บทที่ บทที่ 3 · Chapter III

. Chapter III

The third act of _Cousin Kate_ was well advanced by the time Mrs.

Moore re-entered the club. Windows were barred, lest the servants

should see their mem-sahibs acting, and the heat was consequently

immense. One electric fan revolved like a wounded bird, another

was out of order. Disinclined to return to the audience, she went

into the billiard room, where she was greeted by “I want to see

the _real_ India,” and her appropriate life came back with a rush.

This was Adela Quested, the queer, cautious girl whom Ronny had

commissioned her to bring from England, and Ronny was her son, also

cautious, whom Miss Quested would probably though not certainly

marry, and she herself was an elderly lady.

“I want to see it too, and I only wish we could. Apparently the

Turtons will arrange something for next Tuesday.”

“It’ll end in an elephant ride, it always does. Look at this

evening. _Cousin Kate!_ Imagine, _Cousin Kate!_ But where have you

been off to? Did you succeed in catching the moon in the Ganges?”

The two ladies had happened, the night before, to see the moon’s

reflection in a distant channel of the stream. The water had drawn

it out, so that it had seemed larger than the real moon, and

brighter, which had pleased them.

“I went to the mosque, but I did not catch the moon.”

“The angle would have altered—she rises later.”

“Later and later,” yawned Mrs. Moore, who was tired after her walk.

“Let me think—we don’t see the other side of the moon out here,

no.”

“Come, India’s not as bad as all that,” said a pleasant voice.

“Other side of the earth, if you like, but we stick to the same

old moon.” Neither of them knew the speaker nor did they ever see

him again. He passed with his friendly word through red-brick

pillars into the darkness.

“We aren’t even seeing the other side of the world; that’s our

complaint,” said Adela. Mrs. Moore agreed; she too was disappointed

at the dullness of their new life. They had made such a romantic

voyage across the Mediterranean and through the sands of Egypt to

the harbour of Bombay, to find only a gridiron of bungalows at the

end of it. But she did not take the disappointment as seriously as

Miss Quested, for the reason that she was forty years older, and

had learnt that Life never gives us what we want at the moment that

we consider appropriate. Adventures do occur, but not punctually.

She said again that she hoped that something interesting would be

arranged for next Tuesday.

“Have a drink,” said another pleasant voice. “Mrs. Moore—Miss

Quested—have a drink, have two drinks.” They knew who it was this

time—the Collector, Mr. Turton, with whom they had dined. Like

themselves, he had found the atmosphere of _Cousin Kate_ too hot.

Ronny, he told them, was stage-managing in place of Major Callendar,

whom some native subordinate or other had let down, and doing it

very well; then he turned to Ronny’s other merits, and in quiet,

decisive tones said much that was flattering. It wasn’t that the

young man was particularly good at the games or the lingo, or that

he had much notion of the Law, but—apparently a large but—Ronny

was dignified.

Mrs. Moore was surprised to learn this, dignity not being a quality

with which any mother credits her son. Miss Quested learnt it with

anxiety, for she had not decided whether she liked dignified men.

She tried indeed to discuss this point with Mr. Turton, but he

silenced her with a good-humoured motion of his hand, and continued

what he had come to say. “The long and the short of it is Heaslop’s

a sahib; he’s the type we want, he’s one of us,” and another

civilian who was leaning over the billiard table said, “Hear,

hear!” The matter was thus placed beyond doubt, and the Collector

passed on, for other duties called him.

Meanwhile the performance ended, and the amateur orchestra played

the National Anthem. Conversation and billiards stopped, faces

stiffened. It was the Anthem of the Army of Occupation. It reminded

every member of the club that he or she was British and in exile.

It produced a little sentiment and a useful accession of will-power.

The meagre tune, the curt series of demands on Jehovah, fused into

a prayer unknown in England, and though they perceived neither

Royalty nor Deity they did perceive something, they were strengthened

to resist another day. Then they poured out, offering one another

drinks.

“Adela, have a drink; mother, a drink.”

They refused—they were weary of drinks—and Miss Quested, who always

said exactly what was in her mind, announced anew that she was

desirous of seeing the real India.

Ronny was in high spirits. The request struck him as comic, and he

called out to another passer-by: “Fielding! how’s one to see the

real India?”

“Try seeing Indians,” the man answered, and vanished.

“Who was that?”

“Our schoolmaster—Government College.”

“As if one could avoid seeing them,” sighed Mrs. Lesley.

“I’ve avoided,” said Miss Quested. “Excepting my own servant, I’ve

scarcely spoken to an Indian since landing.”

“Oh, lucky you.”

