บทที่ บทที่ 20 · Chapter XX

. Chapter XX

Although Miss Quested had not made herself popular with the English,

she brought out all that was fine in their character. For a few

hours an exalted emotion gushed forth, which the women felt even

more keenly than the men, if not for so long. “What can we do for

our sister?” was the only thought of Mesdames Callendar and Lesley,

as they drove through the pelting heat to enquire. Mrs. Turton was

the only visitor admitted to the sick-room. She came out ennobled

by an unselfish sorrow. “She is my own darling girl,” were the

words she spoke, and then, remembering that she had called her “not

pukka” and resented her engagement to young Heaslop, she began to

cry. No one had ever seen the Collector’s wife cry. Capable of

tears—yes, but always reserving them for some adequate occasion,

and now it had come. Ah, why had they not all been kinder to the

stranger, more patient, given her not only hospitality but their

hearts? The tender core of the heart that is so seldom used—they

employed it for a little, under the stimulus of remorse. If all is

over (as Major Callendar implied), well, all is over, and nothing

can be done, but they retained some responsibility in her grievous

wrong that they couldn’t define. If she wasn’t one of them, they

ought to have made her one, and they could never do that now, she

had passed beyond their invitation. “Why don’t one think more of

other people?” sighed pleasure-loving Miss Derek. These regrets

only lasted in their pure form for a few hours. Before sunset,

other considerations adulterated them, and the sense of guilt (so

strangely connected with our first sight of any suffering) had

begun to wear away.

People drove into the club with studious calm—the jog-trot of

country gentlefolk between green hedgerows, for the natives must

not suspect that they were agitated. They exchanged the usual

drinks, but everything tasted different, and then they looked out

at the palisade of cactuses stabbing the purple throat of the sky;

they realized that they were thousands of miles from any scenery

that they understood. The club was fuller than usual, and several

parents had brought their children into the rooms reserved for

adults, which gave the air of the Residency at Lucknow. One young

mother—a brainless but most beautiful girl—sat on a low ottoman in

the smoking-room with her baby in her arms; her husband was away

in the district, and she dared not return to her bungalow in case

the “niggers attacked.” The wife of a small railway official, she

was generally snubbed; but this evening, with her abundant figure

and masses of corn-gold hair, she symbolized all that is worth

fighting and dying for; more permanent a symbol, perhaps, than poor

Adela. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Blakiston, those drums are only Mohurram,”

the men would tell her.

“Then they’ve started,” she moaned, clasping the infant and rather

wishing he would not blow bubbles down his chin at such a moment

as this. “No, of course not, and anyhow, they’re not coming to the

club.” “And they’re not coming to the Burra Sahib’s bungalow

either, my dear, and that’s where you and your baby’ll sleep

tonight,” answered Mrs. Turton, towering by her side like Pallas

Athene, and determining in the future not to be such a snob.

The Collector clapped his hands for silence. He was much calmer

than when he had flown out at Fielding. He was indeed always calmer

when he addressed several people than in a _tête-à-tête._ “I want

to talk specially to the ladies,” he said. “Not the least cause

for alarm. Keep cool, keep cool. Don’t go out more than you can

help, don’t go into the city, don’t talk before your servants.

That’s all.”

“Harry, is there any news from the city?” asked his wife, standing

at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety

voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy.

“Everything absolutely normal.”

“I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of

course.”

“Merely the preparations for it—the Procession is not till next

week.”

“Quite so, not till Monday.”

“Mr. McBryde’s down there disguised as a Holy Man,” said Mrs.

Callendar.

“That’s exactly the sort of thing that must not be said,” he

remarked, pointing at her. “Mrs. Callendar, be more careful than

that, please, in these times.”

“I . . . well, I . . .” She was not offended, his severity made

her feel safe.

“Any more questions? Necessary questions.”

“Is the—where is he——” Mrs. Lesley quavered.

“Jail. Bail has been refused.”

Fielding spoke next. He wanted to know whether there was an official

bulletin about Miss Quested’s health, or whether the grave reports

were due to gossip. His question produced a bad effect, partly

because he had pronounced her name; she, like Aziz, was always

referred to by a periphrasis.

“I hope Callendar may be able to let us know how things are going

before long.”

“I fail to see how that last question can be termed a necessary

question,” said Mrs. Turton.

