It so happened that Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested had felt nothing acutely for a fortnight. Ever since Professor Godbole had sung his queer little song, they had lived more or less inside cocoons7, and the difference between them was that the elder lady accepted her own apathy8, while the younger resented hers. It was Adela’s faith that the whole stream of events is important and interesting, and if she grew bored she blamed herself severely9 and compelled her lips to utter enthusiasms. This was the only insincerity in a character otherwise sincere, and it was indeed the intellectual protest of her youth. She was particularly vexed10 now because she was both in India and engaged to be married, which double event should have made every instant sublime11.
India was certainly dim this morning, though seen under the auspices12 of Indians. Her wish had been granted, but too late. She could not get excited over Aziz and his arrangements. She was not the least unhappy or depressed13, and the various odd objects that surrounded her—the comic “purdah” carriage, the piles of rugs and bolsters14, the rolling melons, the scent15 of sweet oils, the ladder, the brass-bound box, the sudden irruption of Mahmoud Ali’s butler from the lavatory16 with tea and poached eggs upon a tray—they were all new and amusing, and led her to comment appropriately, but they wouldn’t bite into her mind. So she tried to find comfort by reflecting that her main interest would henceforward be Ronny.
“What a nice cheerful servant! What a relief after Antony!”
“They startle one rather. A strange place to make tea in,” said Mrs. Moore, who had hoped for a nap.
“I want to sack Antony. His behaviour on the platform has decided17 me.”
Mrs. Moore thought that Antony’s better self would come to the front at Simla. Miss Quested was to be married at Simla; some cousins, with a house looking straight on to Thibet, had invited her.
“Anyhow, we must get a second servant, because at Simla you will be at the hotel, and I don’t think Ronny’s Baldeo . . .” She loved plans.
“Very well, you get another servant, and I’ll keep Antony with me. I am used to his unappetizing ways. He will see me through the Hot Weather.”
“I don’t believe in the Hot Weather. People like Major Callendar who always talk about it—it’s in the hope of making one feel inexperienced and small, like their everlasting18, ‘I’ve been twenty years in this country.’”
“I believe in the Hot Weather, but never did I suppose it would bottle me up as it will.” For owing to the sage19 leisureliness20 of Ronny and Adela, they could not be married till May, and consequently Mrs. Moore could not return to England immediately after the wedding, which was what she had hoped to do. By May a barrier of fire would have fallen across India and the adjoining sea, and she would have to remain perched up in the Himalayas waiting for the world to get cooler.
“I won’t be bottled up,” announced the girl. “I’ve no patience with these women here who leave their husbands grilling21 in the plains. Mrs. McBryde hasn’t stopped down once since she married; she leaves her quite intelligent husband alone half the year, and then’s surprised she’s out of touch with him.”
“She has children, you see.”
“Oh yes, that’s true,” said Miss Quested, disconcerted.
“It is the children who are the first consideration. Until they are grown up, and married off. When that happens one has again the right to live for oneself—in the plains or the hills, as suits.”
“Oh yes, you’re perfectly right. I never thought it out.”
“If one has not become too stupid and old.” She handed her empty cup to the servant.
“My idea now is that my cousins shall find me a servant in Simla, at all events to see me through the wedding, after which Ronny means to reorganize his staff entirely22. He does it very well for a bachelor; still, when he is married no doubt various changes will have to be made—his old servants won’t want to take their orders from me, and I don’t blame them.”
Mrs. Moore pushed up the shutters23 and looked out. She had brought Ronny and Adela together by their mutual25 wish, but really she could not advise them further. She felt increasingly (vision or nightmare?) that, though people are important, the relations between them are not, and that in particular too much fuss has been made over marriage; centuries of carnal embracement, yet man is no nearer to understanding man. And to-day she felt this with such force that it seemed itself a relationship, itself a person who was trying to take hold of her hand.
“Anything to be seen of the hills?”
“Only various shades of the dark.”
