A Passage to India

by E. M. Forster

  The insensitiveness about Adela displeased him. It would, from every point of view, be right to treat her generously, and one day he had the notion of appealing to the memory of Mrs. Moore. Aziz had this high and fantastic estimate of Mrs. Moore. Her death had been a real grief to his warm heart; he wept like a child and ordered his three children to weep also. There was no doubt that he respected and loved her. Fielding’s first attempt was a failure. The reply was: “I see your trick. I want revenge on them. Why should I be insulted and suffer the contents of my pockets read and my wife’s photograph taken to the police station? Also I want the money—to educate my little boys, as I explained to her.” But he began to weaken, and Fielding was not ashamed to practise a little necromancy. Whenever the question of compensation came up, he introduced the dead woman’s name. Just as other propagandists invented her a tomb, so did he raise a questionable image of her in the heart of Aziz, saying nothing that he believed to be untrue, but producing something that was probably far from the truth. Aziz yielded suddenly. He felt it was Mrs. Moore’s wish that he should spare the woman who was about to marry her son, that it was the only honour he could pay her, and he renounced with a passionate and beautiful outburst the whole of the compensation money, claiming only costs. It was fine of him, and, as he foresaw, it won him no credit with the English. They still believed he was guilty, they believed it to the end of their careers, and retired Anglo-Indians in Tunbridge Wells or Cheltenham still murmur to each other: “That Marabar case which broke down because the poor girl couldn’t face giving her evidence—that was another bad case.”

  When the affair was thus officially ended, Ronny, who was about to be transferred to another part of the Province, approached Fielding with his usual constraint and said: “I wish to thank you for the help you have given Miss Quested. She will not of course trespass on your hospitality further; she has as a matter of fact decided to return to England. I have just arranged about her passage for her. I understand she would like to see you.”

  “I shall go round at once.”

  On reaching the College, he found her in some upset. He learnt that the engagement had been broken by Ronny. “Far wiser of him,” she said pathetically. “I ought to have spoken myself, but I drifted on wondering what would happen. I would willingly have gone on spoiling his life through inertia—one has nothing to do, one belongs nowhere and becomes a public nuisance without realizing it.” In order to reassure him, she added: “I speak only of India. I am not astray in England. I fit in there—no, don’t think I shall do harm in England. When I am forced back there, I shall settle down to some career. I have sufficient money left to start myself, and heaps of friends of my own type. I shall be quite all right.” Then sighing: “But oh, the trouble I’ve brought on everyone here… . I can never get over it. My carefulness as to whether we should marry or not … and in the end Ronny and I part and aren’t even sorry. We ought never to have thought of marriage. Weren’t you amazed when our engagement was originally announced?”

  “Not much. At my age one’s seldom amazed,” he said, smiling. “Marriage is too absurd in any case. It begins and continues for such very slight reasons. The social business props it up on one side, and the theological business on the other, but neither of them are marriage, are they? I’ve friends who can’t remember why they married, no more can their wives. I suspect that it mostly happens haphazard, though afterwards various noble reasons are invented. About marriage I am cynical.”

  “I am not. This false start has been all my own fault. I was bringing to Ronny nothing that ought to be brought, that was why he rejected me really. I entered that cave thinking: Am I fond of him? I have not yet told you that, Mr. Fielding. I didn’t feel justified. Tenderness, respect, personal intercourse—I tried to make them take the place—of——”

  “I no longer want love,” he said, supplying the word.

  “No more do I. My experiences here have cured me. But I want others to want it.”

  “But to go back to our first talk (for I suppose this is our last one)—when you entered that cave, who did follow you, or did no one follow you? Can you now say? I don’t like it left in air.”

  “Let us call it the guide,” she said indifferently. “It will never be known. It’s as if I ran my finger along that polished wall in the dark, and cannot get further. I am up against something, and so are you. Mrs. Moore—she did know.”

  “How could she have known what we don’t?”

  “Telepathy, possibly.”

  The pert, meagre word fell to the ground. Telepathy? What an explanation! Better withdraw it, and Adela did so. She was at the end of her spiritual tether, and so was he. Were there worlds beyond which they could never touch, or did all that is possible enter their consciousness? They could not tell. They only realized that their outlook was more or less similar, and found in this a satisfaction. Perhaps life is a mystery, not a muddle; they could not tell. Perhaps the hundred Indias which fuss and squabble so tiresomely are one, and the universe they mirror is one. They had not the apparatus for judging.

  “Write to me when you get to England.”

  “I shall, often. You have been excessively kind. Now that I’m going, I realize it. I wish I could do something for you in return, but I see you’ve all you want.”

