บทที่ บทที่ 26 · Chapter XXVI

. Chapter XXVI

Evening approached by the time Fielding and Miss Quested met and

had the first of their numerous curious conversations. He had

hoped, when he woke up, to find someone had fetched her away, but

the College remained isolated from the rest of the universe. She

asked whether she could have “a sort of interview,” and, when he

made no reply, said, “Have you any explanation of my extraordinary

behaviour?”

“None,” he said curtly. “Why make such a charge if you were going

to withdraw it?”

“Why, indeed.”

“I ought to feel grateful to you, I suppose, but——”

“I don’t expect gratitude. I only thought you might care to hear

what I have to say.”

“Oh, well,” he grumbled, feeling rather schoolboyish. “I don’t

think a discussion between us is desirable. To put it frankly, I

belong to the other side in this ghastly affair.”

“Would it not interest you to hear my side?”

“Not much.”

“I shouldn’t tell you in confidence, of course. So you can hand on

all my remarks to your side, for there is one great mercy that has

come out of all to-day’s misery: I have no longer any secrets. My

echo has gone—I call the buzzing sound in my ears an echo. You see,

I have been unwell ever since that expedition to the caves, and

possibly before it.”

The remark interested him rather; it was what he had sometimes

suspected himself. “What kind of illness?” he enquired.

She touched her head at the side, then shook it.

“That was my first thought, the day of the arrest: hallucination.”

“Do you think that would be so?” she asked with great humility.

“What should have given me an hallucination?”

“One of three things certainly happened in the Marabar,” he said,

getting drawn into a discussion against his will. “One of four

things. Either Aziz is guilty, which is what your friends think;

or you invented the charge out of malice, which is what my friends

think; or you have had an hallucination. I’m very much

inclined”—getting up and striding about—“now that you tell me that

you felt unwell before the expedition—it’s an important piece of

evidence—I believe that you yourself broke the strap of the

field-glasses; you were alone in that cave the whole time.”

“Perhaps. . . .”

“Can you remember when you first felt out of sorts?”

“When I came to tea with you there, in that garden-house.”

“A somewhat unlucky party. Aziz and old Godbole were both ill after

it too.”

“I was not ill—it is far too vague to mention: it is all mixed up

with my private affairs. I enjoyed the singing . . . but just about

then a sort of sadness began that I couldn’t detect at the time . . .

no, nothing as solid as sadness: living at half pressure

expresses it best. Half pressure. I remember going on to polo with

Mr. Heaslop at the Maidan. Various other things happened—it doesn’t

matter what, but I was under par for all of them. I was certainly

in that state when I saw the caves, and you suggest (nothing shocks

or hurts me)—you suggest that I had an hallucination there, the

sort of thing—though in an awful form—that makes some women think

they’ve had an offer of marriage when none was made.”

“You put it honestly, anyhow.”

“I was brought up to be honest; the trouble is it gets me nowhere.”

Liking her better, he smiled and said, “It’ll get us to heaven.”

“Will it?”

“If heaven existed.”

“Do you not believe in heaven, Mr. Fielding, may I ask?” she said,

looking at him shyly.

“I do not. Yet I believe that honesty gets us there.”

“How can that be?”

“Let us go back to hallucinations. I was watching you carefully

through your evidence this morning, and if I’m right, the

hallucination (what you call half pressure—quite as good a word)

disappeared suddenly.”

She tried to remember what she had felt in court, but could not;

the vision disappeared whenever she wished to interpret it. “Events

presented themselves to me in their logical sequence,” was what

she said, but it hadn’t been that at all.

“My belief—and of course I was listening carefully, in hope you

would make some slip—my belief is that poor McBryde exorcised you.

As soon as he asked you a straightforward question, you gave a

straightforward answer, and broke down.”

“Exorcise in that sense. I thought you meant I’d seen a ghost.”

“I don’t go to that length!”

“People whom I respect very much believe in ghosts,” she said

rather sharply. “My friend Mrs. Moore does.”

“She’s an old lady.”

“I think you need not be impolite to her, as well as to her son.”

“I did not intend to be rude. I only meant it is difficult, as we

get on in life, to resist the supernatural. I’ve felt it coming on

me myself. I still jog on without it, but what a temptation, at

forty-five, to pretend that the dead live again; one’s own dead;

no one else’s matter.”