“We can’t be far from the place where my hyena27 was.” She peered into the timeless twilight28. The train crossed a nullah. “Pomper, pomper, pomper,” was the sound that the wheels made as they trundled over the bridge, moving very slowly. A hundred yards on came a second nullah, then a third, suggesting the neighbourhood of higher ground. “Perhaps this is mine; anyhow, the road runs parallel with the railway.” Her accident was a pleasant memory; she felt in her dry, honest way that it had given her a good shake up, and taught her Ronny’s true worth. Then she went back to her plans; plans had been a passion with her from girlhood. Now and then she paid tribute to the present, said how friendly and intelligent Aziz was, ate a guava, couldn’t eat a fried sweet, practised her Urdu on the servant; but her thoughts ever veered29 to the manageable future, and to the Anglo-Indian life she had decided to endure. And as she appraised30 it with its adjuncts of Turtons and Burtons, the train accompanied her sentences, “pomper, pomper,” the train half asleep, going nowhere in particular and with no passenger of importance in any of its carriages, the branch-line train, lost on a low embankment between dull fields. Its message—for it had one—avoided her well-equipped mind. Far away behind her, with a shriek31 that meant business, rushed the Mail, connecting up important towns such as Calcutta and Lahore, where interesting events occur and personalities32 are developed. She understood that. Unfortunately, India has few important towns. India is the country, fields, fields, then hills, jungle, hills, and more fields. The branch line stops, the road is only practicable for cars to a point, the bullock-carts lumber4 down the side tracks, paths fray33 out into the cultivation34, and disappear near a splash of red paint. How can the mind take hold of such a country? Generations of invaders35 have tried, but they remain in exile. The important towns they build are only retreats, their quarrels the malaise of men who cannot find their way home. India knows of their trouble. She knows of the whole world’s trouble, to its uttermost depth. She calls “Come” through her hundred mouths, through objects ridiculous and august. But come to what? She has never defined. She is not a promise, only an appeal.
“I will fetch you from Simla when it’s cool enough. I will unbottle you in fact,” continued the reliable girl. “We then see some of the Mogul stuff—how appalling36 if we let you miss the Taj!—and then I will see you off at Bombay. Your last glimpse of this country really shall be interesting.” But Mrs. Moore had fallen asleep, exhausted37 by the early start. She was in rather low health, and ought not to have attempted the expedition, but had pulled herself together in case the pleasure of the others should suffer. Her dreams were of the same texture38, but there it was her other children who were wanting something, Stella and Ralph, and she was explaining to them that she could not be in two families at once. When she awoke, Adela had ceased to plan, and leant out of a window, saying, “They’re rather wonderful.”
Astonishing even from the rise of the civil station, here the Marabar were gods to whom earth is a ghost. Kawa Dol was nearest. It shot up in a single slab39, on whose summit one rock was poised40—if a mass so great can be called one rock. Behind it, recumbent, were the hills that contained the other caves, isolated41 each from his neighbour by broad channels of the plain. The assemblage, ten in all, shifted a little as the train crept past them, as if observing its arrival.
“I’ld not have missed this for anything,” said the girl, exaggerating her enthusiasm. “Look, the sun’s rising—this’ll be absolutely magnificent—come quickly—look. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. We should never have seen it if we’d stuck to the Turtons and their eternal elephants.”
As she spoke42, the sky to the left turned angry orange. Colour throbbed43 and mounted behind a pattern of trees, grew in intensity44, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, strained from without against the globe of the air. They awaited the miracle. But at the supreme45 moment, when night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. It was as if virtue46 had failed in the celestial47 fount. The hues48 in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber49 was prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets50 and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose without splendour. He was presently observed trailing yellowish behind the trees, or against insipid51 sky, and touching52 the bodies already at work in the fields.
“Ah, that must be the false dawn—isn’t it caused by dust in the upper layers of the atmosphere that couldn’t fall down during the night? I think Mr. McBryde said so. Well, I must admit that England has it as regards sunrises. Do you remember Grasmere?”
