A Passage to India - E. M. Forster [75]
The others, less responsible, could behave naturally. They had started speaking of “women and children”—that phrase that exempts the male from sanity when it has been repeated a few times. Each felt that all he loved best in the world was at stake, demanded revenge, and was filled with a not unpleasing glow, in which the chilly and half-known features of Miss Quested vanished, and were replaced by all that is sweetest and warmest in the private life. “But it’s the women and children,” they repeated, and the Collector knew he ought to stop them intoxicating themselves, but he hadn’t the heart. “They ought to be compelled to give hostages,” etc. Many of the said women and children were leaving for the Hill Station in a few days, and the suggestion was made that they should be packed off at once in a special train.
“And a jolly suggestion,” the subaltern cried. “The army’s got to come in sooner or later. (A special train was in his mind inseparable from troops.) This would never have happened if Barabas Hill was under military control. Station a bunch of Gurkhas at the entrance of the cave was all that was wanted.”
“Mrs. Blakiston was saying if only there were a few Tommies,” remarked someone.
“English no good,” he cried, getting his loyalties mixed. “Native troops for this country. Give me the sporting type of native, give me Gurkhas, give me Rajputs, give me Jats, give me the Punjabi, give me Sikhs, give me Marathas, Bhils, Afridis and Pathans, and really if it comes to that, I don’t mind if you give me the scums of the bazaars. Properly led, mind. I’d lead them anywhere——”
The Collector nodded at him pleasantly, and said to his own people: “Don’t start carrying arms about. I want everything to go on precisely as usual, until there’s cause for the contrary. Get the womenfolk off to the hills, but do it quietly, and for Heaven’s sake no more talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian has attempted—is charged with an attempted crime.” He flipped his forehead hard with his finger-nail, and they all realized that he felt as deeply as they did, and they loved him, and determined not to increase his difficulties. “Act upon that fact until there are more facts,” he concluded. “Assume every Indian is an angel.”
They murmured, “Right you are, Burra Sahib… . Angels… . Exactly… .” From the subaltern: “Exactly what I said. The native’s all right if you get him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You remember the one I had a knock with on your Maidan last month. Well, he was all right. Any native who plays polo is all right. What you’ve got to stamp on is these educated classes, and, mind, I do know what I’m talking about this time.”
The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine buzz. Mrs. Turton called out, “She’s better,” and from both sections of the community a sigh of joy and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, “H’m!” Everyone began pressing him for details. “No one’s out of danger in this country as long as they have a temperature,” was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient’s recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this.
“Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it.”
“Take me some time to do that.”
“How’s the old lady?”
“Temperature.”
“My wife heard she was sinking.”
“So