“Because the dead don’t live again.”

“I fear not.”

“So do I.”

There was a moment’s silence, such as often follows the triumph of

rationalism. Then he apologized handsomely enough for his behaviour

to Heaslop at the club.

“What does Dr. Aziz say of me?” she asked, after another pause.

“He—he has not been capable of thought in his misery, naturally

he’s very bitter,” said Fielding, a little awkward, because such

remarks as Aziz had made were not merely bitter, they were foul.

The underlying notion was, “It disgraces me to have been mentioned

in connection with such a hag.” It enraged him that he had been

accused by a woman who had no personal beauty; sexually, he was a

snob. This had puzzled and worried Fielding. Sensuality, as long

as it is straight-forward, did not repel him, but this derived

sensuality—the sort that classes a mistress among motor-cars if

she is beautiful, and among eye-flies if she isn’t—was alien to

his own emotions, and he felt a barrier between himself and Aziz

whenever it arose. It was, in a new form, the old, old trouble that

eats the heart out of every civilization: snobbery, the desire for

possessions, creditable appendages; and it is to escape this rather

than the lusts of the flesh that saints retreat into the Himalayas.

To change the subject, he said, “But let me conclude my analysis.

We are agreed that he is not a villain and that you are not one,

and we aren’t really sure that it was an hallucination. There’s a

fourth possibility which we must touch on: was it somebody else?”

“The guide.”

“Exactly, the guide. I often think so. Unluckily Aziz hit him on

the face, and he got a fright and disappeared. It is most

unsatisfactory, and we hadn’t the police to help us, the guide was

of no interest to them.”

“Perhaps it was the guide,” she said quietly; the question had lost

interest for her suddenly.

“Or could it have been one of that gang of Pathans who have been

drifting through the district?”

“Someone who was in another cave, and followed me when the guide

was looking away? Possibly.”

At that moment Hamidullah joined them, and seemed not too pleased

to find them closeted together. Like everyone else in Chandrapore,

he could make nothing of Miss Quested’s conduct. He had overheard

their last remark. “Hullo, my dear Fielding,” he said. “So I run

you down at last. Can you come out at once to Dilkusha?”

“At once?”

“I hope to leave in a moment, don’t let me interrupt,” said Adela.

“The telephone has been broken; Miss Quested can’t ring up her

friends,” he explained.

“A great deal has been broken, more than will ever be mended,” said

the other. “Still, there should be some way of transporting this

lady back to the civil lines. The resources of civilization are

numerous.” He spoke without looking at Miss Quested, and he ignored

the slight movement she made towards him with her hand.

Fielding, who thought the meeting might as well be friendly, said,

“Miss Quested has been explaining a little about her conduct of

this morning.”

“Perhaps the age of miracles has returned. One must be prepared

for everything, our philosophers say.”

“It must have seemed a miracle to the onlookers,” said Adela,

addressing him nervously. “The fact is that I realized before it

was too late that I had made a mistake, and had just enough presence

of mind to say so. That is all my extraordinary conduct amounts

to.”

“All it amounts to, indeed,” he retorted, quivering with rage but

keeping himself in hand, for he felt she might be setting another

trap. “Speaking as a private individual, in a purely informal

conversation, I admired your conduct, and I was delighted when our

warm-hearted students garlanded you. But, like Mr. Fielding, I am

surprised; indeed, surprise is too weak a word. I see you drag my

best friend into the dirt, damage his health and ruin his prospects

in a way you cannot conceive owing to your ignorance of our society

and religion, and then suddenly you get up in the witness-box: ‘Oh

no, Mr. McBryde, after all I am not quite sure, you may as well

let him go.’ Am I mad? I keep asking myself. Is it a dream, and if

so, when did it start? And without doubt it is a dream that has

not yet finished. For I gather you have not done with us yet, and

it is now the turn of the poor old guide who conducted you round

the caves.”

“Not at all, we were only discussing possibilities,” interposed

Fielding.

“An interesting pastime, but a lengthy one. There are one hundred

and seventy million Indians in this notable peninsula, and of

course one or other of them entered the cave. Of course some Indian

is the culprit, we must never doubt that. And since, my dear

Fielding, these possibilities will take you some time”—here he put

his arm over the Englishman’s shoulder and swayed him to and fro

gently—“don’t you think you had better come out to the Nawab

Bahadur’s—or I should say to Mr. Zulfiqar’s, for that is the name

he now requires us to call him by.”

