A Passage to India, E. M. Forster [book series for 10 year olds TXT] 📗

at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy.

“Everything absolutely normal.”

“I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of course.”

“Merely the preparations for it⁠—the Procession is not till next week.”

“Quite so, not till Monday.”

“Mr. McBryde’s down there disguised as a Holy Man,” said Mrs. Callendar.

“That’s exactly the sort of thing that must not be said,” he remarked, pointing at her. “Mrs. Callendar, be more careful than that, please, in these times.”

“I⁠ ⁠… well, I⁠ ⁠…” She was not offended, his severity made her feel safe.

“Any more questions? Necessary questions.”

“Is the⁠—where is he⁠—” Mrs. Lesley quavered.

“Jail. Bail has been refused.”

Fielding spoke next. He wanted to know whether there was an official bulletin about Miss Quested’s health, or whether the grave reports were due to gossip. His question produced a bad effect, partly because he had pronounced her name; she, like Aziz, was always referred to by a periphrasis.

“I hope Callendar may be able to let us know how things are going before long.”

“I fail to see how that last question can be termed a necessary question,” said Mrs. Turton.

“Will all ladies leave the smoking-room now, please?” he cried, clapping his hands again. “And remember what I have said. We look to you to help us through a difficult time, and you can help us by behaving as if everything is normal. It is all I ask. Can I rely on you?”

“Yes, indeed, Burra Sahib,” they chorused out of peaked, anxious faces. They moved out, subdued yet elated, Mrs. Blakiston in their midst like a sacred flame. His simple words had reminded them that they were an outpost of Empire. By the side of their compassionate love for Adela another sentiment sprang up which was to strangle it in the long run. Its first signs were prosaic and small. Mrs. Turton made her loud, hard jokes at bridge, Mrs. Lesley began to knit a comforter.

When the smoking-room was clear, the Collector sat on the edge of a table, so that he could dominate without formality. His mind whirled with contradictory impulses. He wanted to avenge Miss Quested and punish Fielding, while remaining scrupulously fair. He wanted to flog every native that he saw, but to do nothing that would lead to a riot or to the necessity for military intervention. The dread of having to call in the troops was vivid to him; soldiers put one thing straight, but leave a dozen others crooked, and they love to humiliate the civilian administration. One soldier was in the room this evening⁠—a stray subaltern from a Gurkha regiment; he was a little drunk, and regarded his presence as providential. The Collector sighed. There seemed nothing for it but the old weary business of compromise and moderation. He longed for the good old days when an Englishman could satisfy his own honour and no questions asked afterwards. Poor young Heaslop had taken a step in this direction, by refusing bail, but the Collector couldn’t feel this was wise of poor young Heaslop. Not only would the Nawab Bahadur and others be angry, but the Government of India itself also watches⁠—and behind it is that caucus of cranks and cravens, the British Parliament. He had constantly to remind himself that, in the eyes of the law, Aziz was not yet guilty, and the effort fatigued him.

The others, less responsible, could behave naturally. They had started speaking of “women and children”⁠—that phrase that exempts the male from sanity when it has been repeated a few times. Each felt that all he loved best in the world was at stake, demanded revenge, and was filled with a not unpleasing glow, in which the chilly and half-known features of Miss Quested vanished, and were replaced by all that is sweetest and warmest in the private life. “But it’s the women and children,” they repeated, and the Collector knew he ought to stop them intoxicating themselves, but he hadn’t the heart. “They ought to be compelled to give hostages,” etc. Many of the said women and children were leaving for the Hill Station in a few days, and the suggestion was made that they should be packed off at once in a special train.

“And a jolly suggestion,” the subaltern cried. “The army’s got to come in sooner or later. (A special train was in his mind inseparable from troops.) This would never have happened if Barabas Hill was under military control. Station a bunch of Gurkhas at the entrance of the cave was all that was wanted.”

“Mrs. Blakiston was saying if only there were a few Tommies,” remarked someone.

“English no good,” he cried, getting his loyalties mixed. “Native troops for this country. Give me the sporting type of native, give me Gurkhas, give me Rajputs, give me Jats, give me the Punjabi, give me Sikhs, give me Marathas, Bhils, Afridis and Pathans, and really if it comes to that, I don’t mind if you give me the scums of the bazaars. Properly led, mind. I’d lead them anywhere⁠—”

The Collector nodded at him pleasantly, and said to his own people: “Don’t start carrying arms about. I want everything to go on precisely as usual, until there’s cause for the contrary. Get the womenfolk off to the hills, but do it quietly, and for Heaven’s sake no more talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian has attempted⁠—is charged with an attempted crime.” He flipped his forehead hard with his fingernail, and they all realized that he felt as deeply as they did, and they loved him, and determined not to increase his difficulties. “Act upon that fact until there are more facts,” he concluded. “Assume every Indian is an angel.”

They murmured, “Right you are, Burra Sahib.⁠ ⁠… Angels.⁠ ⁠… Exactly.⁠ ⁠…” From the subaltern: “Exactly what I said. The native’s all right if you get him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You remember the one I had a knock with on your Maidan last month. Well, he was all right. Any native who