“Ah, dearest Grasmere!” Its little lakes and mountains were beloved by them all. Romantic yet manageable, it sprang from a kindlier planet. Here an untidy plain stretched to the knees of the Marabar.
“Good morning, good morning, put on your topis,” shouted Aziz from farther down the train. “Put on your topis at once, the early sun is highly dangerous for heads. I speak as a doctor.”
“Good morning, good morning, put on your own.”
“Not for my thick head,” he laughed, banging it and holding up pads of his hair.
“Nice creature he is,” murmured Adela.
“Listen—Mohammed Latif says ‘Good morning’ next.” Various pointless jests.
“Dr. Aziz, what’s happened to your hills? The train has forgotten to stop.”
“Perhaps it is a circular train and goes back to Chandrapore without a break. Who knows!”
Having wandered off into the plain for a mile, the train slowed up against an elephant. There was a platform too, but it shrivelled into insignificance54. An elephant, waving her painted forehead at the morn! “Oh, what a surprise!” called the ladies politely. Aziz said nothing, but he nearly burst with pride and relief. The elephant was the one grand feature of the picnic, and God alone knew what he had gone through to obtain her. Semi-official, she was best approached through the Nawab Bahadur, who was best approached through Nureddin, but he never answered letters, but his mother had great influence with him and was a friend of Hamidullah Begum’s, who had been excessively kind and had promised to call on her provided the broken shutter24 of the purdah carriage came back soon enough from Calcutta. That an elephant should depend from so long and so slender a string filled Aziz with content, and with humorous appreciation55 of the East, where the friends of friends are a reality, where everything gets done sometime, and sooner or later every one gets his share of happiness. And Mohammed Latif was likewise content, because two of the guests had missed the train, and consequently he could ride on the howdah instead of following in a cart, and the servants were content because an elephant increased their self-esteem, and they tumbled out the luggage into the dust with shouts and bangs, issuing orders to one another, and convulsed with goodwill56.
“It takes an hour to get there, an hour to get back, and two hours for the caves, which we will call three,” said Aziz, smiling charmingly. There was suddenly something regal about him. “The train back is at eleven-thirty, and you will be sitting down to your tiffin in Chandrapore with Mr. Heaslop at exactly your usual hour, namely, one-fifteen. I know everything about you. Four hours—quite a small expedition—and an hour extra for misfortunes, which occur somewhat frequently among my people. My idea is to plan everything without consulting you; but you, Mrs. Moore, or Miss Quested, you are at any moment to make alterations58 if you wish, even if it means giving up the caves. Do you agree? Then mount this wild animal.”
The elephant had knelt, grey and isolated, like another hill. They climbed up the ladder, and he mounted shikar fashion, treading first on the sharp edge of the heel and then into the looped-up tail. When Mohammed Latif followed him, the servant who held the end of the tail let go of it according to previous instructions, so that the poor relative slipped and had to cling to the netting over the buttocks. It was a little piece of Court buffoonery, and distressed59 only the ladies, whom it was intended to divert. Both of them disliked practical jokes. Then the beast rose in two shattering movements, and poised them ten feet above the plain. Immediately below was the scurf of life that an elephant always collects round its feet—villagers, naked babies. The servants flung crockery into tongas. Hassan annexed60 the stallion intended for Aziz, and defied Mahmoud Ali’s man from its altitude. The Brahman who had been hired to cook for Professor Godbole was planted under an acacia tree, to await their return. The train, also hoping to return, wobbled away through the fields, turning its head this way and that like a centipede. And the only other movement to be seen was a movement as of antennae61, really the counterpoises of the wells which rose and fell on their pivots62 of mud all over the plain and dispersed63 a feeble flow of water. The scene was agreeable rather than not in the mild morning air, but there was little colour in it, and no vitality64.