“But I want to see them.”

She became the centre of an amused group of ladies. One said,

“Wanting to see Indians! How new that sounds!” Another, “Natives!

why, fancy!” A third, more serious, said, “Let me explain. Natives

don’t respect one any the more after meeting one, you see.”

“That occurs after so many meetings.”

But the lady, entirely stupid and friendly, continued: “What I mean

is, I was a nurse before my marriage, and came across them a great

deal, so I know. I really do know the truth about Indians. A most

unsuitable position for any Englishwoman—I was a nurse in a Native

State. One’s only hope was to hold sternly aloof.”

“Even from one’s patients?”

“Why, the kindest thing one can do to a native is to let him die,”

said Mrs. Callendar.

“How if he went to heaven?” asked Mrs. Moore, with a gentle but

crooked smile.

“He can go where he likes as long as he doesn’t come near me. They

give me the creeps.”

“As a matter of fact I have thought what you were saying about

heaven, and that is why I am against Missionaries,” said the lady

who had been a nurse. “I am all for Chaplains, but all against

Missionaries. Let me explain.”

But before she could do so, the Collector intervened.

“Do you really want to meet the Aryan Brother, Miss Quested? That

can be easily fixed up. I didn’t realize he’d amuse you.” He

thought a moment. “You can practically see any type you like. Take

your choice. I know the Government people and the landowners,

Heaslop here can get hold of the barrister crew, while if you want

to specialize on education, we can come down on Fielding.”

“I’m tired of seeing picturesque figures pass before me as a

frieze,” the girl explained. “It was wonderful when we landed, but

that superficial glamour soon goes.”

Her impressions were of no interest to the Collector; he was only

concerned to give her a good time. Would she like a Bridge Party?

He explained to her what that was—not the game, but a party to

bridge the gulf between East and West; the expression was his own

invention, and amused all who heard it.

“I only want those Indians whom you come across socially—as your

friends.”

“Well, we don’t come across them socially,” he said, laughing.

“They’re full of all the virtues, but we don’t, and it’s now

eleven-thirty, and too late to go into the reasons.”

“Miss Quested, what a name!” remarked Mrs. Turton to her husband

as they drove away. She had not taken to the new young lady,

thinking her ungracious and cranky. She trusted that she hadn’t

been brought out to marry nice little Heaslop, though it looked

like it, Her husband agreed with her in his heart, but he never

spoke against an Englishwoman if he could avoid doing so, and he

only said that Miss Quested naturally made mistakes. He added:

“India does wonders for the judgment, especially during the hot

weather; it has even done wonders for Fielding.” Mrs. Turton closed

her eyes at this name and remarked that Mr. Fielding wasn’t pukka,

and had better marry Miss Quested, for she wasn’t pukka. Then they

reached their bungalow, low and enormous, the oldest and most

uncomfortable bungalow in the civil station, with a sunk soup plate

of a lawn, and they had one drink more, this time of barley water,

and went to bed. Their withdrawal from the club had broken up the

evening, which, like all gatherings, had an official tinge. A

community that bows the knee to a Viceroy and believes that the

divinity that hedges a king can be transplanted, must feel some

reverence for any viceregal substitute. At Chandrapore the Turtons

were little gods; soon they would retire to some suburban villa,

and die exiled from glory.

“It’s decent of the Burra Sahib,” chattered Ronny, much gratified

at the civility that had been shown to his guests. “Do you know

he’s never given a Bridge Party before? Coming on top of the dinner

too! I wish I could have arranged something myself, but when you

know the natives better you’ll realize it’s easier for the Burra

Sahib than for me. They know him—they know he can’t be fooled—I’m

still fresh comparatively. No one can even begin to think of

knowing this country until he has been in it twenty years.—Hullo,

the mater! Here’s your cloak.—Well: for an example of the mistakes

one makes. Soon after I came out I asked one of the Pleaders to

have a smoke with me—only a cigarette, mind. I found afterwards

that he had sent touts all over the bazaar to announce the fact—told

all the litigants, 'Oh, you’d better come to my Vakil Mahmoud

Ali—he’s in with the City Magistrate.’ Ever since then I’ve dropped

on him in Court as hard as I could. It’s taught me a lesson, and

I hope him.”

“Isn’t the lesson that you should invite all the Pleaders to have

a smoke with you?”

“Perhaps, but time’s limited and the flesh weak. I prefer my smoke

at the club amongst my own sort, I’m afraid.”

“Why not ask the Pleaders to the club?” Miss Quested persisted.