“Gladly, in a minute . . .”

“I have just settled my movements,” said Miss Quested. “I shall go

to the Dak Bungalow.”

“Not the Turtons’?” said Hamidullah, goggle-eyed. “I thought you

were their guest.”

The Dak Bungalow of Chandrapore was below the average, and certainly

servantless. Fielding, though he continued to sway with Hamidullah,

was thinking on independent lines, and said in a moment: “I have

a better idea than that, Miss Quested. You must stop here at the

College. I shall be away at least two days, and you can have the

place entirely to yourself, and make your plans at your convenience.”

“I don’t agree at all,” said Hamidullah, with every symptom of

dismay. “The idea is a thoroughly bad one. There may quite well be

another demonstration to-night, and suppose an attack is made on

the College. You would be held responsible for this lady’s safety,

my dear fellow.”

“They might equally attack the Dak Bungalow.”

“Exactly, but the responsibility there ceases to be yours.”

“Quite so. I have given trouble enough.”

“Do you hear? The lady admits it herself. It’s not an attack from

our people I fear—you should see their orderly conduct at the

hospital; what we must guard against is an attack secretly arranged

by the police for the purpose of discrediting you. McBryde keeps

plenty of roughs for this purpose, and this would be the very

opportunity for him.”

“Never mind. She is not going to the Dak Bungalow,” said Fielding.

He had a natural sympathy for the down-trodden—that was partly why

he rallied from Aziz—and had become determined not to leave the

poor girl in the lurch. Also, he had a new-born respect for her,

consequent on their talk. Although her hard schoolmistressy manner

remained, she was no longer examining life, but being examined by

it; she had become a real person.

“Then where is she to go? We shall never have done with her!” For

Miss Quested had not appealed to Hamidullah. If she had shown

emotion in court, broke down, beat her breast, and invoked the name

of God, she would have summoned forth his imagination and

generosity—he had plenty of both. But while relieving the Oriental

mind, she had chilled it, with the result that he could scarcely

believe she was sincere, and indeed from his standpoint she was

not. For her behaviour rested on cold justice and honesty; she had

felt, while she recanted, no passion of love for those whom she

had wronged. Truth is not truth in that exacting land unless there

go with it kindness and more kindness and kindness again, unless

the Word that was with God also is God. And the girl’s sacrifice—so

creditable according to Western notions—was rightly rejected,

because, though it came from her heart, it did not include her

heart. A few garlands from students was all that India ever gave

her in return.

“But where is she to have her dinner, where is she to sleep? I say

here, here, and if she is hit on the head by roughs, she is hit on

the head. That is my contribution. Well, Miss Quested?”

“You are very kind. I should have said yes, I think, but I agree

with Mr. Hamidullah. I must give no more trouble to you. I believe

my best plan is to return to the Turtons, and see if they will

allow me to sleep, and if they turn me away I must go to the Dak.

The Collector would take me in, I know, but Mrs. Turton said this

morning that she would never see me again.” She spoke without

bitterness, or, as Hamidullah thought, without proper pride. Her

aim was to cause the minimum of annoyance.

“Far better stop here than expose yourself to insults from that

preposterous woman.”

“Do you find her preposterous? I used to. I don’t now.”

“Well, here’s our solution,” said the barrister, who had terminated

his slightly minatory caress and strolled to the window. “Here

comes the City Magistrate. He comes in a third-class band-ghari

for purposes of disguise, he comes unattended, but here comes the

City Magistrate.”

“At last,” said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at

her.

“He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble.”

“Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?”

“He wants you, of course.”

“He may not even know I’m here.”

“I’ll see him first, if you prefer.”

When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly: “Really, really.

Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He

is far too considerate.” She made no reply, and there was complete

silence between them until their host returned.

“He has some news for you,” he said. “You’ll find him on the

verandah. He prefers not to come in.”

“Does he tell me to come out to him?”

“Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think,” said

Hamidullah.

She paused, then said, “Perfectly right,” and then said a few words

of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to her during the day.

“Thank goodness, that’s over,” he remarked, not escorting her to

the verandah, for he held it unnecessary to see Ronny again.

“It was insulting of him not to come in.”

“He couldn’t very well after my behaviour to him at the Club.