As the elephant moved towards the hills (the pale sun had by this time saluted65 them to the base, and pencilled shadows down their creases) a new quality occurred, a spiritual silence which invaded more senses than the ear. Life went on as usual, but had no consequences, that is to say, sounds did not echo or thoughts develop. Everything seemed cut off at its root, and therefore infected with illusion. For instance, there were some mounds66 by the edge of the track, low, serrated, and touched with whitewash67. What were these mounds—graves, breasts of the goddess Parvati? The villagers beneath gave both replies. Again, there was a confusion about a snake which was never cleared up. Miss Quested saw a thin, dark object reared on end at the farther side of a watercourse, and said, “A snake!” The villagers agreed, and Aziz explained: yes, a black cobra, very venomous, who had reared himself up to watch the passing of the elephant, But when she looked through Ronny’s field-glasses, she found it wasn’t a snake, but the withered68 and twisted stump69 of a toddy-palm. So she said, “It isn’t a snake.” The villagers contradicted her. She had put the word into their minds, and they refused to abandon it. Aziz admitted that it looked like a tree through the glasses, but insisted that it was a black cobra really, and improvised70 some rubbish about protective mimicry71. Nothing was explained, and yet there was no romance. Films of heat, radiated from the Kawa Dol precipices72, increased the confusion. They came at irregular intervals73 and moved capriciously. A patch of field would jump as if it was being fried, and then lie quiet. As they drew closer the radiation stopped.
The elephant walked straight at the Kawa Dol as if she would knock for admission with her forehead, then swerved74, and followed a path round its base. The stones plunged75 straight into the earth, like cliffs into the sea, and while Miss Quested was remarking on this, and saying that it was striking, the plain quietly disappeared, peeled off, so to speak, and nothing was to be seen on either side but the granite76, very dead and quiet. The sky dominated as usual, but seemed unhealthily near, adhering like a ceiling to the summits of the precipices. It was as if the contents of the corridor had never been changed. Occupied by his own munificence77, Aziz noticed nothing. His guests noticed a little. They did not feel that it was an attractive place or quite worth visiting, and wished it could have turned into some Mohammedan object, such as a mosque78, which their host would have appreciated and explained. His ignorance became evident, and was really rather a drawback. In spite of his gay, confident talk, he had no notion how to treat this particular aspect of India; he was lost in it without Professor Godbole, like themselves.
The corridor narrowed, then widened into a sort of tray. Here, more or less, was their goal. A ruined tank held a little water which would do for the animals, and close above the mud was punched a black hole—the first of the caves. Three hills encircled the tray. Two of them pumped out heat busily, but the third was in shadow, and here they camped.
“A horrid79, stuffy80 place really,” murmured Mrs. Moore to herself.
“How quick your servants are!” Miss Quested exclaimed. For a cloth had already been laid, with a vase of artificial flowers in its centre, and Mahmoud Ali’s butler offered them poached eggs and tea for the second time.
“I thought we would eat this before our caves, and breakfast after.”
“Isn’t this breakfast?”
“This breakfast? Did you think I should treat you so strangely?” He had been warned that English people never stop eating, and that he had better nourish them every two hours until a solid meal was ready.
“How very well it is all arranged.”
“That you shall tell me when I return to Chandrapore. Whatever disgraces I bring upon myself, you remain my guests.” He spoke gravely now. They were dependent on him for a few hours, and he felt grateful to them for placing themselves in such a position. All was well so far; the elephant held a fresh cut bough81 to her lips, the tonga shafts82 stuck up into the air, the kitchen-boy peeled potatoes, Hassan shouted, and Mohammed Latif stood as he ought, with a peeled switch in his hand. The expedition was a success, and it was Indian; an obscure young man had been allowed to show courtesy to visitors from another country, which is what all Indians long to do—even cynics like Mahmoud Ali—but they never have the chance. Hospitality had been achieved, they were “his” guests; his honour was involved in their happiness, and any discomfort84 they endured would tear his own soul.
