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 reign 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.
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.
