THE HUNGRY STONES AND OTHER STORIES

By Rabindranath Tagore

Contents:

 The Hungry Stones The Victory Once There Was A King The Home-coming My Lord, The Baby The Kingdom Of Cards The Devotee Vision The Babus Of Nayanjore Living Or Dead? "We Crown Thee King" The Renunciation The Cabuliwallah [The Fruitseller from Cabul]

Preface:

The stories contained in this volume were translated by several hands. The version of The Victory is the author's own work. The seven storieswhich follow were translated by Mr. C. F. Andrews, with the help ofthe author's help. Assistance has also been given by the Rev. E. J. Thompson, Panna Lal Basu, Prabhat Kumar Mukerjii, and the SisterNivedita. 

THE HUNGRY STONES

My kinsman and myself were returning to Calcutta from our Puja trip whenwe met the man in a train. From his dress and bearing we took him atfirst for an up-country Mahomedan, but we were puzzled as we heard himtalk. He discoursed upon all subjects so confidently that you mightthink the Disposer of All Things consulted him at all times in all thatHe did. Hitherto we had been perfectly happy, as we did not knowthat secret and unheard-of forces were at work, that the Russians hadadvanced close to us, that the English had deep and secret policies, that confusion among the native chiefs had come to a head. But ournewly-acquired friend said with a sly smile: "There happen more thingsin heaven and earth, Horatio, than are reported in your newspapers. " Aswe had never stirred out of our homes before, the demeanour of the manstruck us dumb with wonder. Be the topic ever so trivial, he would quotescience, or comment on the Vedas, or repeat quatrains from some Persianpoet; and as we had no pretence to a knowledge of science or the Vedasor Persian, our admiration for him went on increasing, and my kinsman, a theosophist, was firmly convinced that our fellow-passenger musthave been supernaturally inspired by some strange "magnetism" or "occultpower, " by an "astral body" or something of that kind. He listenedto the tritest saying that fell from the lips of our extraordinarycompanion with devotional rapture, and secretly took down notes of hisconversation. I fancy that the extraordinary man saw this, and was alittle pleased with it. 

When the train reached the junction, we assembled in the waiting roomfor the connection. It was then 10 P. M. , and as the train, we heard, waslikely to be very late, owing to something wrong in the lines, I spreadmy bed on the table and was about to lie down for a comfortable doze, when the extraordinary person deliberately set about spinning thefollowing yarn. Of course, I could get no sleep that night. 

When, owing to a disagreement about some questions of administrativepolicy, I threw up my post at Junagarh, and entered the service ofthe Nizam of Hydria, they appointed me at once, as a strong young man, collector of cotton duties at Barich. 

Barich is a lovely place. The Susta "chatters over stony ways andbabbles on the pebbles, " tripping, like a skilful dancing girl, inthrough the woods below the lonely hills. A flight of 150 steps risesfrom the river, and above that flight, on the river's brim and at thefoot of the hills, there stands a solitary marble palace. Around itthere is no habitation of man--the village and the cotton mart of Barichbeing far off. 

About 250 years ago the Emperor Mahmud Shah II. Had built this lonelypalace for his pleasure and luxury. In his days jets of rose-waterspurted from its fountains, and on the cold marble floors of itsspray-cooled rooms young Persian damsels would sit, their hairdishevelled before bathing, and, splashing their soft naked feet in theclear water of the reservoirs, would sing, to the tune of the guitar, the ghazals of their vineyards. 

The fountains play no longer; the songs have ceased; no longer dosnow-white feet step gracefully on the snowy marble. It is but the vastand solitary quarters of cess-collectors like us, men oppressed withsolitude and deprived of the society of women. Now, Karim Khan, the oldclerk of my office, warned me repeatedly not to take up my abode there. "Pass the day there, if you like, " said he, "but never stay the night. "I passed it off with a light laugh. The servants said that they wouldwork till dark and go away at night. I gave my ready assent. The househad such a bad name that even thieves would not venture near it afterdark. 

