A Passage to India by E. M. Forster (top novels to read .txt) 📕

“You’re preaching that evil and good are the same.”

“Oh no, excuse me once again. Good and evil are different, as their names imply. But, in my own humble opinion, they are both of them aspects of my Lord. He is present in the one, absent in the other, and the difference between presence and absence is great, as great as my feeble mind can grasp. Yet absence implies presence, absence is not nonexistence, and we are therefore entitled to repeat, ‘Come, come, come, come.’ ” And in the same breath, as if to cancel any beauty his words might have contained, he added, “But did you have time to visit any of the interesting Marabar antiquities?”

Fielding was silent, trying to meditate and rest his brain.

“Did you not even see the tank by the usual camping ground?” he nagged.

“Yes, yes,” he answered distractedly, wandering over half a dozen things at once.

“That is good, then you saw the Tank of the Dagger.” And he related a legend which might have been acceptable if he had told it at the tea-party a fortnight ago. It concerned a Hindu Rajah who had slain his own sister’s son, and the dagger with which he performed the deed remained clamped to his hand until in the course of years he came to the Marabar Hills, where he was thirsty and wanted to drink but saw a thirsty cow and ordered the water to be offered to her first, which, when done, “dagger fell from his hand, and to commemorate miracle he built Tank.” Professor Godbole’s conversations frequently culminated in a cow. Fielding received this one in gloomy silence.

In the afternoon he obtained a permit and saw Aziz, but found him unapproachable through misery. “You deserted me,” was the only coherent remark. He went away to write his letter to Miss Quested. Even if it reached her, it would do no good, and probably the McBrydes would withhold it. Miss Quested did pull him up short. She was such a dry, sensible girl, and quite without malice: the last person in Chandrapore wrongfully to accuse an Indian.

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 sickroom. 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