Like most Orientals, Aziz overrated hospitality, mistaking it for intimacy85, and not seeing that it is tainted86 with the sense of possession. It was only when Mrs. Moore or Fielding was near him that he saw further, and knew that it is more blessed to receive than to give. These two had strange and beautiful effects on him—they were his friends, his for ever, and he theirs for ever; he loved them so much that giving and receiving became one. He loved them even better than the Hamidullahs, because he had surmounted87 obstacles to meet them, and this stimulates88 a generous mind. Their images remained somewhere in his soul up to his dying day, permanent additions. He looked at her now as she sat on a deck-chair, sipping89 his tea, and had for a moment a joy that held the seeds of its own decay, for it would lead him to think, “Oh, what more can I do for her?” and so back to the dull round of hospitality. The black bullets of his eyes filled with soft expressive90 light, and he said, “Do you ever remember our mosque, Mrs. Moore?”
“I do. I do,” she said, suddenly vital and young.
“And how rough and rude I was, and how good you were.”
“And how happy we both were.”
“Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall I ever entertain your other children?”
“Do you know about the others? She will never talk about them to me,” said Miss Quested, unintentionally breaking a spell.
“Ralph and Stella, yes, I know everything about them. But we must not forget to visit our caves. One of the dreams of my life is accomplished92 in having you both here as my guests. You cannot imagine how you have honoured me. I feel like the Emperor Babur.”
“Why like him?” she enquired93, rising.
“Because my ancestors came down with him from Afghanistan. They joined him at Herat. He also had often no more elephants than one, none sometimes, but he never ceased showing hospitality. When he fought or hunted or ran away, he would always stop for a time among hills, just like us; he would never let go of hospitality and pleasure, and if there was only a little food, he would have it arranged nicely, and if only one musical instrument, he would compel it to play a beautiful tune57. I take him as my ideal. He is the poor gentleman, and he became a great king.”
“I thought another Emperor is your favourite—I forget the name—you mentioned him at Mr. Fielding’s: what my book calls Aurangzebe.”
“Alamgir? Oh yes, he was of course the more pious94. But Babur—never in his whole life did he betray a friend, so I can only think of him this morning. And you know how he died? He laid down his life for his son. A death far more difficult than battle. They were caught in the heat. They should have gone back to Kabul for the bad weather, but could not for reasons of state, and at Agra Humayun fell sick. Babur walked round the bed three times, and said, ‘I have borne it away,’ and he did bear it away; the fever left his son and came to him instead, and he died. That is why I prefer Babur to Alamgir. I ought not to do so, but I do. However, I mustn’t delay you. I see you are ready to start.”
“Not at all,” she said, sitting down by Mrs. Moore again. “We enjoy talk like this very much.” For at last he was talking about what he knew and felt, talking as he had in Fielding’s garden-house; he was again the Oriental guide whom they appreciated.
“I always enjoy conversing95 about the Moguls. It is the chief pleasure I know. You see, those first six emperors were all most wonderful men, and as soon as one of them is mentioned, no matter which, I forget everything else in the world except the other five. You could not find six such kings in all the countries of the earth, not, I mean, coming one after the other—father, son.”
“Tell us something about Akbar.”
“Ah, you have heard the name of Akbar. Good. Hamidullah—whom you shall meet—will tell you that Akbar is the greatest of all. I say, ‘Yes, Akbar is very wonderful, but half a Hindu; he was not a true Moslem96, which makes Hamidullah cry, ‘No more was Babur, he drank wine.’ But Babur always repented97 afterwards, which makes the entire difference, and Akbar never repented of the new religion he invented instead of the Holy Koran.”
“But wasn’t Akbar’s new religion very fine? It was to embrace the whole of India.”
“Miss Quested, fine but foolish. You keep your religion, I mine. That is the best. Nothing embraces the whole of India, nothing, nothing, and that was Akbar’s mistake.”
“Oh, do you feel that, Dr. Aziz?” she said thoughtfully. “I hope you’re not right. There will have to be something universal in this country—I don’t say religion, for I’m not religious, but something, or how else are barriers to be broken down?”