At first the solitude of the deserted palace weighed upon me like anightmare. I would stay out, and work hard as long as possible, thenreturn home at night jaded and tired, go to bed and fall asleep. 

Before a week had passed, the place began to exert a weird fascinationupon me. It is difficult to describe or to induce people to believe;but I felt as if the whole house was like a living organism slowly andimperceptibly digesting me by the action of some stupefying gastricjuice. 

Perhaps the process had begun as soon as I set my foot in the house, butI distinctly remember the day on which I first was conscious of it. 

It was the beginning of summer, and the market being dull I had no workto do. A little before sunset I was sitting in an arm-chair near thewater's edge below the steps. The Susta had shrunk and sunk low; a broadpatch of sand on the other side glowed with the hues of evening; onthis side the pebbles at the bottom of the clear shallow waters wereglistening. There was not a breath of wind anywhere, and the still airwas laden with an oppressive scent from the spicy shrubs growing on thehills close by. 

As the sun sank behind the hill-tops a long dark curtain fell upon thestage of day, and the intervening hills cut short the time in whichlight and shade mingle at sunset. I thought of going out for a ride, and was about to get up when I heard a footfall on the steps behind. Ilooked back, but there was no one. 

As I sat down again, thinking it to be an illusion, I heard manyfootfalls, as if a large number of persons were rushing down the steps. A strange thrill of delight, slightly tinged with fear, passed throughmy frame, and though there was not a figure before my eyes, methought Isaw a bevy of joyous maidens coming down the steps to bathe in the Sustain that summer evening. Not a sound was in the valley, in the river, orin the palace, to break the silence, but I distinctly heard the maidens'gay and mirthful laugh, like the gurgle of a spring gushing forth in ahundred cascades, as they ran past me, in quick playful pursuit ofeach other, towards the river, without noticing me at all. As they wereinvisible to me, so I was, as it were, invisible to them. The river wasperfectly calm, but I felt that its still, shallow, and clear waterswere stirred suddenly by the splash of many an arm jingling withbracelets, that the girls laughed and dashed and spattered water at oneanother, that the feet of the fair swimmers tossed the tiny waves up inshowers of pearl. 

I felt a thrill at my heart--I cannot say whether the excitement was dueto fear or delight or curiosity. I had a strong desire to see them moreclearly, but naught was visible before me; I thought I could catch allthat they said if I only strained my ears; but however hard I strainedthem, I heard nothing but the chirping of the cicadas in the woods. Itseemed as if a dark curtain of 250 years was hanging before me, and Iwould fain lift a corner of it tremblingly and peer through, though theassembly on the other side was completely enveloped in darkness. 

The oppressive closeness of the evening was broken by a sudden gust ofwind, and the still surface of the Suista rippled and curled like thehair of a nymph, and from the woods wrapt in the evening gloom therecame forth a simultaneous murmur, as though they were awakening froma black dream. Call it reality or dream, the momentary glimpse of thatinvisible mirage reflected from a far-off world, 250 years old, vanishedin a flash. The mystic forms that brushed past me with their quickunbodied steps, and loud, voiceless laughter, and threw themselves intothe river, did not go back wringing their dripping robes as they went. Like fragrance wafted away by the wind they were dispersed by a singlebreath of the spring. 

Then I was filled with a lively fear that it was the Muse that had takenadvantage of my solitude and possessed me--the witch had evidently cometo ruin a poor devil like myself making a living by collecting cottonduties. I decided to have a good dinner--it is the empty stomach thatall sorts of incurable diseases find an easy prey. I sent for my cookand gave orders for a rich, sumptuous moghlai dinner, redolent of spicesand ghi. 

Next morning the whole affair appeared a queer fantasy. With a lightheart I put on a sola hat like the sahebs, and drove out to my work. Iwas to have written my quarterly report that day, and expected to returnlate; but before it was dark I was strangely drawn to my house--by whatI could not say--I felt they were all waiting, and that I should delayno longer. Leaving my report unfinished I rose, put on my sola hat, andstartling the dark, shady, desolate path with the rattle of my carriage, I reached the vast silent palace standing on the gloomy skirts of thehills. 

