Dr. Aziz left the palace at the same time. As he returned to his house—which stood in a pleasant garden further up the main street of the town—he could see his old patron paddling and capering1 in the slush ahead. “Hullo!” he called, and it was the wrong remark, for the devotee indicated by circular gestures of his arms that he did not desire to be disturbed. He added, “Sorry,” which was right, for Godbole twisted his head till it didn’t belong to his body, and said in a strained voice that had no connection with his mind: “He arrived at the European Guest House perhaps—at least possibly.”
“Did he? Since when?”
But time was too definite. He waved his arm more dimly and disappeared. Aziz knew who “he” was—Fielding—but he refused to think about him, because it disturbed his life, and he still trusted the floods to prevent him from arriving. A fine little river issued from his garden gate and gave him much hope. It was impossible that anyone could get across from Deora in such weather as this. Fielding’s visit was official. He had been transferred from Chandrapore, and sent on a tour through Central India to see what the remoter states were doing with regard to English education. He had married, he had done the expected with Miss Quested, and Aziz had no wish to see him again.
“Dear old Godbole,” he thought, and smiled. He had no religious curiosity, and had never discovered the meaning of this annual antic, but he was well assured that Godbole was a dear old man. He had come to Mau through him and remained on his account. Without him he could never have grasped problems so totally different from those of Chandrapore. For here the cleavage was between Brahman and non-Brahman; Moslems and English were quite out of the running, and sometimes not mentioned for days. Since Godbole was a Brahman, Aziz was one also for purposes of intrigue4: they would often joke about it together. The fissures5 in the Indian soil are infinite: Hinduism, so solid from a distance, is riven into sects6 and clans7, which radiate and join, and change their names according to the aspect from which they are approached. Study it for years with the best teachers, and when you raise your head, nothing they have told you quite fits. Aziz, the day of his inauguration8, had remarked: “I study nothing, I respect”—making an excellent impression. There was now a minimum of prejudice against him. Nominally9 under a Hindu doctor, he was really chief medicine man to the court. He had to drop inoculation10 and such Western whims11, but even at Chandrapore his profession had been a game, centring round the operating table, and here in the backwoods he let his instruments rust2, ran his little hospital at half steam, and caused no undue12 alarm.
His impulse to escape from the English was sound. They had frightened him permanently13, and there are only two reactions against fright: to kick and scream on committees, or to retreat to a remote jungle, where the sahib seldom comes. His old lawyer friends wanted him to stop in British India and help agitate14, and might have prevailed, but for the treachery of Fielding. The news had not surprised him in the least. A rift15 had opened between them after the trial when Cyril had not joined in his procession; those advocacies of the girl had increased it; then came the post-cards from Venice, so cold, so unfriendly that all agreed that something was wrong; and finally, after a silence, the expected letter from Hampstead. Mahmoud Ali was with him at the time. “Some news that will surprise you. I am to marry someone whom you know. . .” He did not read further. “Here it comes, answer for me——” and he threw it to Mahmoud Ali. Subsequent letters he destroyed unopened. It was the end of a foolish experiment. And though sometimes at the back of his mind he felt that Fielding had made sacrifices for him, it was now all confused with his genuine hatred16 of the English. “I am an Indian at last,” he thought, standing17 motionless in the rain.
Life passed pleasantly, the climate was healthy so that the children could be with him all the year round, and he had married again—not exactly a marriage, but he liked to regard it as one—and he read his Persian, wrote his poetry, had his horse, and sometimes got some shikar while the good Hindus looked the other way. His poems were all on one topic—Oriental womanhood. “The purdah must go,” was their burden, “otherwise we shall never be free.” And he declared (fantastically) that India would not have been conquered if women as well as men had fought at Plassy. “But we do not show our women to the foreigner”—not explaining how this was to be managed, for he was writing a poem. Bulbuls and roses would still persist, the pathos18 of defeated Islam remained in his blood and could not be expelled by modernities. Illogical poems—like their writer. Yet they struck a true note: there cannot be a mother-land without new homes. In one poem—the only one funny old Godbole liked—he had skipped over the mother-land (whom he did not truly love) and gone straight to internationality. “Ah, that is bhakti; ah, my young friend, that is different and very good. Ah, India, who seems not to move, will go straight there while the other nations waste their time. May I translate this particular one into Hindi? In fact, it might be rendered into Sanskrit almost, it is so enlightened. Yes, of course, all your other poems are very good too. His Highness was saying to Colonel Maggs last time he came that we are proud of you”—simpering slightly.