“Will all ladies leave the smoking-room now, please?” he cried,

clapping his hands again. “And remember what I have said. We look

to you to help us through a difficult time, and you can help us by

behaving as if everything is normal. It is all I ask. Can I rely

on you?”

“Yes, indeed, Burra Sahib,” they chorused out of peaked, anxious

faces. They moved out, subdued yet elated, Mrs. Blakiston in their

midst like a sacred flame. His simple words had reminded them that

they were an outpost of Empire. By the side of their compassionate

love for Adela another sentiment sprang up which was to strangle

it in the long run. Its first signs were prosaic and small. Mrs.

Turton made her loud, hard jokes at bridge, Mrs. Lesley began to

knit a comforter.

When the smoking-room was clear, the Collector sat on the edge of

a table, so that he could dominate without formality. His mind

whirled with contradictory impulses. He wanted to avenge Miss

Quested and punish Fielding, while remaining scrupulously fair. He

wanted to flog every native that he saw, but to do nothing that

would lead to a riot or to the necessity for military intervention.

The dread of having to call in the troops was vivid to him; soldiers

put one thing straight, but leave a dozen others crooked, and they

love to humiliate the civilian administration. One soldier was in

the room this evening—a stray subaltern from a Gurkha regiment; he

was a little drunk, and regarded his presence as providential. The

Collector sighed. There seemed nothing for it but the old weary

business of compromise and moderation. He longed for the good old

days when an Englishman could satisfy his own honour and no

questions asked afterwards. Poor young Heaslop had taken a step in

this direction, by refusing bail, but the Collector couldn’t feel

this was wise of poor young Heaslop. Not only would the Nawab

Bahadur and others be angry, but the Government of India itself

also watches—and behind it is that caucus of cranks and cravens,

the British Parliament. He had constantly to remind himself that,

in the eyes of the law, Aziz was not yet guilty, and the effort

fatigued him.

The others, less responsible, could behave naturally. They had

started speaking of “women and children”—that phrase that exempts

the male from sanity when it has been repeated a few times. Each

felt that all he loved best in the world was at stake, demanded

revenge, and was filled with a not unpleasing glow, in which the

chilly and half-known features of Miss Quested vanished, and were

replaced by all that is sweetest and warmest in the private life.

“But it’s the women and children,” they repeated, and the Collector

knew he ought to stop them intoxicating themselves, but he hadn’t

the heart. “They ought to be compelled to give hostages,” etc. Many

of the said women and children were leaving for the Hill Station

in a few days, and the suggestion was made that they should be

packed off at once in a special train.

“_And_ a jolly suggestion,” the subaltern cried. “The army’s got

to come in sooner or later. (A special train was in his mind

inseparable from troops.) This would never have happened if Barabas

Hill was under military control. Station a bunch of Gurkhas at the

entrance of the cave was all that was wanted.”

“Mrs. Blakiston was saying if only there were a few Tommies,”

remarked someone.

“English no good,” he cried, getting his loyalties mixed. “Native

troops for this country. Give me the sporting type of native, give

me Gurkhas, give me Rajputs, give me Jats, give me the Punjabi,

give me Sikhs, give me Marathas, Bhils, Afridis and Pathans, and

really if it comes to that, I don’t mind if you give me the scums

of the bazaars. Properly led, mind. I’d lead them anywhere——”

The Collector nodded at him pleasantly, and said to his own people:

“Don’t start carrying arms about. I want everything to go on

precisely as usual, until there’s cause for the contrary. Get the

womenfolk off to the hills, but do it quietly, and for Heaven’s

sake no more talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or

feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian has

attempted—is charged with an attempted crime.” He flipped his

forehead hard with his finger-nail, and they all realized that he

felt as deeply as they did, and they loved him, and determined not

to increase his difficulties. “Act upon that fact until there are

more facts,” he concluded. “Assume every Indian is an angel.”

They murmured, “Right you are, Burra Sahib. . . . Angels. . . .

Exactly. . . .” From the subaltern: “Exactly what I said. The

native’s all right if you get him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You

remember the one I had a knock with on your Maidan last month.

Well, he was all right. Any native who plays polo is all right.

What you’ve got to stamp on is these educated classes, and, mind,

I do know what I’m talking about this time.”

The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine buzz. Mrs.

Turton called out, “She’s better,” and from both sections of the

community a sigh of joy and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who

had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked

ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below

him on an ottoman, and said, “H’m!”