On the first floor the stairs led to a very spacious hall, its roofstretching wide over ornamental arches resting on three rows of massivepillars, and groaning day and night under the weight of its own intensesolitude. The day had just closed, and the lamps had not yet beenlighted. As I pushed the door open a great bustle seemed to followwithin, as if a throng of people had broken up in confusion, and rushedout through the doors and windows and corridors and verandas and rooms, to make its hurried escape. 

As I saw no one I stood bewildered, my hair on end in a kind of ecstaticdelight, and a faint scent of attar and unguents almost effected by agelingered in my nostrils. Standing in the darkness of that vast desolatehall between the rows of those ancient pillars, I could hear the gurgleof fountains plashing on the marble floor, a strange tune on the guitar, the jingle of ornaments and the tinkle of anklets, the clang of bellstolling the hours, the distant note of nahabat, the din of the crystalpendants of chandeliers shaken by the breeze, the song of bulbuls fromthe cages in the corridors, the cackle of storks in the gardens, allcreating round me a strange unearthly music. 

Then I came under such a spell that this intangible, inaccessible, unearthly vision appeared to be the only reality in the world--and allelse a mere dream. That I, that is to say, Srijut So-and-so, the eldestson of So-and-so of blessed memory, should be drawing a monthly salaryof Rs. 450 by the discharge of my duties as collector of cotton duties, and driving in my dog-cart to my office every day in a short coat andsoia hat, appeared to me to be such an astonishingly ludicrous illusionthat I burst into a horse-laugh, as I stood in the gloom of that vastsilent hall. 

At that moment my servant entered with a lighted kerosene lamp in hishand. I do not know whether he thought me mad, but it came back to meat once that I was in very deed Srijut So-and-so, son of So-and-so ofblessed memory, and that, while our poets, great and small, alone couldsay whether inside of or outside the earth there was a region whereunseen fountains perpetually played and fairy guitars, struck byinvisible fingers, sent forth an eternal harmony, this at any rate wascertain, that I collected duties at the cotton market at Banch, andearned thereby Rs. 450 per mensem as my salary. I laughed in great gleeat my curious illusion, as I sat over the newspaper at my camp-table, lighted by the kerosene lamp. 

After I had finished my paper and eaten my moghlai dinner, I put outthe lamp, and lay down on my bed in a small side-room. Through theopen window a radiant star, high above the Avalli hills skirted by thedarkness of their woods, was gazing intently from millions andmillions of miles away in the sky at Mr. Collector lying on a humblecamp-bedstead. I wondered and felt amused at the idea, and do not knewwhen I fell asleep or how long I slept; but I suddenly awoke with astart, though I heard no sound and saw no intruder--only the steadybright star on the hilltop had set, and the dim light of the new moonwas stealthily entering the room through the open window, as if ashamedof its intrusion. 

I saw nobody, but felt as if some one was gently pushing me. As I awokeshe said not a word, but beckoned me with her five fingers bedecked withrings to follow her cautiously. I got up noiselessly, and, though not asoul save myself was there in the countless apartments of that desertedpalace with its slumbering sounds and waiting echoes, I feared at everystep lest any one should wake up. Most of the rooms of the palace werealways kept closed, and I had never entered them. 

I followed breathless and with silent steps my invisible guide--Icannot now say where. What endless dark and narrow passages, what longcorridors, what silent and solemn audience-chambers and close secretcells I crossed!

Though I could not see my fair guide, her form was not invisible to mymind's eye, --an Arab girl, her arms, hard and smooth as marble, visiblethrough her loose sleeves, a thin veil falling on her face from thefringe of her cap, and a curved dagger at her waist! Methought that oneof the thousand and one Arabian Nights had been wafted to me from theworld of romance, and that at the dead of night I was wending my waythrough the dark narrow alleys of slumbering Bagdad to a trysting-placefraught with peril. 