“Not allowed.” He was pleasant and patient, and evidently understood

why she did not understand. He implied that he had once been as

she, though not for long. Going to the verandah, he called firmly

to the moon. His sais answered, and without lowering his head, he

ordered his trap to be brought round.

Mrs. Moore, whom the club had stupefied, woke up outside. She

watched the moon, whose radiance stained with primrose the purple

of the surrounding sky. In England the moon had seemed dead and

alien; here she was caught in the shawl of night together with

earth and all the other stars. A sudden sense of unity, of kinship

with the heavenly bodies, passed into the old woman and out, like

water through a tank, leaving a strange freshness behind. She did

not dislike _Cousin Kate_ or the National Anthem, but their note

had died into a new one, just as cocktails and cigars had died into

invisible flowers. When the mosque, long and domeless, gleamed at

the turn of the road, she exclaimed, “Oh, yes—that’s where I got

to—that’s where I’ve been.”

“Been there when?” asked her son.

“Between the acts.”

“But, mother, you can’t do that sort of thing.”

“Can’t mother?” she replied.

“No, really not in this country. It’s not done. There’s the danger

from snakes for one thing. They are apt to lie out in the evening.”

“Ah yes, so the young man there said.”

“This sounds very romantic,” said Miss Quested, who was exceedingly

fond of Mrs. Moore, and was glad she should have had this little

escapade. “You meet a young man in a mosque, and then never let me

know!”

“I was going to tell you, Adela, but something changed the

conversation and I forgot. My memory grows deplorable.”

“Was he nice?”

She paused, then said emphatically: “Very nice.”

“Who was he?” Ronny enquired.

“A doctor. I don’t know his name.”

“A doctor? I know of no young doctor in Chandrapore. How odd! What

was he like?”

“Rather small, with a little moustache and quick eyes. He called

out to me when I was in the dark part of the mosque—about my shoes.

That was how we began talking. He was afraid I had them on, but I

remembered luckily. He told me about his children, and then we

walked back to the club. He knows you well.”

“I wish you had pointed him out to me. I can’t make out who he is.”

“He didn’t come into the club. He said he wasn’t allowed to.”

Thereupon the truth struck him, and he cried “Oh, good gracious!

Not a Mohammedan? Why ever didn’t you tell me you’d been talking

to a native? I was going all wrong.”

“A Mohammedan! How perfectly magnificent!” exclaimed Miss Quested.

“Ronny, isn’t that like your mother? While we talk about seeing

the real India, she goes and sees it, and then forgets she’s seen

it.”

But Ronny was ruffled. From his mother’s description he had thought

the doctor might be young Muggins from over the Ganges, and had

brought out all the comradely emotions. What a mix-up! Why hadn’t

she indicated by the tone of her voice that she was talking about

an Indian? Scratchy and dictatorial, he began to question her. “He

called to you in the mosque, did he? How? Impudently? What was he

doing there himself at that time of night?—No, it’s not their

prayer time.”—This in answer to a suggestion of Miss Quested’s,

who showed the keenest interest. “So he called to you over your

shoes. Then it was impudence. It’s an old trick. I wish you had

had them on.”

“I think it was impudence, but I don’t know about a trick,” said

Mrs. Moore. “His nerves were all on edge—I could tell from his

voice. As soon as I answered he altered.”

“You oughtn’t to have answered.”

“Now look here,” said the logical girl, “wouldn’t you expect a

Mohammedan to answer if you asked him to take off his hat in

church?”

“It’s different, it’s different; you don’t understand.”

“I know I don’t, and I want to. What is the difference, please?”

He wished she wouldn’t interfere. His mother did not signify—she

was just a globe-trotter, a temporary escort, who could retire to

England with what impressions she chose. But Adela, who meditated

spending her life in the country, was a more serious matter; it

would be tiresome if she started crooked over the native question.

Pulling up the mare, he said, “There’s your Ganges.”

Their attention was diverted. Below them a radiance had suddenly

appeared. It belonged neither to water nor moonlight, but stood

like a luminous sheaf upon the fields of darkness. He told them

that it was where the new sand-bank was forming, and that the dark

ravelled bit at the top was the sand, and that the dead bodies

floated down that way from Benares, or would if the crocodiles let

them. “It’s not much of a dead body that gets down to Chandrapore.”

“Crocodiles down in it too, how terrible!” his mother murmured.

The young people glanced at each other and smiled; it amused them

when the old lady got these gentle creeps, and harmony was restored

between them consequently. She continued: “What a terrible river!

what a wonderful river!” and sighed. The radiance was already

altering, whether through shifting of the moon or of the sand; soon

the bright sheaf would be gone, and a circlet, itself to alter, be

burnished upon the streaming void. The women discussed whether they

would wait for the change or not, while the silence broke into

patches of unquietness and the mare shivered. On her account they

did not wait, but drove on to the City Magistrate’s bungalow, where

Miss Quested went to bed, and Mrs. Moore had a short interview with

her son.