Everyone began pressing him for details. “No one’s out of danger

in this country as long as they have a temperature,” was his

answer. He appeared to resent his patient’s recovery, and no one

who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this.

“Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it.”

“Take me some time to do that.”

“How’s the old lady?”

“Temperature.”

“My wife heard she was sinking.”

“So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can’t be plagued with

questions, Lesley.”

“Sorry, old man.”

“Heaslop’s just behind me.”

At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed

on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop

was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against

them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the

sahib’s cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for

him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending

the course of the law.

“I wish to God I hadn’t given my jewel of an assistant leave. I’ld

cut my tongue out first. To feel I’m responsible, that’s what hits

me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did,

my sons, that is what I did.”

Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully.

Thinking him afraid, the other went on: “I understood an Englishman

was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in.”

“No one blames you, my dear Callendar,” said the Collector, looking

down. “We are all to blame in the sense that we ought to have seen

the expedition was insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I

knew about it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the

ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, but

not an atom of blame attaches to you personally.”

“I don’t feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful

thing, and I’ve no use for the man who shirks it.” His eyes were

directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken

to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was

what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives;

always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept

silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would

toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again,

and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and

set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk

than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks.

“Heard about Miss Quested’s servant?” reinforced the Major.

“No, what about him?”

“Heaslop warned Miss Quested’s servant last night never to lose

sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him

behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story,

with names and sums—a well-known pimp to those people gave the

money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about

the Englishman—our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money

again.”

Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations,

for no one yet suspected his integrity.

“Oh, I’m being misunderstood, apologies,” said the Major offensively.

“I didn’t mean they bribed Mr. Fielding.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“They paid the other Indian to make you late—Godbole. He was saying

his prayers. I know those prayers!”

“That’s ridiculous . . .” He sat down again, trembling with rage;

person after person was being dragged into the mud.

Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. “Heaslop also

found out something from his mother. Aziz paid a herd of natives

to suffocate her in a cave. That was the end of her, or would have

been only she got out. Nicely planned, wasn’t it? Neat. Then he

could go on with the girl. He and she and a guide, provided by the

same Mohammed Latif. Guide now can’t be found. Pretty.” His voice

broke into a roar. “It’s not the time for sitting down. It’s the

time for action. Call in the troops and clear the bazaars.”

The Major’s outbursts were always discounted, but he made everyone

uneasy on this occasion. The crime was even worse than they had

supposed—the unspeakable limit of cynicism, untouched since 1857.

Fielding forgot his anger on poor old Godbole’s behalf, and became

thoughtful; the evil was propagating in every direction, it seemed

to have an existence of its own, apart from anything that was done

or said by individuals, and he understood better why both Aziz and

Hamidullah had been inclined to lie down and die. His adversary

saw that he was in trouble, and now ventured to say, “I suppose

nothing that’s said inside the club will go outside the club?”

winking the while at Lesley.

“Why should it?” responded Lesley.

“Oh, nothing. I only heard a rumour that a certain member here

present has been seeing the prisoner this afternoon. You can’t run

with the hare and hunt with the hounds, at least not in this

country.”

“Does anyone here present want to?”

Fielding was determined not to be drawn again. He had something to

say, but it should be at his own moment. The attack failed to

mature, because the Collector did not support it. Attention shifted

from him for a time. Then the buzz of women broke out again. The

door had been opened by Ronny.

The young man looked exhausted and tragic, also gentler than usual.

He always showed deference to his superiors, but now it came

straight from his heart. He seemed to appeal for their protection

in the insult that had befallen him, and they, in instinctive

homage, rose to their feet. But every human act in the East is

tainted with officialism, and while honouring him they condemned

Aziz and India. Fielding realized this, and he remained seated. It

was an ungracious, a caddish thing to do, perhaps an unsound thing

to do, but he felt he had been passive long enough, and that he

might be drawn into the wrong current if he did not make a stand.

Ronny, who had not seen him, said in husky tones, “Oh please—please

all sit down, I only want to listen what has been decided.”

“Heaslop, I’m telling them I’m against any show of force,” said

the Collector apologetically. “I don’t know whether you will feel

as I do, but that is how I am situated. When the verdict is

obtained, it will be another matter.”

“You are sure to know best; I have no experience, Burra Sahib.”

“How is your mother, old boy?”

