Hamidullah—whom you

shall meet—will tell you that Akbar is the greatest of all. I say,

‘Yes, Akbar is very wonderful, but half a Hindu; he was not a true

Moslem, which makes Hamidullah cry, ‘No more was Babur, he drank

wine.’ But Babur always repented afterwards, which makes the entire

difference, and Akbar never repented of the new religion he invented

instead of the Holy Koran.”

“But wasn’t Akbar’s new religion very fine? It was to embrace the

whole of India.”

“Miss Quested, fine but foolish. You keep your religion, I mine.

That is the best. Nothing embraces the whole of India, nothing,

nothing, and that was Akbar’s mistake.”

“Oh, do you feel that, Dr. Aziz?” she said thoughtfully. “I hope

you’re not right. There will have to be something universal in this

country—I don’t say religion, for I’m not religious, but something,

or how else are barriers to be broken down?”

She was only recommending the universal brotherhood he sometimes

dreamed of, but as soon as it was put into prose it became untrue.

“Take my own case,” she continued—it was indeed her own case that

had animated her. “I don’t know whether you happen to have heard,

but I’m going to marry Mr. Heaslop.”

“On which my heartiest congratulations.”

“Mrs. Moore, may I put our difficulty to Dr. Aziz—I mean our

Anglo-Indian one?”

“It is your difficulty, not mine, my dear.”

“Ah, that’s true. Well, by marrying Mr. Heaslop, I shall become

what is known as an Anglo-Indian.”

He held up his hand in protest. “Impossible. Take back such a

terrible remark.”

“But I shall; it’s inevitable. I can’t avoid the label. What I do

hope to avoid is the mentality. Women like——” She stopped, not

quite liking to mention names; she would boldly have said “Mrs.

Turton and Mrs. Callendar” a fortnight ago. “Some women are so—well,

ungenerous and snobby about Indians, and I should feel too ashamed

for words if I turned like them, but—and here’s my difficulty—there’s

nothing special about me, nothing specially good or strong, which

will help me to resist my environment and avoid becoming like them.

I’ve most lamentable defects. That’s why I want Akbar’s ‘universal

religion’ or the equivalent to keep me decent and sensible. Do you

see what I mean?”

Her remarks pleased him, but his mind shut up tight because she

had alluded to her marriage. He was not going to be mixed up in

that side of things. “You are certain to be happy with any relative

of Mrs. Moore’s,” he said with a formal bow.

“Oh, my happiness—that’s quite another problem. I want to consult

you about this Anglo-Indian difficulty. Can you give me any advice?”

“You are absolutely unlike the others, I assure you. You will never

be rude to my people.”

“I am told we all get rude after a year.”

“Then you are told a lie,” he flashed, for she had spoken the truth

and it touched him on the raw; it was itself an insult in these

particular circumstances. He recovered himself at once and laughed,

but her error broke up their conversation—their civilization it

had almost been—which scattered like the petals of a desert flower,

and left them in the middle of the hills. “Come along,” he said,

holding out a hand to each. They got up a little reluctantly, and

addressed themselves to sightseeing.

The first cave was tolerably convenient. They skirted the puddle

of water, and then climbed up over some unattractive stones, the

sun crashing on their backs. Bending their heads, they disappeared

one by one into the interior of the hills. The small black hole

gaped where their varied forms and colours had momentarily

functioned. They were sucked in like water down a drain. Bland and

bald rose the precipices; bland and glutinous the sky that connected

the precipices; solid and white, a Brahminy kite flapped between

the rocks with a clumsiness that seemed intentional. Before man,

with his itch for the seemly, had been born, the planet must have

looked thus. The kite flapped away. . . . Before birds, perhaps. . . .

And then the hole belched and humanity returned.

A Marabar cave had been horrid as far as Mrs. Moore was concerned,

for she had nearly fainted in it, and had some difficulty in

preventing herself from saying so as soon as she got into the air

again. It was natural enough: she had always suffered from

faintness, and the cave had become too full, because all their

retinue followed them. Crammed with villagers and servants, the

circular chamber began to smell. She lost Aziz and Adela in the

dark, didn’t know who touched her, couldn’t breathe, and some vile

naked thing struck her face and settled on her mouth like a pad.

She tried to regain the entrance tunnel, but an influx of villagers

swept her back. She hit her head. For an instant she went mad,

hitting and gasping like a fanatic. For not only did the crush and

stench alarm her; there was also a terrifying echo.