She was only recommending the universal brotherhood98 he sometimes dreamed of, but as soon as it was put into prose it became untrue.
“Take my own case,” she continued—it was indeed her own case that had animated99 her. “I don’t know whether you happen to have heard, but I’m going to marry Mr. Heaslop.”
“On which my heartiest100 congratulations.”
“Mrs. Moore, may I put our difficulty to Dr. Aziz—I mean our Anglo-Indian one?”
“It is your difficulty, not mine, my dear.”
“Ah, that’s true. Well, by marrying Mr. Heaslop, I shall become what is known as an Anglo-Indian.”
He held up his hand in protest. “Impossible. Take back such a terrible remark.”
“But I shall; it’s inevitable101. I can’t avoid the label. What I do hope to avoid is the mentality102. Women like——” She stopped, not quite liking103 to mention names; she would boldly have said “Mrs. Turton and Mrs. Callendar” a fortnight ago. “Some women are so—well, ungenerous and snobby104 about Indians, and I should feel too ashamed for words if I turned like them, but—and here’s my difficulty—there’s nothing special about me, nothing specially105 good or strong, which will help me to resist my environment and avoid becoming like them. I’ve most lamentable106 defects. That’s why I want Akbar’s ‘universal religion’ or the equivalent to keep me decent and sensible. Do you see what I mean?”
Her remarks pleased him, but his mind shut up tight because she had alluded107 to her marriage. He was not going to be mixed up in that side of things. “You are certain to be happy with any relative of Mrs. Moore’s,” he said with a formal bow.
“Oh, my happiness—that’s quite another problem. I want to consult you about this Anglo-Indian difficulty. Can you give me any advice?”
“You are absolutely unlike the others, I assure you. You will never be rude to my people.”
“I am told we all get rude after a year.”
“Then you are told a lie,” he flashed, for she had spoken the truth and it touched him on the raw; it was itself an insult in these particular circumstances. He recovered himself at once and laughed, but her error broke up their conversation—their civilization it had almost been—which scattered108 like the petals109 of a desert flower, and left them in the middle of the hills. “Come along,” he said, holding out a hand to each. They got up a little reluctantly, and addressed themselves to sightseeing.
The first cave was tolerably convenient. They skirted the puddle110 of water, and then climbed up over some unattractive stones, the sun crashing on their backs. Bending their heads, they disappeared one by one into the interior of the hills. The small black hole gaped111 where their varied112 forms and colours had momentarily functioned. They were sucked in like water down a drain. Bland113 and bald rose the precipices; bland and glutinous114 the sky that connected the precipices; solid and white, a Brahminy kite flapped between the rocks with a clumsiness that seemed intentional91. Before man, with his itch83 for the seemly, had been born, the planet must have looked thus. The kite flapped away. . . . Before birds, perhaps. . . . And then the hole belched115 and humanity returned.
A Marabar cave had been horrid as far as Mrs. Moore was concerned, for she had nearly fainted in it, and had some difficulty in preventing herself from saying so as soon as she got into the air again. It was natural enough: she had always suffered from faintness, and the cave had become too full, because all their retinue116 followed them. Crammed117 with villagers and servants, the circular chamber began to smell. She lost Aziz and Adela in the dark, didn’t know who touched her, couldn’t breathe, and some vile118 naked thing struck her face and settled on her mouth like a pad. She tried to regain119 the entrance tunnel, but an influx120 of villagers swept her back. She hit her head. For an instant she went mad, hitting and gasping121 like a fanatic122. For not only did the crush and stench alarm her; there was also a terrifying echo.