At last my fair guide stopped abruptly before a deep blue screen, andseemed to point to something below. There was nothing there, but asudden dread froze the blood in my heart-methought I saw there on thefloor at the foot of the screen a terrible negro eunuch dressed in richbrocade, sitting and dozing with outstretched legs, with a naked swordon his lap. My fair guide lightly tripped over his legs and held upa fringe of the screen. I could catch a glimpse of a part of the roomspread with a Persian carpet--some one was sitting inside on a bed--Icould not see her, but only caught a glimpse of two exquisite feetin gold-embroidered slippers, hanging out from loose saffron-colouredpaijamas and placed idly on the orange-coloured velvet carpet. On oneside there was a bluish crystal tray on which a few apples, pears, oranges, and bunches of grapes in plenty, two small cups and agold-tinted decanter were evidently waiting the guest. A fragrantintoxicating vapour, issuing from a strange sort of incense that burnedwithin, almost overpowered my senses. 

As with trembling heart I made an attempt to step across theoutstretched legs of the eunuch, he woke up suddenly with a start, andthe sword fell from his lap with a sharp clang on the marble floor. A terrific scream made me jump, and I saw I was sitting on thatcamp-bedstead of mine sweating heavily; and the crescent moon lookedpale in the morning light like a weary sleepless patient at dawn; andour crazy Meher Ali was crying out, as is his daily custom, "Stand back!Stand back!!" while he went along the lonely road. 

Such was the abrupt close of one of my Arabian Nights; but there wereyet a thousand nights left. 

Then followed a great discord between my days and nights. During the dayI would go to my work worn and tired, cursing the bewitching night andher empty dreams, but as night came my daily life with its bonds andshackles of work would appear a petty, false, ludicrous vanity. 

After nightfall I was caught and overwhelmed in the snare of a strangeintoxication, I would then be transformed into some unknown personage ofa bygone age, playing my part in unwritten history; and my short Englishcoat and tight breeches did not suit me in the least. With a red velvetcap on my head, loose paijamas, an embroidered vest, a long flowing silkgown, and coloured handkerchiefs scented with attar, I would completemy elaborate toilet, sit on a high-cushioned chair, and replace mycigarette with a many-coiled narghileh filled with rose-water, as if ineager expectation of a strange meeting with the beloved one. 

I have no power to describe the marvellous incidents that unfoldedthemselves, as the gloom of the night deepened. I felt as if in thecurious apartments of that vast edifice the fragments of a beautifulstory, which I could follow for some distance, but of which I couldnever see the end, flew about in a sudden gust of the vernal breeze. And all the same I would wander from room to room in pursuit of them thewhole night long. 

Amid the eddy of these dream-fragments, amid the smell of henna andthe twanging of the guitar, amid the waves of air charged with fragrantspray, I would catch like a flash of lightning the momentary glimpse ofa fair damsel. She it was who had saffron-coloured paijamas, white ruddysoft feet in gold-embroidered slippers with curved toes, a close-fittingbodice wrought with gold, a red cap, from which a golden frill fell onher snowy brow and cheeks. 

She had maddened me. In pursuit of her I wandered from room to room, from path to path among the bewildering maze of alleys in the enchanteddreamland of the nether world of sleep. 

Sometimes in the evening, while arraying myself carefully as a prince ofthe blood-royal before a large mirror, with a candle burning on eitherside, I would see a sudden reflection of the Persian beauty by the sideof my own. A swift turn of her neck, a quick eager glance of intensepassion and pain glowing in her large dark eyes, just a suspicion ofspeech on her dainty red lips, her figure, fair and slim crowned withyouth like a blossoming creeper, quickly uplifted in her gracefultilting gait, a dazzling flash of pain and craving and ecstasy, a smileand a glance and a blaze of jewels and silk, and she melted away. A wildglist of wind, laden with all the fragrance of hills and woods, wouldput out my light, and I would fling aside my dress and lie down on mybed, my eyes closed and my body thrilling with delight, and there aroundme in the breeze, amid all the perfume of the woods and hills, floatedthrough the silent gloom many a caress and many a kiss and many a tendertouch of hands, and gentle murmurs in my ears, and fragrant breaths onmy brow; or a sweetly-perfumed kerchief was wafted again and again onmy cheeks. Then slowly a mysterious serpent would twist her stupefyingcoils about me; and heaving a heavy sigh, I would lapse intoinsensibility, and then into a profound slumber. 