Professor Godbole had never mentioned an echo; it never impressed

him, perhaps. There are some exquisite echoes in India; there is

the whisper round the dome at Bijapur; there are the long, solid

sentences that voyage through the air at Mandu, and return unbroken

to their creator. The echo in a Marabar cave is not like these, it

is entirely devoid of distinction. Whatever is said, the same

monotonous noise replies, and quivers up and down the walls until

it is absorbed into the roof. “Boum” is the sound as far as the

human alphabet can express it, or “bou-oum,” or “ou-boum,”—utterly

dull. Hope, politeness, the blowing of a nose, the squeak of a

boot, all produce “boum.” Even the striking of a match starts a

little worm coiling, which is too small to complete a circle but

is eternally watchful. And if several people talk at once, an

overlapping howling noise begins, echoes generate echoes, and the

cave is stuffed with a snake composed of small snakes, which writhe

independently.

After Mrs. Moore all the others poured out. She had given the

signal for the reflux. Aziz and Adela both emerged smiling and she

did not want him to think his treat was a failure, so smiled too.

As each person emerged she looked for a villain, but none was

there, and she realized that she had been among the mildest

individuals, whose only desire was to honour her, and that the

naked pad was a poor little baby, astride its mother’s hip. Nothing

evil had been in the cave, but she had not enjoyed herself; no,

she had not enjoyed herself, and she decided not to visit a second

one.

“Did you see the reflection of his match—rather pretty?” asked

Adela.

“I forget . . .”

“But he says this isn’t a good cave, the best are on the Kawa Dol.”

“I don’t think I shall go on to there. I dislike climbing.”

“Very well, let’s sit down again in the shade until breakfast’s

ready.”

“Ah, but that’ll disappoint him so; he has taken such trouble. You

should go on; you don’t mind.”

“Perhaps I ought to,” said the girl, indifferent to what she did,

but desirous of being amiable.

The servants, etc., were scrambling back to the camp, pursued by

grave censures from Mohammed Latif. Aziz came to help the guests

over the rocks. He was at the summit of his powers, vigorous and

humble, too sure of himself to resent criticism, and he was

sincerely pleased when he heard they were altering his plans.

“Certainly, Miss Quested, so you and I will go together, and leave

Mrs. Moore here, and we will not be long, yet we will not hurry,

because we know that will be her wish.”

“Quite right. I’m sorry not to come too, but I’m a poor walker.”

“Dear Mrs. Moore, what does anything matter so long as you are my

guests? I am very glad you are _not_ coming, which sounds strange,

but you are treating me with true frankness, as a friend.”

“Yes, I am your friend,” she said, laying her hand on his sleeve,

and thinking, despite her fatigue, how very charming, how very

good, he was, and how deeply she desired his happiness. “So may I

make another suggestion? Don’t let so many people come with you

this time. I think you may find it more convenient.”

“Exactly, exactly,” he cried, and, rushing to the other extreme,

forbade all except one guide to accompany Miss Quested and him to

the Kawa Dol. “Is that all right?” he enquired.

“Quite right, now enjoy yourselves, and when you come back tell me

all about it.” And she sank into the deck-chair.

If they reached the big pocket of caves, they would be away nearly

an hour. She took out her writing-pad, and began, “Dear Stella,

Dear Ralph,” then stopped, and looked at the queer valley and their

feeble invasion of it. Even the elephant had become a nobody. Her

eye rose from it to the entrance tunnel. No, she did not wish to

repeat that experience. The more she thought over it, the more

disagreeable and frightening it became. She minded it much more

now than at the time. The crush and the smells she could forget,

but the echo began in some indescribable way to undermine her hold

on life. Coming at a moment when she chanced to be fatigued, it

had managed to murmur, “Pathos, piety, courage—they exist, but are

identical, and so is filth. Everything exists, nothing has value.”

If one had spoken vileness in that place, or quoted lofty poetry,

the comment would have been the same—“ou-boum.” If one had spoken

with the tongues of angels and pleaded for all the unhappiness and

misunderstanding in the world, past, present, and to come, for all

the misery men must undergo whatever their opinion and position,

and however much they dodge or bluff—it would amount to the same,

the serpent would descend and return to the ceiling. Devils are of

the North, and poems can be written about them, but no one could

romanticize the Marabar because it robbed infinity and eternity of

their vastness, the only quality that accommodates them to mankind.

She tried to go on with her letter, reminding herself that she was

only an elderly woman who had got up too early in the morning and

journeyed too far, that the despair creeping over her was merely

her despair, her personal weakness, and that even if she got a

sunstroke and went mad the rest of the world would go on. But

suddenly, at the edge of her mind, Religion appeared, poor little

talkative Christianity, and she knew that all its divine words from

“Let there be Light” to “It is finished” only amounted to “boum.”

Then she was terrified over an area larger than usual; the universe,

never comprehensible to her intellect, offered no repose to her

soul, the mood of the last two months took definite form at last,

and she realized that she didn’t want to write to her children,

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.