Colonel Maggs was the Political Agent for the neighbourhood and Aziz’ dejected opponent. The Criminal Investigation19 Department kept an eye on Aziz ever since the trial—they had nothing actionable against him, but Indians who have been unfortunate must be watched, and to the end of his life he remained under observation, thanks to Miss Quested’s mistake. Colonel Maggs learnt with concern that a suspect was coming to Mau, and, adopting a playful manner, rallied the old Rajah for permitting a Moslem3 doctor to approach his sacred person. A few years ago, the Rajah would have taken the hint, for the Political Agent then had been a formidable figure, descending20 with all the thunders of Empire when it was most inconvenient21, turning the polity inside out, requiring motor-cars and tiger-hunts, trees cut down that impeded22 the view from the Guest House, cows milked in his presence, and generally arrogating23 the control of internal affairs. But there had been a change of policy in high quarters. Local thunders were no longer endorsed24, and the group of little states that composed the agency discovered this and began comparing notes with fruitful result. To see how much, or how little, Colonel Maggs would stand, became an agreeable game at Mau, which was played by all the departments of State. He had to stand the appointment of Dr. Aziz. The Rajah did not take the hint, but replied that Hindus were less exclusive than formerly25, thanks to the enlightened commands of the Viceroy, and he felt it his duty to move with the times.
Yes, all had gone well hitherto, but now, when the rest of the state was plunged26 in its festival, he had a crisis of a very different sort. A note awaited him at his house. There was no doubt that Fielding had arrived overnight, nor much doubt that Godbole knew of his arrival, for the note was addressed to him, and he had read it before sending it on to Aziz, and had written in the margin27, “Is not this delightful28 news, but unfortunately my religious duties prevent me from taking any action.” Fielding announced that he had inspected Mudkul (Miss Derek’s former preserve), that he had nearly been drowned at Deora, that he had reached Mau according to time-table, and hoped to remain there two days, studying the various educational innovations of his old friend. Nor had he come alone. His wife and her brother accompanied him. And then the note turned into the sort of note that always did arrive from the State Guest House. Wanting something. No eggs. Mosquito nets torn. When would they pay their respects to His Highness? Was it correct that a torchlight procession would take place? If so, might they view it? They didn’t want to give trouble, but if they might stand in a balcony, or if they might go out in a boat. . . . Aziz tore the note up. He had had enough of showing Miss Quested native life. Treacherous29 hideous30 harridan31! Bad people altogether. He hoped to avoid them, though this might be difficult, for they would certainly be held up for several days at Mau. Down country, the floods were even worse, and the pale grey faces of lakes had appeared in the direction of the Asirgarh railway station.
“Did he? Since when?”
But time was too definite. He waved his arm more dimly and disappeared. Aziz knew who “he” was—Fielding—but he refused to think about him, because it disturbed his life, and he still trusted the floods to prevent him from arriving. A fine little river issued from his garden gate and gave him much hope. It was impossible that anyone could get across from Deora in such weather as this. Fielding’s visit was official. He had been transferred from Chandrapore, and sent on a tour through Central India to see what the remoter states were doing with regard to English education. He had married, he had done the expected with Miss Quested, and Aziz had no wish to see him again.
“Dear old Godbole,” he thought, and smiled. He had no religious curiosity, and had never discovered the meaning of this annual antic, but he was well assured that Godbole was a dear old man. He had come to Mau through him and remained on his account. Without him he could never have grasped problems so totally different from those of Chandrapore. For here the cleavage was between Brahman and non-Brahman; Moslems and English were quite out of the running, and sometimes not mentioned for days. Since Godbole was a Brahman, Aziz was one also for purposes of intrigue4: they would often joke about it together. The fissures5 in the Indian soil are infinite: Hinduism, so solid from a distance, is riven into sects6 and clans7, which radiate and join, and change their names according to the aspect from which they are approached. Study it for years with the best teachers, and when you raise your head, nothing they have told you quite fits. Aziz, the day of his inauguration8, had remarked: “I study nothing, I respect”—making an excellent impression. There was now a minimum of prejudice against him. Nominally9 under a Hindu doctor, he was really chief medicine man to the court. He had to drop inoculation10 and such Western whims11, but even at Chandrapore his profession had been a game, centring round the operating table, and here in the backwoods he let his instruments rust2, ran his little hospital at half steam, and caused no undue12 alarm.
His impulse to escape from the English was sound. They had frightened him permanently13, and there are only two reactions against fright: to kick and scream on committees, or to retreat to a remote jungle, where the sahib seldom comes. His old lawyer friends wanted him to stop in British India and help agitate14, and might have prevailed, but for the treachery of Fielding. The news had not surprised him in the least. A rift15 had opened between them after the trial when Cyril had not joined in his procession; those advocacies of the girl had increased it; then came the post-cards from Venice, so cold, so unfriendly that all agreed that something was wrong; and finally, after a silence, the expected letter from Hampstead. Mahmoud Ali was with him at the time. “Some news that will surprise you. I am to marry someone whom you know. . .” He did not read further. “Here it comes, answer for me——” and he threw it to Mahmoud Ali. Subsequent letters he destroyed unopened. It was the end of a foolish experiment. And though sometimes at the back of his mind he felt that Fielding had made sacrifices for him, it was now all confused with his genuine hatred16 of the English. “I am an Indian at last,” he thought, standing17 motionless in the rain.
