“I don’t know why you say that, when you have so kindly asked us to your house.”
He thought again of his bungalow with horror. Good heavens, the stupid girl had taken him at his word! What was he to do? “Yes, all that is settled,” he cried.
“I invite you all to see me in the Marabar Caves.”
“Oh, that is a most magnificent entertainment compared to my poor sweets. But has not Miss Quested visited our caves already?”
“Not heard of them?” both cried. “The Marabar Caves in the Marabar Hills?”
“We hear nothing interesting up at the club. Only tennis and ridiculous gossip.”
The old man was silent, perhaps feeling that it was unseemly of her to criticize her race, perhaps fearing that if he agreed she would report him for disloyalty. But the young man uttered a rapid “I know.”
“Then tell me everything you will, or I shall never understand India. Are they the hills I sometimes see in the evening? What are these caves?”
Aziz undertook to explain, but it presently appeared that he had never visited the caves himself—had always been “meaning” to go, but work or private business had prevented him, and they were so far. Professor Godbole chaffed him pleasantly. “My dear young sir, the pot and the kettle! Have you ever heard of that useful proverb?”
“It will be a great honour.” He drew up his chair and an expression of tension came over his face. Taking the cigarette box, she offered to him and to Aziz, and lit up herself. After an impressive pause he said: “There is an entrance in the rock which you enter, and through the entrance is the cave.”
“Oh no, not at all; at Elephanta there are sculptures of Siva and Parvati. There are no sculptures at Marabar.”
“They are immensely holy, no doubt,” said Aziz, to help on the narrative.
“Still, they are ornamented in some way.”
“Well, why are they so famous? We all talk of the famous Marabar Caves. Perhaps that is our empty brag.”
“It will be a great pleasure.” He forewent the pleasure, and Aziz realized that he was keeping back something about the caves. He realized because he often suffered from similar inhibitions himself. Sometimes, to the exasperation of Major Callendar, he would pass over the one relevant fact in a position, to dwell on the hundred irrelevant. The Major accused him of disingenuousness, and was roughly right, but only roughly. It was rather that a power he couldn’t control capriciously silenced his mind. Godbole had been silenced now; no doubt not willingly, he was concealing something. Handled subtly, he might regain control and announce that the Marabar Caves were—full of stalactites, perhaps; Aziz led up to this, but they weren’t.