He wanted to enquire about the Mohammedan doctor in the mosque. It

was his duty to report suspicious characters and conceivably it

was some disreputable hakim who had prowled up from the bazaar.

When she told him that it was someone connected with the Minto

Hospital, he was relieved, and said that the fellow’s name must be

Aziz, and that he was quite all right, nothing against him at all.

“Aziz! what a charming name!”

“So you and he had a talk. Did you gather he was well disposed?”

Ignorant of the force of this question, she replied, “Yes, quite,

after the first moment.”

“I meant, generally. Did he seem to tolerate us—the brutal

conqueror, the sundried bureaucrat, that sort of thing?”

“Oh, yes, I think so, except the Callendars—he doesn’t care for

the Callendars at all.”

“Oh. So he told you that, did he? The Major will be interested. I

wonder what was the aim of the remark.”

“Ronny, Ronny! you’re never going to pass it on to Major Callendar?”

“Yes, rather. I must, in fact!”

“But, my dear boy——”

“If the Major heard I was disliked by any native subordinate of

mine, I should expect him to pass it on to me.”

“But, my dear boy—a private conversation!”

“Nothing’s private in India. Aziz knew that when he spoke out, so

don’t you worry. He had some motive in what he said. My personal

belief is that the remark wasn’t true.”

“How not true?”

“He abused the Major in order to impress you.”

“I don’t know what you mean, dear.”

“It’s the educated native’s latest dodge. They used to cringe, but

the younger generation believe in a show of manly independence.

They think it will pay better with the itinerant M.P. But whether

the native swaggers or cringes, there’s always something behind

every remark he makes, always something, and if nothing else he’s

trying to increase his izzat—in plain Anglo-Saxon, to score. Of

course there are exceptions.”

“You never used to judge people like this at home.”

“India isn’t home,” he retorted, rather rudely, but in order to

silence her he had been using phrases and arguments that he had

picked up from older officials, and he did not feel quite sure of

himself. When he said “of course there are exceptions” he was

quoting Mr. Turton, while “increasing the izzat” was Major

Callendar’s own. The phrases worked and were in current use at the

club, but she was rather clever at detecting the first from the

second hand, and might press him for definite examples.

She only said, “I can’t deny that what you say sounds very sensible,

but you really must not hand on to Major Callendar anything I have

told you about Doctor Aziz.”

He felt disloyal to his caste, but he promised, adding, “In return

please don’t talk about Aziz to Adela.”

“Not talk about him? Why?”

“There you go again, mother—I really can’t explain every thing. I

don’t want Adela to be worried, that’s the fact; she’ll begin

wondering whether we treat the natives properly, and all that sort

of nonsense.”

“But she came out to be worried—that’s exactly why she’s here. She

discussed it all on the boat. We had a long talk when we went on

shore at Aden. She knows you in play, as she put it, but not in

work, and she felt she must come and look round, before she

decided—and before you decided. She is very, very fair-minded.”

“I know,” he said dejectedly.

The note of anxiety in his voice made her feel that he was still

a little boy, who must have what he liked, so she promised to do

as he wished, and they kissed good night. He had not forbidden her

to think about Aziz, however, and she did this when she retired to

her room. In the light of her son’s comment she reconsidered the

scene at the mosque, to see whose impression was correct. Yes, it

could be worked into quite an unpleasant scene. The doctor had

begun by bullying her, had said Mrs. Callendar was nice, and

then—finding the ground safe—had changed; he had alternately whined

over his grievances and patronized her, had run a dozen ways in a

single sentence, had been unreliable, inquisitive, vain. Yes, it

was all true, but how false as a summary of the man; the essential

life of him had been slain.

Going to hang up her cloak, she found that the tip of the peg was

occupied by a small wasp. She had known this wasp or his relatives

by day; they were not as English wasps, but had long yellow legs

which hung down behind when they flew. Perhaps he mistook the peg

for a branch—no Indian animal has any sense of an interior. Bats,

rats, birds, insects will as soon nest inside a house as out; it

is to them a normal growth of the eternal jungle, which alternately

produces houses trees, houses trees. There he clung, asleep, while

jackals in the plain bayed their desires and mingled with the

percussion of drums.

“Pretty dear,” said Mrs. Moore to the wasp. He did not wake, but

her voice floated out, to swell the night’s uneasiness.