Heaslop doesn’t come out badly. Besides, Fate has treated him

pretty roughly to-day. He has had a cable to the effect that his

mother’s dead, poor old soul.”

“Oh, really. Mrs. Moore. I’m sorry,” said Hamidullah rather

indifferently.

“She died at sea.”

“The heat, I suppose.”

“Presumably.”

“May is no month to allow an old lady to travel in.”

“Quite so. Heaslop ought never to have let her go, and he knows

it. Shall we be off?”

“Let us wait until the happy couple leave the compound clear . . .

they really are intolerable dawdling there. Ah well, Fielding,

you don’t believe in Providence, I remember. I do. This is Heaslop’s

punishment for abducting our witness in order to stop us establishing

our alibi.”

“You go rather too far there. The poor old lady’s evidence could

have had no value, shout and shriek Mahmoud Ali as he will. She

couldn’t see through the Kawa Dol even if she had wanted to. Only

Miss Quested could have saved him.”

“She loved Aziz, he says, also India, and he loved her.”

“Love is of no value in a witness, as a barrister ought to know.

But I see there is about to be an Esmiss Esmoor legend at

Chandrapore, my dear Hamidullah, and I will not impede its growth.”

The other smiled, and looked at his watch. They both regretted the

death, but they were middle-aged men, who had invested their

emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of grief could not be expected

from them over a slight acquaintance. It’s only one’s own dead who

matter. If for a moment the sense of communion in sorrow came to

them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to

be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the

earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals

and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a

moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she

retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated,

and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or

three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they

were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the

“victory” dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late.

They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow,

because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun.

“Oh, this is unbearable!” muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested

was back again.

“Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?”

He bowed.

“Ah me!” She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument.

“Heaslop is waiting for you, I think.”

“I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me

than to him. I can’t bear to be with Ronny . . . I can’t explain

. . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop

after all?”

Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular.

“I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?”

“I didn’t ask him, we are too much upset—it’s so complex, not like

what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone,

and think. Do come and see Ronny again.”

“I think he should come in this time,” said Fielding, feeling that

this much was due to his own dignity. “Do ask him to come.”

She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant—indeed,

a strange mix-up—and broke at once into uneven speech. “I came to

bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended,

and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters

now——”

Fielding stopped him courteously. “Say no more, Miss Quested stops

here. I only wanted to be assured of your approval. Miss Quested,

you had better send for your own servant if he can be found, but

I will leave orders with mine to do all they can for you, also I’ll

let the Scouts know. They have guarded the College ever since it

was closed, and may as well go on. I really think you’ll be as safe

here as anywhere. I shall be back Thursday.”

Meanwhile Hamidullah, determined to spare the enemy no incidental

pain, had said to Ronny: “We hear, sir, that your mother has died.

May we ask where the cable came from?”

“Aden.”

“Ah, you were boasting she had reached Aden, in court.”

“But she died on leaving Bombay,” broke in Adela. “She was dead

when they called her name this morning. She must have been buried

at sea.”

Somehow this stopped Hamidullah, and he desisted from his brutality,

which had shocked Fielding more than anyone else. He remained

silent while the details of Miss Quested’s occupation of the

College were arranged, merely remarking to Ronny, “It is clearly

to be understood, sir, that neither Mr. Fielding nor any of us are

responsible for this lady’s safety at Government College,” to which

Ronny agreed. After that, he watched the semi-chivalrous behavings

of the three English with quiet amusement; he thought Fielding had

been incredibly silly and weak, and he was amazed by the younger

people’s want of proper pride. When they were driving out to

Dilkusha, hours late, he said to Amritrao, who accompanied them:

“Mr. Amritrao, have you considered what sum Miss Quested ought to

pay as compensation?”

“Twenty thousand rupees.”

No more was then said, but the remark horrified Fielding. He

couldn’t bear to think of the queer honest girl losing her money

and possibly her young man too. She advanced into his consciousness

suddenly. And, fatigued by the merciless and enormous day, he lost

his usual sane view of human intercourse, and felt that we exist

not in ourselves, but in terms of each others’ minds—a notion for

which logic offers no support and which had attacked him only once

before, the evening after the catastrophe, when from the verandah

of the club he saw the fists and fingers of the Marabar swell until

they included the whole night sky.