บทที่ บทที่ 36 · Chapter XXXVI

. Chapter XXXVI

All the time the palace ceased not to thrum and tum-tum. The

revelation was over, but its effect lasted, and its effect was to

make men feel that the revelation had not yet come. Hope existed

despite fulfilment, as it will be in heaven. Although the God had

been born, His procession—loosely supposed by many to be the

birth—had not taken place. In normal years, the middle hours of

this day were signalized by performances of great beauty in the

private apartments of the Rajah. He owned a consecrated troupe of

men and boys, whose duty it was to dance various actions and

meditations of his faith before him. Seated at his ease, he could

witness the Three Steps by which the Saviour ascended the universe

to the discomfiture of Indra, also the death of the dragon, the

mountain that turned into an umbrella, and the saddhu who (with

comic results) invoked the God before dining. All culminated in

the dance of the milkmaidens before Krishna, and in the still

greater dance of Krishna before the milkmaidens, when the music

and the musicians swirled through the dark blue robes of the actors

into their tinsel crowns, and all became one. The Rajah and his

guests would then forget that this was a dramatic performance, and

would worship the actors. Nothing of the sort could occur to-day,

because death interrupts. It interrupted less here than in Europe,

its pathos was less poignant, its irony less cruel. There were two

claimants to the throne, unfortunately, who were in the palace now

and suspected what had happened, yet they made no trouble, because

religion is a living force to the Hindus, and can at certain

moments fling down everything that is petty and temporary in their

natures. The festival flowed on, wild and sincere, and all men

loved each other, and avoided by instinct whatever could cause

inconvenience or pain.

Aziz could not understand this, any more than an average Christian

could. He was puzzled that Mau should suddenly be purged from

suspicion and self-seeking. Although he was an outsider, and

excluded from their rites, they were always particularly charming

to him at this time; he and his household received small courtesies

and presents, just because he was outside. He had nothing to do

all day, except to send the embrocation over to the Guest House,

and towards sunset he remembered it, and looked round his house

for a local palliative, for the dispensary was shut. He found a

tin of ointment belonging to Mohammed Latif, who was unwilling it

should be removed, for magic words had been spoken over it while

it was being boiled down, but Aziz promised that he would bring it

back after application to the stings: he wanted an excuse for a

ride.

The procession was beginning to form as he passed the palace. A

large crowd watched the loading of the State palanquin, the prow

of which protruded in the form of a silver dragon’s head through

the lofty half-opened door. Gods, big and little, were getting

aboard. He averted his eyes, for he never knew how much he was

supposed to see, and nearly collided with the Minister of Education.

“Ah, you might make me late”—meaning that the touch of a non-Hindu

would necessitate another bath; the words were spoken without moral

heat. “Sorry,” said Aziz. The other smiled, and again mentioned

the Guest House party, and when he heard that Fielding’s wife was

not Miss Quested after all, remarked “Ah, no, he married the sister

of Mr. Heaslop. Ah, exactly, I have known that for over a year”—also

without heat. “Why did you not tell me? Your silence plunged me

into a pretty pickle.” Godbole, who had never been known to tell

anyone anything, smiled again, and said in deprecating tones:

“Never be angry with me. I am, as far as my limitations permit,

your true friend; besides, it is my holy festival.” Aziz always

felt like a baby in that strange presence, a baby who unexpectedly

receives a toy. He smiled also, and turned his horse into a lane,

for the crush increased. The Sweepers’ Band was arriving. Playing

on sieves and other emblems of their profession, they marched

straight at the gate of the palace with the air of a victorious

army. All other music was silent, for this was ritually the moment

of the Despised and Rejected; the God could not issue from his

temple until the unclean Sweepers played their tune, they were the

spot of filth without which the spirit cannot cohere. For an

instant the scene was magnificent. The doors were thrown open, and

the whole court was seen inside, barefoot and dressed in white

robes; in the fairway stood the Ark of the Lord, covered with cloth

of gold and flanked by peacock fans and by stiff circular banners

of crimson. It was full to the brim with statuettes and flowers.