One evening I decided to go out on my horse--I do not know who imploredme to stay-but I would listen to no entreaties that day. My English hatand coat were resting on a rack, and I was about to take them down whena sudden whirlwind, crested with the sands of the Susta and the deadleaves of the Avalli hills, caught them up, and whirled them roundand round, while a loud peal of merry laughter rose higher and higher, striking all the chords of mirth till it died away in the land ofsunset. 

I could not go out for my ride, and the next day I gave up my queerEnglish coat and hat for good. 

That day again at dead of night I heard the stifled heart-breakingsobs of some one--as if below the bed, below the floor, below the stonyfoundation of that gigantic palace, from the depths of a dark dampgrave, a voice piteously cried and implored me: "Oh, rescue me! Breakthrough these doors of hard illusion, deathlike slumber and fruitlessdreams, place by your side on the saddle, press me to your heart, and, riding through hills and woods and across the river, take me to the warmradiance of your sunny rooms above!"

Who am I? Oh, how can I rescue thee? What drowning beauty, whatincarnate passion shall I drag to the shore from this wild eddy ofdreams? O lovely ethereal apparition! Where didst thou flourish andwhen? By what cool spring, under the shade of what date-groves, wastthou born--in the lap of what homeless wanderer in the desert? WhatBedouin snatched thee from thy mother's arms, an opening bud pluckedfrom a wild creeper, placed thee on a horse swift as lightning, crossedthe burning sands, and took thee to the slave-market of what royal city?And there, what officer of the Badshah, seeing the glory of thy bashfulblossoming youth, paid for thee in gold, placed thee in a goldenpalanquin, and offered thee as a present for the seraglio of his master?And O, the history of that place! The music of the sareng, the jingle ofanklets, the occasional flash of daggers and the glowing wine of Shirazpoison, and the piercing flashing glance! What infinite grandeur, whatendless servitude!

The slave-girls to thy right and left waved the chamar as diamondsflashed from their bracelets; the Badshah, the king of kings, fellon his knees at thy snowy feet in bejewelled shoes, and outside theterrible Abyssinian eunuch, looking like a messenger of death, butclothed like an angel, stood with a naked sword in his hand! Then, O, thou flower of the desert, swept away by the blood-stained dazzlingocean of grandeur, with its foam of jealousy, its rocks and shoals ofintrigue, on what shore of cruel death wast thou cast, or in what otherland more splendid and more cruel?

Suddenly at this moment that crazy Meher Ali screamed out: "Stand back!Stand back!! All is false! All is false!!" I opened my eyes and saw thatit was already light. My chaprasi came and handed me my letters, and thecook waited with a salam for my orders. 

I said; "No, I can stay here no longer. " That very day I packed up, andmoved to my office. Old Karim Khan smiled a little as he saw me. I feltnettled, but said nothing, and fell to my work. 

As evening approached I grew absent-minded; I felt as if I had anappointment to keep; and the work of examining the cotton accountsseemed wholly useless; even the Nizamat of the Nizam did not appear tobe of much worth. Whatever belonged to the present, whatever was movingand acting and working for bread seemed trivial, meaningless, andcontemptible. 

I threw my pen down, closed my ledgers, got into my dog-cart, and droveaway. I noticed that it stopped of itself at the gate of the marblepalace just at the hour of twilight. With quick steps I climbed thestairs, and entered the room. 

A heavy silence was reigning within. The dark rooms were looking sullenas if they had taken offence. My heart was full of contrition, butthere was no one to whom I could lay it bare, or of whom I could askforgiveness. I wandered about the dark rooms with a vacant mind. Iwished I had a guitar to which I could sing to the unknown: "O fire, the poor moth that made a vain effort to fly away has come back to thee!Forgive it but this once, burn its wings and consume it in thy flame!"

