A Passage to India - E. M. Forster (e reader for manga txt) 📗

and to collect its scholars before they produced children of their own. Fielding laughed at the tangle and waste of energy, but he did not travel as lightly as in the past; education was a continuous concern to him, because his income and the comfort of his family depended on it. He knew that few Indians think education good in itself, and he deplored this now on the widest grounds. He began to say something heavy on the subject of Native States, but the friendliness of Aziz distracted him. This reconciliation was a success, anyhow. After the funny shipwreck there had been no more nonsense or bitterness, and they went back laughingly to their old relationship as if nothing had happened. Now they rode between jolly bushes and rocks. Presently the ground opened into full sunlight and they saw a grassy slope bright with butterflies, also a cobra, which crawled across doing nothing in particular, and disappeared among some custard apple trees. There were round white clouds in the sky, and white pools on the earth; the hills in the distance were purple. The scene was as park-like as England, but did not cease being queer. They drew rein, to give the cobra elbow-room, and Aziz produced a letter that he wanted to send to Miss Quested. A charming letter. He wanted to thank his old enemy for her fine behaviour two years back: perfectly plain was it now that she had behaved well. “As I fell into our largest Mau tank under circumstances our other friends will relate, I thought how brave Miss Quested was, and decided to tell her so, despite my imperfect English. Through you I am happy here with my children instead of in a prison, of that I make no doubt. My children shall be taught to speak of you with the greatest affection and respect.”

“Miss Quested will be greatly pleased. I am glad you have seen her courage at last.”

“I want to do kind actions all round and wipe out the wretched business of the Marabar forever. I have been so disgracefully hasty, thinking you meant to get hold of my money: as bad a mistake as the cave itself.”

“Aziz, I wish you would talk to my wife. She too believes that the Marabar is wiped out.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know, perhaps she might tell you, she won’t tell me. She has ideas I don’t share⁠—indeed, when I’m away from her I think them ridiculous. When I’m with her, I suppose because I’m fond of her, I feel different, I feel half dead and half blind. My wife’s after something. You and I and Miss Quested are, roughly speaking, not after anything. We jog on as decently as we can, you a little in front⁠—a laudable little party. But my wife is not with us.”

“What are you meaning? Is Stella not faithful to you, Cyril? This fills me with great concern.”

Fielding hesitated. He was not quite happy about his marriage. He was passionate physically again⁠—the final flare-up before the clinkers of middle age⁠—and he knew that his wife did not love him as much as he loved her, and he was ashamed of pestering her. But during the visit to Mau the situation had improved. There seemed a link between them at last⁠—that link outside either participant that is necessary to every relationship. In the language of theology, their union had been blessed. He could assure Aziz that Stella was not only faithful to him, but likely to become more so; and trying to express what was not clear to himself, he added dully that different people had different points of view. “If you won’t talk about the Marabar to Stella, why won’t you talk to Ralph? He is a wise boy really. And (same metaphor) he rides a little behind her, though with her.”

“Tell him also, I have nothing to say to him, but he is indeed a wise boy and has always one Indian friend. I partly love him because he brought me back to you to say goodbye. For this is goodbye, Cyril, though to think about it will spoil our ride and make us sad.”

“No, we won’t think about it.” He too felt that this was their last free intercourse. All the stupid misunderstandings had been cleared up, but socially they had no meeting-place. He had thrown in his lot with Anglo-India by marrying a countrywoman, and he was acquiring some of its limitations, and already felt surprise at his own past heroism. Would he today defy all his own people for the sake of a stray Indian? Aziz was a memento, a trophy, they were proud of each other, yet they must inevitably part. And, anxious to make what he could of this last afternoon, he forced himself to speak intimately about his wife, the person most dear to him. He said: “From her point of view, Mau has been a success. It calmed her⁠—both of them suffer from restlessness. She found something soothing, some solution of her queer troubles here.” After a silence⁠—myriads of kisses around them as the earth drew the water in⁠—he continued: “Do you know anything about this Krishna business?”

“My dear chap, officially they call it Gokul Ashtami. All the State offices are closed, but how else should it concern you and me?”

“Gokul is the village where Krishna was born⁠—well, more or less born, for there’s the same hovering between it and another village as between Bethlehem and Nazareth. What I want to discover is its spiritual side, if it has one.”

“It is useless discussing Hindus with me. Living with them teaches me no more. When I think I annoy them, I do not. When I think I don’t annoy them, I do. Perhaps they will sack me for tumbling on to their dolls’-house; on the other hand, perhaps they will double my salary. Time will prove. Why so curious about them?”

“It’s difficult to explain. I never really understood or liked them, except an occasional scrap