As it rose from the earth on the shoulders of its bearers, the

friendly sun of the monsoons shone forth and flooded the world with

colour, so that the yellow tigers painted on the palace walls

seemed to spring, and pink and green skeins of cloud to link up

the upper sky. The palanquin moved. . . . The lane was full of

State elephants, who would follow it, their howdahs empty out of

humility. Aziz did not pay attention to these sanctities, for they

had no connection with his own; he felt bored, slightly cynical,

like his own dear Emperor Babur, who came down from the north and

found in Hindustan no good fruit, no fresh water or witty

conversation, not even a friend.

The lane led quickly out of the town on to high rocks and jungle.

Here he drew rein and examined the great Mau tank, which lay

exposed beneath him to its remotest curve. Reflecting the evening

clouds, it filled the nether-world with an equal splendour, so that

earth and sky leant toward one another, about to clash in ecstasy.

He spat, cynical again, more cynical than before. For in the centre

of the burnished circle a small black blot was advancing—the Guest

House boat. Those English had improvised something to take the

place of oars, and were proceeding in their work of patrolling

India. The sight endeared the Hindus by comparison, and looking

back at the milk-white hump of the palace, he hoped that they would

enjoy carrying their idol about, for at all events it did not pry

into other people’s lives. This pose of “seeing India” which had

seduced him to Miss Quested at Chandrapore was only a form of

ruling India; no sympathy lay behind it; he knew exactly what was

going on in the boat as the party gazed at the steps down which

the image would presently descend, and debated how near they might

row without getting into trouble officially.

He did not give up his ride, for there would be servants at the

Guest House whom he could question; a little information never

comes amiss. He took the path by the sombre promontory that

contained the royal tombs. Like the palace, they were of snowy

stucco, and gleamed by their internal light, but their radiance

grew ghostly under approaching night. The promontory was covered

with lofty trees, and the fruit-bats were unhooking from the boughs

and making kissing sounds as they grazed the surface of the tank;

hanging upside down all the day, they had grown thirsty. The signs

of the contented Indian evening multiplied; frogs on all sides,

cow-dung burning eternally; a flock of belated hornbills overhead,

looking like winged skeletons as they flapped across the gloaming.

There was death in the air, but not sadness; a compromise had been

made between destiny and desire, and even the heart of man

acquiesced.

The European Guest House stood two hundred feet above the water,

on the crest of a rocky and wooded spur that jutted from the

jungle. By the time Aziz arrived, the water had paled to a film of

mauve-grey, and the boat vanished entirely. A sentry slept in the

Guest House porch, lamps burned in the cruciform of the deserted

rooms. He went from one room to another, inquisitive, and malicious.

Two letters lying on the piano rewarded him, and he pounced and

read them promptly. He was not ashamed to do this. The sanctity of

private correspondence has never been ratified by the East.

Moreover, Mr. McBryde had read all his letters in the past, and

spread their contents. One letter—the more interesting of the

two—was from Heaslop to Fielding. It threw light on the mentality

of his former friend, and it hardened him further against him. Much

of it was about Ralph Moore, who appeared to be almost an imbecile.

“Hand on my brother whenever suits you. I write to you because he

is sure to make a bad bunderbust.” Then: “I quite agree—life is

too short to cherish grievances, also I’m relieved you feel able

to come into line with the Oppressors of India to some extent. We

need all the support we can get. I hope that next time Stella comes

my way she will bring you with her, when I will make you as

comfortable as a bachelor can—it’s certainly time we met. My

sister’s marriage to you coming after my mother’s death and my own

difficulties did upset me, and I was unreasonable. It is about time

we made it up properly, as you say—let us leave it at faults on

both sides. Glad about your son and heir. When next any of you

write to Adela, do give her some sort of message from me, for I

should like to make my peace with her too. You are lucky to be out

of British India at the present moment. Incident after incident,

all due to propaganda, but we can’t lay our hands on the connecting

thread. The longer one lives here, the more certain one gets that

everything hangs together. My personal opinion is, it’s the Jews.”

Thus far the red-nosed boy. Aziz was distracted for a moment by

blurred sounds coming from over the water; the procession was under

way. The second letter was from Miss Quested to Mrs. Fielding. It

contained one or two interesting touches. The writer hoped that

“Ralph will enjoy his India more than I did mine,” and appeared to

have given him money for this purpose—“my debt which I shall never

repay in person.” What debt did Miss Quested imagine she owed the

country? He did not relish the phrase. Talk of Ralph’s health. It

was all “Stella and Ralph,” even “Cyril” and “Ronny”—all so friendly

and sensible, and written in a spirit he could not command. He

envied the easy intercourse that is only possible in a nation whose

women are free. These five people were making up their little

difficulties, and closing their broken ranks against the alien.