Suddenly two tear-drops fell from overhead on my brow. Dark masses ofclouds overcast the top of the Avalli hills that day. The gloomy woodsand the sooty waters of the Susta were waiting in terrible suspense andin an ominous calm. Suddenly land, water, and sky shivered, and a wildtempest-blast rushed howling through the distant pathless woods, showingits lightning-teeth like a raving maniac who had broken his chains. The desolate halls of the palace banged their doors, and moaned in thebitterness of anguish. 

The servants were all in the office, and there was no one to light thelamps. The night was cloudy and moonless. In the dense gloom within Icould distinctly feel that a woman was lying on her face on the carpetbelow the bed--clasping and tearing her long dishevelled hair withdesperate fingers. Blood was tricking down her fair brow, and she wasnow laughing a hard, harsh, mirthless laugh, now bursting into violentwringing sobs, now rending her bodice and striking at her bare bosom, as the wind roared in through the open window, and the rain poured intorrents and soaked her through and through. 

All night there was no cessation of the storm or of the passionate cry. I wandered from room to room in the dark, with unavailing sorrow. Whomcould I console when no one was by? Whose was this intense agony ofsorrow? Whence arose this inconsolable grief?

And the mad man cried out: "Stand back! Stand back!! All is false! Allis false!!"

I saw that the day had dawned, and Meher Ali was going round and roundthe palace with his usual cry in that dreadful weather. Suddenly itcame to me that perhaps he also had once lived in that house, and that, though he had gone mad, he came there every day, and went round andround, fascinated by the weird spell cast by the marble demon. 

Despite the storm and rain I ran to him and asked: "Ho, Meher Ali, whatis false?"

The man answered nothing, but pushing me aside went round and roundwith his frantic cry, like a bird flying fascinated about the jaws of asnake, and made a desperate effort to warn himself by repeating: "Standback! Stand back!! All is false! All is false!!"

I ran like a mad man through the pelting rain to my office, and askedKarim Khan: "Tell me the meaning of all this!"

What I gathered from that old man was this: That at one time countlessunrequited passions and unsatisfied longings and lurid flames of wildblazing pleasure raged within that palace, and that the curse of allthe heart-aches and blasted hopes had made its every stone thirsty andhungry, eager to swallow up like a famished ogress any living man whomight chance to approach. Not one of those who lived there for threeconsecutive nights could escape these cruel jaws, save Meher Ali, whohad escaped at the cost of his reason. 

I asked: "Is there no means whatever of my release?" The old man said:"There is only one means, and that is very difficult. I will tell youwhat it is, but first you must hear the history of a young Persian girlwho once lived in that pleasure-dome. A stranger or a more bitterlyheart-rending tragedy was never enacted on this earth. "

Just at this moment the coolies announced that the train was coming. So soon? We hurriedly packed up our luggage, as the tram steamed in. AnEnglish gentleman, apparently just aroused from slumber, was looking outof a first-class carriage endeavouring to read the name of the station. As soon as he caught sight of our fellow-passenger, he cried, "Hallo, "and took him into his own compartment. As we got into a second-classcarriage, we had no chance of finding out who the man was nor what wasthe end of his story. 

I said; "The man evidently took us for fools and imposed upon us out offun. The story is pure fabrication from start to finish. " The discussionthat followed ended in a lifelong rupture between my theosophist kinsmanand myself. 

THE VICTORY

She was the Princess Ajita. And the court poet of King Narayan had neverseen her. On the day he recited a new poem to the king he would raisehis voice just to that pitch which could be heard by unseen hearers inthe screened balcony high above the hall. He sent up his song towardsthe star-land out of his reach, where, circled with light, the planetwho ruled his destiny shone unknown and out of ken. 