Professor Godbole had never mentioned an echo; it never impressed him, perhaps. There are some exquisite123 echoes in India; there is the whisper round the dome124 at Bijapur; there are the long, solid sentences that voyage through the air at Mandu, and return unbroken to their creator. The echo in a Marabar cave is not like these, it is entirely devoid125 of distinction. Whatever is said, the same monotonous126 noise replies, and quivers up and down the walls until it is absorbed into the roof. “Boum” is the sound as far as the human alphabet can express it, or “bou-oum,” or “ou-boum,”—utterly dull. Hope, politeness, the blowing of a nose, the squeak127 of a boot, all produce “boum.” Even the striking of a match starts a little worm coiling, which is too small to complete a circle but is eternally watchful128. And if several people talk at once, an overlapping129 howling noise begins, echoes generate echoes, and the cave is stuffed with a snake composed of small snakes, which writhe130 independently.
After Mrs. Moore all the others poured out. She had given the signal for the reflux. Aziz and Adela both emerged smiling and she did not want him to think his treat was a failure, so smiled too. As each person emerged she looked for a villain131, but none was there, and she realized that she had been among the mildest individuals, whose only desire was to honour her, and that the naked pad was a poor little baby, astride its mother’s hip26. Nothing evil had been in the cave, but she had not enjoyed herself; no, she had not enjoyed herself, and she decided not to visit a second one.
“Did you see the reflection of his match—rather pretty?” asked Adela.
“I forget . . .”
“But he says this isn’t a good cave, the best are on the Kawa Dol.”
“I don’t think I shall go on to there. I dislike climbing.”
“Very well, let’s sit down again in the shade until breakfast’s ready.”
“Ah, but that’ll disappoint him so; he has taken such trouble. You should go on; you don’t mind.”
“Perhaps I ought to,” said the girl, indifferent to what she did, but desirous of being amiable132.
The servants, etc., were scrambling133 back to the camp, pursued by grave censures134 from Mohammed Latif. Aziz came to help the guests over the rocks. He was at the summit of his powers, vigorous and humble135, too sure of himself to resent criticism, and he was sincerely pleased when he heard they were altering his plans. “Certainly, Miss Quested, so you and I will go together, and leave Mrs. Moore here, and we will not be long, yet we will not hurry, because we know that will be her wish.”
“Quite right. I’m sorry not to come too, but I’m a poor walker.”
“Dear Mrs. Moore, what does anything matter so long as you are my guests? I am very glad you are not coming, which sounds strange, but you are treating me with true frankness, as a friend.”
“Yes, I am your friend,” she said, laying her hand on his sleeve, and thinking, despite her fatigue136, how very charming, how very good, he was, and how deeply she desired his happiness. “So may I make another suggestion? Don’t let so many people come with you this time. I think you may find it more convenient.”
“Exactly, exactly,” he cried, and, rushing to the other extreme, forbade all except one guide to accompany Miss Quested and him to the Kawa Dol. “Is that all right?” he enquired.
“Quite right, now enjoy yourselves, and when you come back tell me all about it.” And she sank into the deck-chair.
If they reached the big pocket of caves, they would be away nearly an hour. She took out her writing-pad, and began, “Dear Stella, Dear Ralph,” then stopped, and looked at the queer valley and their feeble invasion of it. Even the elephant had become a nobody. Her eye rose from it to the entrance tunnel. No, she did not wish to repeat that experience. The more she thought over it, the more disagreeable and frightening it became. She minded it much more now than at the time. The crush and the smells she could forget, but the echo began in some indescribable way to undermine her hold on life. Coming at a moment when she chanced to be fatigued137, it had managed to murmur53, “Pathos, piety138, courage—they exist, but are identical, and so is filth139. Everything exists, nothing has value.” If one had spoken vileness140 in that place, or quoted lofty poetry, the comment would have been the same—“ou-boum.” If one had spoken with the tongues of angels and pleaded for all the unhappiness and misunderstanding in the world, past, present, and to come, for all the misery141 men must undergo whatever their opinion and position, and however much they dodge142 or bluff—it would amount to the same, the serpent would descend143 and return to the ceiling. Devils are of the North, and poems can be written about them, but no one could romanticize the Marabar because it robbed infinity144 and eternity145 of their vastness, the only quality that accommodates them to mankind.
