A Passage to India - E. M. Forster [74]
The Collector clapped his hands for silence. He was much calmer than when he had flown out at Fielding. He was indeed always calmer when he addressed several people than in a tête-à-tête. “I want to talk specially to the ladies,” he said. “Not the least cause for alarm. Keep cool, keep cool. Don’t go out more than you can help, don’t go into the city, don’t talk before your servants. That’s all.”
“Harry, is there any news from the city?” asked his wife, standing 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 preparation 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 seem