Even Heaslop was coming in. Hence the strength of England, and in

a spurt of temper he hit the piano, and since the notes had swollen

and stuck together in groups of threes, he produced a remarkable

noise.

“Oh, oh, who is that?” said a nervous and respectful voice; he

could not remember where he had heard its tones before. Something

moved in the twilight of an adjoining room. He replied, “State

doctor, ridden over to enquire, very little English,” slipped the

letters into his pocket, and to show that he had free entry to the

Guest House, struck the piano again.

Ralph Moore came into the light.

What a strange-looking youth, tall, prematurely aged, the big blue

eyes faded with anxiety, the hair impoverished and tousled! Not a

type that is often exported imperially. The doctor in Aziz thought,

“Born of too old a mother,” the poet found him rather beautiful.

“I was unable to call earlier owing to pressure of work. How are

the celebrated bee-stings?” he asked patronizingly.

“I—I was resting, they thought I had better; they throb rather.”

His timidity and evident “newness” had complicated effects on the

malcontent. Speaking threateningly, he said, “Come here, please,

allow me to look.” They were practically alone, and he could treat

the patient as Callendar had treated Nureddin.

“You said this morning——”

“The best of doctors make mistakes. Come here, please, for the

diagnosis under the lamp. I am pressed for time.”

“Aough——”

“What is the matter, pray?”

“Your hands are unkind.”

He started and glanced down at them. The extraordinary youth was

right, and he put them behind his back before replying with outward

anger: “What the devil have my hands to do with you? This is a most

strange remark. I am a qualified doctor, who will not hurt you.”

“I don’t mind pain, there is no pain.”

“No pain?”

“Not really.”

“Excellent news,” sneered Aziz.

“But there is cruelty.”

“I have brought you some salve, but how to put it on in your

present nervous state becomes a problem,” he continued, after a

pause.

“Please leave it with me.”

“Certainly not. It returns to my dispensary at once.” He stretched

forward, and the other retreated to the farther side of a table.

“Now, do you want me to treat your stings, or do you prefer an

English doctor? There is one at Asirgarh. Asirgarh is forty miles

away, and the Ringnod dam broken. Now you see how you are placed.

I think I had better see Mr. Fielding about you; this is really

great nonsense, your present behaviour.”

“They are out in a boat,” he replied, glancing about him for

support.

Aziz feigned intense surprise. “They have not gone in the direction

of Mau, I hope. On a night like this the people become most

fanatical.” And, as if to confirm him, there was a sob, as though

the lips of a giant had parted; the procession was approaching the

Jail.

“You should not treat us like this,” he challenged, and this time

Aziz was checked, for the voice, though frightened, was not weak.

“Like what?”

“Dr. Aziz, we have done you no harm.”

“Aha, you know my name, I see. Yes, I am Aziz. No, of course your

great friend Miss Quested did me no harm at the Marabar.”

Drowning his last words, all the guns of the State went off. A

rocket from the Jail garden gave the signal. The prisoner had been

released, and was kissing the feet of the singers. Rose-leaves fall

from the houses, sacred spices and coco-nut are brought forth. . . .

It was the half-way moment; the God had extended His temple,

and paused exultantly. Mixed and confused in their passage, the

rumours of salvation entered the Guest House. They were startled

and moved on to the porch, drawn by the sudden illumination. The

bronze gun up on the fort kept flashing, the town was a blur of

light, in which the houses seemed dancing, and the palace waving

little wings. The water below, the hills and sky above, were not

involved as yet; there was still only a little light and song

struggling among the shapeless lumps of the universe. The song

became audible through much repetition; the choir was repeating

and inverting the names of deities.

“Radhakrishna Radhakrishna,

Radhakrishna Radhakrishna,

Krishnaradha Radhakrishna,

Radhakrishna Radhakrishna,”

they sang, and woke the sleeping sentry in the Guest House; he

leant upon his iron-tipped spear.