Life passed pleasantly, the climate was healthy so that the children could be with him all the year round, and he had married again—not exactly a marriage, but he liked to regard it as one—and he read his Persian, wrote his poetry, had his horse, and sometimes got some shikar while the good Hindus looked the other way. His poems were all on one topic—Oriental womanhood. “The purdah must go,” was their burden, “otherwise we shall never be free.” And he declared (fantastically) that India would not have been conquered if women as well as men had fought at Plassy. “But we do not show our women to the foreigner”—not explaining how this was to be managed, for he was writing a poem. Bulbuls and roses would still persist, the pathos18 of defeated Islam remained in his blood and could not be expelled by modernities. Illogical poems—like their writer. Yet they struck a true note: there cannot be a mother-land without new homes. In one poem—the only one funny old Godbole liked—he had skipped over the mother-land (whom he did not truly love) and gone straight to internationality. “Ah, that is bhakti; ah, my young friend, that is different and very good. Ah, India, who seems not to move, will go straight there while the other nations waste their time. May I translate this particular one into Hindi? In fact, it might be rendered into Sanskrit almost, it is so enlightened. Yes, of course, all your other poems are very good too. His Highness was saying to Colonel Maggs last time he came that we are proud of you”—simpering slightly.
Colonel Maggs was the Political Agent for the neighbourhood and Aziz’ dejected opponent. The Criminal Investigation19 Department kept an eye on Aziz ever since the trial—they had nothing actionable against him, but Indians who have been unfortunate must be watched, and to the end of his life he remained under observation, thanks to Miss Quested’s mistake. Colonel Maggs learnt with concern that a suspect was coming to Mau, and, adopting a playful manner, rallied the old Rajah for permitting a Moslem3 doctor to approach his sacred person. A few years ago, the Rajah would have taken the hint, for the Political Agent then had been a formidable figure, descending20 with all the thunders of Empire when it was most inconvenient21, turning the polity inside out, requiring motor-cars and tiger-hunts, trees cut down that impeded22 the view from the Guest House, cows milked in his presence, and generally arrogating23 the control of internal affairs. But there had been a change of policy in high quarters. Local thunders were no longer endorsed24, and the group of little states that composed the agency discovered this and began comparing notes with fruitful result. To see how much, or how little, Colonel Maggs would stand, became an agreeable game at Mau, which was played by all the departments of State. He had to stand the appointment of Dr. Aziz. The Rajah did not take the hint, but replied that Hindus were less exclusive than formerly25, thanks to the enlightened commands of the Viceroy, and he felt it his duty to move with the times.
Yes, all had gone well hitherto, but now, when the rest of the state was plunged26 in its festival, he had a crisis of a very different sort. A note awaited him at his house. There was no doubt that Fielding had arrived overnight, nor much doubt that Godbole knew of his arrival, for the note was addressed to him, and he had read it before sending it on to Aziz, and had written in the margin27, “Is not this delightful28 news, but unfortunately my religious duties prevent me from taking any action.” Fielding announced that he had inspected Mudkul (Miss Derek’s former preserve), that he had nearly been drowned at Deora, that he had reached Mau according to time-table, and hoped to remain there two days, studying the various educational innovations of his old friend. Nor had he come alone. His wife and her brother accompanied him. And then the note turned into the sort of note that always did arrive from the State Guest House. Wanting something. No eggs. Mosquito nets torn. When would they pay their respects to His Highness? Was it correct that a torchlight procession would take place? If so, might they view it? They didn’t want to give trouble, but if they might stand in a balcony, or if they might go out in a boat. . . . Aziz tore the note up. He had had enough of showing Miss Quested native life. Treacherous29 hideous30 harridan31! Bad people altogether. He hoped to avoid them, though this might be difficult, for they would certainly be held up for several days at Mau. Down country, the floods were even worse, and the pale grey faces of lakes had appeared in the direction of the Asirgarh railway station.
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1
capering
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的现在分词 )；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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2
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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3
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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4
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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5
fissures
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| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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6
sects
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| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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7
clans
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| 宗族( clan的名词复数 )； 氏族； 庞大的家族； 宗派 | |
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8
inauguration
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| n.开幕、就职典礼 | |
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9
nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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10
inoculation
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| n.接芽；预防接种 | |
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11
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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12
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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13
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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14
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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15
rift
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| n.裂口，隙缝，切口；v.裂开，割开，渗入 | |
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16
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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17
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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18
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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19
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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20
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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21
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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22
impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
arrogating
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| v.冒称，妄取( arrogate的现在分词 )；没来由地把…归属（于） | |
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24
endorsed
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| vt.& vi.endorse的过去式或过去分词形式v.赞同( endorse的过去式和过去分词 )；在（尤指支票的）背面签字；在（文件的）背面写评论；在广告上说本人使用并赞同某产品 | |
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25
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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26
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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27
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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28
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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29
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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30
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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31
harridan
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| n.恶妇；丑老大婆 | |
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