  “I think so,” he replied after a pause. “I have never felt more happy and secure out here. I really do get on with Indians, and they do trust me. It’s pleasant that I haven’t had to resign my job. It’s pleasant to be praised by an L.-G. Until the next earthquake I remain as I am.”

  “Of course this death has been troubling me.”

  “Aziz was so fond of her too.”

  “But it has made me remember that we must all die: all these personal relations we try to live by are temporary. I used to feel death selected people, it is a notion one gets from novels, because some of the characters are usually left talking at the end. Now ‘death spares no one’ begins to be real.”

  “Don’t let it become too real, or you’ll die yourself. That is the objection to meditating upon death. We are subdued to what we work in. I have felt the same temptation, and had to sheer off. I want to go on living a bit.”

  “So do I.”

  A friendliness, as of dwarfs shaking hands, was in the air. Both man and woman were at the height of their powers—sensible, honest, even subtle. They spoke the same language, and held the same opinions, and the variety of age and sex did not divide them. Yet they were dissatisfied. When they agreed, “I want to go on living a bit,” or, “I don’t believe in God,” the words were followed by a curious backwash as though the universe had displaced itself to fill up a tiny void, or as though they had seen their own gestures from an immense height—dwarfs talking, shaking hands and assuring each other that they stood on the same footing of insight. They did not think they were wrong, because as soon as honest people think they are wrong instability sets up. Not for them was an infinite goal behind the stars, and they never sought it. But wistfulness descended on them now, as on other occasions; the shadow of the shadow of a dream fell over their clear-cut interests, and objects never seen again seemed messages from another world.

  “And I do like you so very much, if I may say so,” he affirmed.

  “I’m glad, for I like you. Let’s meet again.”

  “We will, in England, if I ever take home leave.”

  “But I suppose you’re not likely to do that yet.”

  “Quite a chance. I have a scheme on now as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh, that would be very nice.”

  So it petered out. Ten days later Adela went off, by the same route as her dead friend. The final beat up before the monsoon had come. The country was stricken and blurred. Its houses, trees and fields were all modelled out of the same brown paste, and the sea at Bombay slid about like broth against the quays. Her last Indian adventure was with Antony, who followed her on to the boat and tried to blackmail her. She had been Mr. Fielding’s mistress, Anton
y said. Perhaps Antony was discontented with his tip. She rang the cabin bell and had him turned out, but his statement created rather a scandal, and people did not speak to her much during the first part of the voyage. Through the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea she was left to herself, and to the dregs of Chandrapore.

  With Egypt the atmosphere altered. The clean sands, heaped on each side of the canal, seemed to wipe off everything that was difficult and equivocal, and even Port Said looked pure and charming in the light of a rose-grey morning. She went on shore there with an American missionary, they walked out to the Lesseps statue, they drank the tonic air of the Levant. “To what duties, Miss Quested, are you returning in your own country after your taste of the tropics?” the missionary asked. “Observe, I don’t say to what do you turn, but to what do you return. Every life ought to contain both a turn and a return. This celebrated pioneer (he pointed to the statue) will make my question clear. He turns to the East, he returns to the West. You can see it from the cute position of his hands, one of which holds a string of sausages.” The missionary looked at her humorously, in order to cover the emptiness of his mind. He had no idea what he meant by “turn” and “return,” but he often used words in pairs, for the sake of moral brightness. “I see,” she replied. Suddenly, in the Mediterranean clarity, she had seen. Her first duty on returning to England was to look up those other children of Mrs. Moore’s, Ralph and Stella, then she would turn to her profession. Mrs. Moore had tended to keep the products of her two marriages apart, and Adela had not come across the younger branch so far.

  Chapter 30

  ANOTHER local consequence of the trial was a Hindu-Moslem entente. Loud protestations of amity were exchanged by prominent citizens, and there went with them a genuine desire for a good understanding. Aziz, when he was at the hospital one day, received a visit from rather a sympathetic figure: Mr. Das. The magistrate sought two favours from him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law’s new monthly magazine. He accorded both.

  “My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus.”

  “It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally,” he said timidly.

  “There is no such person in existence as the general Indian.”

  “There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed.”

  “I know, but will it last?”

  “I fear not,” said Das, who had much mental clearness. “And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul.”

  “Half a sec,” said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. “Here you are… . Is not this better than a poem?”

  “Happy the man who can compose both.”

  “You are full of compliments to-day.”

  “I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case,” said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner.”

  “No, no, what nonsense!” protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. “Excellent,” said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, “I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung”; Das thought, “Some Moslems are very violent.” They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other’s heart, and Das, the more articulate, said: “Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth.”

  “Oh, well, about this poem—how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?” he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved—for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil.

  “Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau.”

  “How did he hear?”

  “He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?”

  Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry—science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress—and this evening he longed to compose a new song which should be acclaimed by multitudes and even sung in the fields. In what language shall it be written? And what shall it announce? He vowed to see more of Indians who were not Mohammedans, and never to look backward. It is the only healthy course. Of what help, in this latitude and hour, are the glories of Cordova and Samarcand? They have gone, and while we lament them the English occupy Delhi and exclude us from East Africa. Islam itself, though true, throws cross-lights over the path to freedom. The song of the future must transcend creed.

  The poem for Mr. Bhattacharya never got written, but it had an effect. It led him towards the vague and bulky figure of a mother-land. He was without natural affection for the land of his birth, but the Marabar Hills drove him to it. Half closing his eyes, he attempted to love India. She must imitate Japan. Not until she is a nation will her sons be treated with respect. He grew harder and less approachable. The English, whom he had laughed at or ignored, persecuted him everywhere; they had even thrown nets over his dreams. “My great mistake has been taking our rulers as a joke,” he said to Hamidullah next day; who replied with a sigh: “It is far the wisest way to take them, but not possible in the long run. Sooner or later a disaster such as yours occurs, and reveals their secret thoughts about our character. If God himself descended from heaven into their club and said you were innocent, they would disbelieve him. Now you see why Mahmoud Ali and self waste so much time over intrigues and associate with creatures like Ram Chand.”

  “I cannot endure committees. I shall go right away.”

  “Where to? Turtons and Burtons, all are the same.”

  “But not in an Indian state.”

  “I believe the Politicals are obliged to have better manners. It amounts to no more.”

  “I do want to get away from British India, even to a poor job. I think I could write poetry there. I wish I had lived in Babur’s time and fought and written for him. Gone, gone, and not even any use to say ‘Gone, gone,’ for it weakens us while we say it. We need a king, Hamidullah; it would make our lives easier. As it is, we must try to appreciate these quaint Hindus. My notion now is to try for some post as doctor in one of their states.”

  “Oh, that is going much too far.”

  “It is not going as far as Mr. Ram Chand.”

  “But the money, the money—they will never pay an adequate salary, those savage Rajas.”

  “I shall never be rich anywhere, it is outside my character.”

  “If you had been sensible and made Miss Quested pay——”

  “I chose not to. Discussion of the past is useless,” he said, with sudden sharpness of tone. “I have allowed her to keep her fortune and buy herself a husband in England, for which it will be very necessary. Don’t mention the matter again.”

  “Very well, but your life must continue a poor man’s; no holidays in Kashmir for you yet, you must stick to your profession and rise to a highly paid post, not retire to a jungle-state and write poems. Educate your children, read the latest scientific periodicals, compel European doctors to respect you. Accept the consequences of your own actions like a man.”

  Aziz winked at him slowly and said: “We are not in the law courts. There a
re many ways of being a man; mine is to express what is deepest in my heart.”

  “To such a remark there is certainly no reply,” said Hamidullah, moved. Recovering himself and smiling, he said: “Have you heard this naughty rumour that Mohammed Latif has got hold of?”

  “Which?”

  “When Miss Quested stopped in the College, Fielding used to visit her … rather too late in the evening, the servants say.”

  “A pleasant change for her if he did,” said Aziz, making a curious face.

  “But you understand my meaning!”

  The young man winked again and said: “Just! Still, your meaning doesn’t help me out of my difficulties. I am determined to leave Chandrapore. The problem is, for where? I am determined to write poetry. The problem is, about what? You give me no assistance.” Then, surprising both Hamidullah and himself, he had an explosion of nerves. “But who does give me assistance? No one is my friend. All are traitors, even my own children. I have had enough of friends.”

  “I was going to suggest we go behind the purdah, but your three treacherous children are there, so you will not want to.”

  “I am sorry, it is ever since I was in prison my temper is strange; take me, forgive me.”

  “Nureddin’s mother is visiting my wife now. That is all right, I think.”

  “They come before me separately, but not so far together. You had better prepare them for the united shock of my face.”

  “No, let us surprise them without warning, far too much nonsense still goes on among our ladies. They pretended at the time of your trial they would give up purdah! indeed, those of them who can write composed a document to that effect, and now it ends in humbug. You know how deeply they all respect Fielding, but not one of them has seen him. My wife says she will, but always when he calls there is some excuse—she is not feeling well, she is ashamed of the room, she has no nice sweets to offer him, only Elephants’ Ears, and if I say Elephants’ Ears are Mr. Fielding’s favourite sweet, she replies that he will know how badly hers are made, so she cannot see him on their account. For fifteen years, my dear boy, have I argued with my begum, for fifteen years, and never gained a point, yet the missionaries inform us our women are down-trodden. If you want a subject for a poem, take this: The Indian lady as she is and not as she is supposed to be.”