A Passage to India - E. M. Forster [128]
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.
Radhakrishna Radhakrishna,
Radhakrishna Radhakrishna,
Krishnaradha Radhakrishna,
Radhakrishna Radhakrishna,
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