“Better, thank you. I wish everyone would sit down.”

“Some have never got up,” the young soldier said.

“And the Major brings us an excellent report of Miss Quested,”

Turton went on.

“I do, I do, I’m satisfied.”

“You thought badly of her earlier, did you not, Major? That’s why

I refused bail.”

Callendar laughed with friendly inwardness, and said, “Heaslop,

Heaslop, next time bail’s wanted, ring up the old doctor before

giving it; his shoulders are broad, and, speaking in the strictest

confidence, don’t take the old doctor’s opinion too seriously. He’s

a blithering idiot, we can always leave it at that, but he’ll do

the little he can towards keeping in quod the——” He broke off with

affected politeness. “Oh, but he has one of his friends here.”

The subaltern called, “Stand up, you swine.”

“Mr. Fielding, what has prevented you from standing up?” said the

Collector, entering the fray at last. It was the attack for which

Fielding had waited, and to which he must reply.

“May I make a statement, sir?”

“Certainly.”

Seasoned and self-contained, devoid of the fervours of nationality

or youth, the schoolmaster did what was for him a comparatively

easy thing. He stood up and said, “I believe Dr. Aziz to be

innocent.”

“You have a right to hold that opinion if you choose, but pray is

that any reason why you should insult Mr. Heaslop?”

“May I conclude my statement?”

“Certainly.”

“I am waiting for the verdict of the courts. If he is guilty I

resign from my service, and leave India. I resign from the club

now.”

“Hear, hear!” said voices, not entirely hostile, for they liked

the fellow for speaking out.

“You have not answered my question. Why did you not stand when Mr.

Heaslop entered?”

“With all deference, sir, I am not here to answer questions, but

to make a personal statement, and I have concluded it.”

“May I ask whether you have taken over charge of this District?”

Fielding moved towards the door.

“One moment, Mr. Fielding. You are not to go yet, please. Before

you leave the club, from which you do very well to resign, you will

express some detestation of the crime, and you will apologize to

Mr. Heaslop.”

“Are you speaking to me officially, sir?”

The Collector, who never spoke otherwise, was so infuriated that

he lost his head. He cried, “Leave this room at once, and I deeply

regret that I demeaned myself to meet you at the station. You have

sunk to the level of your associates; you are weak, weak, that is

what is wrong with you——”

“I want to leave the room, but cannot while this gentleman prevents

me,” said Fielding lightly; the subaltern had got across his path.

“Let him go,” said Ronny, almost in tears.

It was the only appeal that could have saved the situation. Whatever

Heaslop wished must be done. There was a slight scuffle at the

door, from which Fielding was propelled, a little more quickly than

is natural, into the room where the ladies were playing cards.

“Fancy if I’d fallen or got angry,” he thought. Of course he was

a little angry. His peers had never offered him violence or called

him weak before, besides Heaslop had heaped coals of fire on his

head. He wished he had not picked the quarrel over poor suffering

Heaslop, when there were cleaner issues at hand.

However, there it was, done, muddled through, and to cool himself

and regain mental balance he went on to the upper verandah for a

moment, where the first object he saw was the Marabar Hills. At

this distance and hour they leapt into beauty; they were Monsalvat,

Walhalla, the towers of a cathedral, peopled with saints and

heroes, and covered with flowers. What miscreant lurked in them,

presently to be detected by the activities of the law? Who was the

guide, and had he been found yet? What was the “echo” of which the

girl complained? He did not know, but presently he would know.

Great is information, and she shall prevail. It was the last moment

of the light, and as he gazed at the Marabar Hills they seemed to

move graciously towards him like a queen, and their charm became

the sky’s. At the moment they vanished they were everywhere, the

cool benediction of the night descended, the stars sparkled, and

the whole universe was a hill. Lovely, exquisite moment—but passing

the Englishman with averted face and on swift wings. He experienced

nothing himself; it was as if someone had told him there was such

a moment, and he was obliged to believe. And he felt dubious and

discontented suddenly, and wondered whether he was really and truly

successful as a human being. After forty years’ experience, he had

learnt to manage his life and make the best of it on advanced

European lines, had developed his personality, explored his

limitations, controlled his passions—and he had done it all without

becoming either pedantic or worldly. A creditable achievement, but

as the moment passed, he felt he ought to have been working at

something else the whole time,—he didn’t know at what, never would

know, never could know, and that was why he felt sad.