“I must go back now, good night,” said Aziz, and held out his hand,

completely forgetting that they were not friends, and focusing his

heart on something more distant than the caves, something beautiful.

His hand was taken, and then he remembered how detestable he had

been, and said gently, “Don’t you think me unkind any more?”

“No.”

“How can you tell, you strange fellow?”

“Not difficult, the one thing I always know.”

“Can you always tell whether a stranger is your friend?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are an Oriental.” He unclasped as he spoke, with a little

shudder. Those words—he had said them to Mrs. Moore in the mosque

in the beginning of the cycle, from which, after so much suffering,

he had got free. Never be friends with the English! Mosque, caves,

mosque, caves. And here he was starting again. He handed the magic

ointment to him. “Take this, think of me when you use it. I shall

never want it back. I must give you one little present, and it is

all I have got; you are Mrs. Moore’s son.”

“I am that,” he murmured to himself; and a part of Aziz’ mind that

had been hidden seemed to move and force its way to the top.

“But you are Heaslop’s brother also, and alas, the two nations

cannot be friends.”

“I know. Not yet.”

“Did your mother speak to you about me?”

“Yes.” And with a swerve of voice and body that Aziz did not follow

he added, “In her letters, in her letters. She loved you.”

“Yes, your mother was my best friend in all the world.” He was

silent, puzzled by his own great gratitude. What did this eternal

goodness of Mrs. Moore amount to? To nothing, if brought to the

test of thought. She had not borne witness in his favour, nor

visited him in the prison, yet she had stolen to the depths of his

heart, and he always adored her. “This is our monsoon, the best

weather,” he said, while the lights of the procession waved as

though embroidered on an agitated curtain. “How I wish she could

have seen them, our rains. Now is the time when all things are

happy, young and old. They are happy out there with their savage

noise, though we cannot follow them; the tanks are all full so they

dance, and this is India. I wish you were not with officials, then

I would show you my country, but I cannot. Perhaps I will just take

you out on the water now, for one short half-hour.”

Was the cycle beginning again? His heart was too full to draw back.

He must slip out in the darkness, and do this one act of homage to

Mrs. Moore’s son. He knew where the oars were—hidden to deter the

visitors from going out—and he brought the second pair, in case

they met the other boat; the Fieldings had pushed themselves out

with long poles, and might get into difficulties, for the wind was

rising.

Once on the water, he became easy. One kind action was with him

always a channel for another, and soon the torrent of his

hospitality gushed forth and he began doing the honours of Mau and

persuading himself that he understood the wild procession, which

increased in lights and sounds as the complications of its ritual

developed. There was little need to row, for the freshening gale

blew them in the direction they desired. Thorns scratched the keel,

they ran into an islet and startled some cranes. The strange

temporary life of the August flood-water bore them up and seemed

as though it would last for ever.

The boat was a rudderless dinghy. Huddled up in the stern, with

the spare pair of oars in his arms, the guest asked no questions

about details. There was presently a flash of lightning, followed

by a second flash—little red scratches on the ponderous sky. “Was

that the Rajah?” he asked.

“What—what do you mean?”

“Row back.”

“But there’s no Rajah—nothing——”

“Row back, you will see what I mean.”

Aziz found it hard work against the advancing wind. But he fixed

his eyes on the pin of light that marked the Guest House and backed

a few strokes.

“There . . .”

Floating in the darkness was a king, who sat under a canopy, in

shining royal robes. . . .

“I can’t tell you what that is, I’m sure,” he whispered. “His

Highness is dead. I think we should go back at once.”

They were close to the promontory of the tombs, and had looked

straight into the chhatri of the Rajah’s father through an opening

in the trees. That was the explanation. He had heard of the

image—made to imitate life at enormous expense—but he had never

chanced to see it before, though he frequently rowed on the lake.

There was only one spot from which it could be seen, and Ralph had

directed him to it. Hastily he pulled away, feeling that his

companion was not so much a visitor as a guide. He remarked, “Shall

we go back now?”

“There is still the procession.”

“I’d rather not go nearer—they have such strange customs, and might

hurt you.”

“A little nearer.”

Aziz obeyed. He knew with his heart that this was Mrs. Moore’s son,

and indeed until his heart was involved he knew nothing.