She tried to go on with her letter, reminding herself that she was only an elderly woman who had got up too early in the morning and journeyed too far, that the despair creeping over her was merely her despair, her personal weakness, and that even if she got a sunstroke and went mad the rest of the world would go on. But suddenly, at the edge of her mind, Religion appeared, poor little talkative Christianity, and she knew that all its divine words from “Let there be Light” to “It is finished” only amounted to “boum.” Then she was terrified over an area larger than usual; the universe, never comprehensible to her intellect, offered no repose146 to her soul, the mood of the last two months took definite form at last, and she realized that she didn’t want to write to her children, didn’t want to communicate with anyone, not even with God. She sat motionless with horror, and, when old Mohammed Latif came up to her, thought he would notice a difference. For a time she thought, “I am going to be ill,” to comfort herself, then she surrendered to the vision. She lost all interest, even in Aziz, and the affectionate and sincere words that she had spoken to him seemed no longer hers but the air’s.
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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2
cocoon
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| n.茧 | |
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3
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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4
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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5
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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6
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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7
cocoons
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| n.茧，蚕茧( cocoon的名词复数 )v.茧，蚕茧( cocoon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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8
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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9
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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11
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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bolsters
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| n.长枕( bolster的名词复数 )；垫子；衬垫；支持物v.支持( bolster的第三人称单数 )；支撑；给予必要的支持；援助 | |
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15
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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16
lavatory
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| n.盥洗室，厕所 | |
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17
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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18
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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19
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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20
leisureliness
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| n.悠然，从容 | |
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21
grilling
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| v.烧烤( grill的现在分词 )；拷问，盘问 | |
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22
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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23
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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24
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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25
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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26
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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27
hyena
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| n.土狼，鬣狗 | |
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28
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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29
veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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30
appraised
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| v.估价( appraise的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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31
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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33
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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34
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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35
invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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37
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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40
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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41
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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42
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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43
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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44
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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45
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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46
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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47
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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48
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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49
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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50
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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51
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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52
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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53
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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54
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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55
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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56
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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57
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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58
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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59
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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60
annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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61
antennae
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| n.天线；触角 | |
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62
pivots
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| n.枢( pivot的名词复数 )；最重要的人（或事物）；中心；核心v.（似）在枢轴上转动( pivot的第三人称单数 )；把…放在枢轴上；以…为核心，围绕（主旨）展开 | |
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63
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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64
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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65
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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66
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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67
whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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68
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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69
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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70
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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71
mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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72
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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73
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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74
swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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76
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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77
munificence
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| n.宽宏大量，慷慨给与 | |
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78
mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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79
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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80
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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81
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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82
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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83
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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84
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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85
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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86
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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87
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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88
stimulates
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| v.刺激( stimulate的第三人称单数 )；激励；使兴奋；起兴奋作用，起刺激作用，起促进作用 | |
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89
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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90
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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91
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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92
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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93
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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94
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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95
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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96
Moslem
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| n.回教徒，穆罕默德信徒；adj.回教徒的，回教的 | |
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97
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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99
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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100
heartiest
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| 亲切的( hearty的最高级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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101
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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102
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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103
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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104
snobby
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| a.虚荣的 | |
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105
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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106
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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107
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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109
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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110
puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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111
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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112
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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113
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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114
glutinous
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| adj.粘的，胶状的 | |
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115
belched
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| v.打嗝( belch的过去式和过去分词 )；喷出，吐出；打（嗝）；嗳（气） | |
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116
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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117
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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118
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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119
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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120
influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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121
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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123
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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124
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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125
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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126
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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127
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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128
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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129
overlapping
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| adj./n.交迭（的） | |
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130
writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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131
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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132
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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133
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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134
censures
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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135
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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136
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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137
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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138
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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139
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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140
vileness
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| n.讨厌，卑劣 | |
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141
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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142
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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143
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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144
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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145
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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146
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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