“Radhakrishna Radhakrishna Radhakrishna Radhakrishna Krishnaradha,”

went the chant, then suddenly changed, and in the interstice he

heard, almost certainly, the syllables of salvation that had

sounded during his trial at Chandrapore.

“Mr. Moore, don’t tell anyone that the Rajah is dead. It is a

secret still, I am supposed not to say. We pretend he is alive

until after the festival, to prevent unhappiness. Do you want to

go still nearer?”

“Yes.”

He tried to keep the boat out of the glare of the torches that

began to star the other shore. Rockets kept going off, also the

guns. Suddenly, closer than he had calculated, the palanquin of

Krishna appeared from behind a ruined wall, and descended the

carven glistening water-steps. On either side of it the singers

tumbled, a woman prominent, a wild and beautiful young saint with

flowers in her hair. She was praising God without attributes—thus

did she apprehend Him. Others praised Him without attributes,

seeing Him in this or that organ of the body or manifestation of

the sky. Down they rushed to the foreshore and stood in the small

waves, and a sacred meal was prepared, of which those who felt

worthy partook. Old Godbole detected the boat, which was drifting

in on the gale, and he waved his arms—whether in wrath or joy Aziz

never discovered. Above stood the secular power of Mau—elephants,

artillery, crowds—and high above them a wild tempest started,

confined at first to the upper regions of the air. Gusts of wind

mixed darkness and light, sheets of rain cut from the north,

stopped, cut from the south, began rising from below, and across

them struggled the singers, sounding every note but terror, and

preparing to throw God away, God Himself, (not that God can be

thrown) into the storm. Thus was He thrown year after year, and

were others thrown—little images of Ganpati, baskets of ten-day

corn, tiny tazias after Mohurram—scapegoats, husks, emblems of

passage; a passage not easy, not now, not here, not to be

apprehended except when it is unattainable; the God to be thrown

was an emblem of that.

The village of Gokul reappeared upon its tray. It was the substitute

for the silver image, which never left its haze of flowers; on

behalf of another symbol, it was to perish. A servitor took it in

his hands, and tore off the blue and white streamers. He was naked,

broad-shouldered, thin-waisted—the Indian body again triumphant—and

it was his hereditary office to close the gates of salvation. He

entered the dark waters, pushing the village before him, until the

clay dolls slipped off their chairs and began to gutter in the

rain, and King Kansa was confounded with the father and mother of

the Lord. Dark and solid, the little waves sipped, then a great

wave washed and then English voices cried “Take care!”

The boats had collided with each other.

The four outsiders flung out their arms and grappled, and, with

oars and poles sticking out, revolved like a mythical monster in

the whirlwind. The worshippers howled with wrath or joy, as they

drifted forward helplessly against the servitor. Who awaited them,

his beautiful dark face expressionless, and as the last morsels

melted on his tray, it struck them.

The shock was minute, but Stella, nearest to it, shrank into her

husband’s arms, then reached forward, then flung herself against

Aziz, and her motions capsized them. They plunged into the warm,

shallow water, and rose struggling into a tornado of noise. The

oars, the sacred tray, the letters of Ronny and Adela, broke loose

and floated confusedly. Artillery was fired, drums beaten, the

elephants trumpeted, and drowning all an immense peal of thunder,

unaccompanied by lightning, cracked like a mallet on the dome.

That was the climax, as far as India admits of one. The rain

settled in steadily to its job of wetting everybody and everything

through, and soon spoiled the cloth of gold on the palanquin and

the costly disc-shaped banners. Some of the torches went out,

fireworks didn’t catch, there began to be less singing, and the

tray returned to Professor Godbole, who picked up a fragment of

the mud adhering and smeared it on his forehead without much

ceremony. Whatever had happened had happened, and while the

intruders picked themselves up, the crowds of Hindus began a

desultory move back into the town. The image went back too, and on

the following day underwent a private death of its own, when some

curtains of magenta and green were lowered in front of the dynastic

shrine. The singing went on even longer . . . ragged edges of

religion . . . unsatisfactory and undramatic tangles. . . . “God

is love.” Looking back at the great blur of the last twenty-four

hours, no man could say where was the emotional centre of it, any

more than he could locate the heart of a cloud.