He would espy some shadow moving behind the veil. A tinkling sound wouldcome to his car from afar, and would set him dreaming of the ankleswhose tiny golden bells sang at each step. Ah, the rosy red tender feetthat walked the dust of the earth like God's mercy on the fallen! Thepoet had placed them on the altar of his heart, where he wove his songsto the tune of those golden bells. Doubt never arose in his mind as towhose shadow it was that moved behind the screen, and whose anklets theywere that sang to the time of his beating heart. 

Manjari, the maid of the princess, passed by the poet's house on her wayto the river, and she never missed a day to have a few words with him onthe sly. When she found the road deserted, and the shadow of dusk onthe land, she would boldly enter his room, and sit at the corner ofhis carpet. There was a suspicion of an added care in the choice of thecolour of her veil, in the setting of the flower in her hair. 

People smiled and whispered at this, and they were not to blame. ForShekhar the poet never took the trouble to hide the fact that thesemeetings were a pure joy to him. 

The meaning of her name was the spray of flowers. One must confess thatfor an ordinary mortal it was sufficient in its sweetness. But Shekharmade his own addition to this name, and called her the Spray of SpringFlowers. And ordinary mortals shook their heads and said, Ah, me!

In the spring songs that the poet sang the praise of the spray of springflowers was conspicuously reiterated; and the king winked and smiled athim when he heard it, and the poet smiled in answer. 

The king would put him the question; "Is it the business of the beemerely to hum in the court of the spring?"

The poet would answer; "No, but also to sip the honey of the spray ofspring flowers. "

And they all laughed in the king's hall. And it was rumoured that thePrincess Akita also laughed at her maid's accepting the poet's name forher, and Manjari felt glad in her heart. 

Thus truth and falsehood mingle in life--and to what God builds man addshis own decoration. 

Only those were pure truths which were sung by the poet. The theme wasKrishna, the lover god, and Radha, the beloved, the Eternal Man and theEternal Woman, the sorrow that comes from the beginning of time, and thejoy without end. The truth of these songs was tested in his inmost heartby everybody from the beggar to the king himself. The poet's songs wereon the lips of all. At the merest glimmer of the moon and the faintestwhisper of the summer breeze his songs would break forth in the landfrom windows and courtyards, from sailing-boats, from shadows of thewayside trees, in numberless voices. 

Thus passed the days happily. The poet recited, the king listened, thehearers applauded, Manjari passed and repassed by the poet's room on herway to the river--the shadow flitted behind the screened balcony, andthe tiny golden bells tinkled from afar. 

Just then set forth from his home in the south a poet on his path ofconquest. He came to King Narayan, in the kingdom of Amarapur. He stoodbefore the throne, and uttered a verse in praise of the king. He hadchallenged all the court poets on his way, and his career of victory hadbeen unbroken. 

The king received him with honour, and said: "Poet, I offer youwelcome. "

Pundarik, the poet, proudly replied: "Sire, I ask for war. "

Shekhar, the court poet of the king did not know how the battle of themuse was to be waged. He had no sleep at night. The mighty figure of thefamous Pundarik, his sharp nose curved like a scimitar, and his proudhead tilted on one side, haunted the poet's vision in the dark. 

With a trembling heart Shekhar entered the arena in the morning. Thetheatre was filled with the crowd. 

The poet greeted his rival with a smile and a bow. Pundarik returned itwith a slight toss of his head, and turned his face towards his circleof adoring followers with a meaning smile. Shekhar cast his glancetowards the screened balcony high above, and saluted his lady in hismind, saying! "If I am the winner at the combat to-day, my lady, thyvictorious name shall be glorified. "

The trumpet sounded. The great crowd stood up, shouting victory to theking. The king, dressed in an ample robe of white, slowly came into thehall like a floating cloud of autumn, and sat on his throne. 

Pundarik stood up, and the vast hall became still. With his head raisedhigh and chest expanded, he began in his thundering voice to recite thepraise of King Narayan. His words burst upon the walls of the halllike breakers of the sea, and seemed to rattle against the ribs of thelistening crowd. The skill with which he gave varied meanings to thename Narayan, and wove each letter of it through the web of his versesin all mariner of combinations, took away the breath of his amazedhearers. 

For some minutes after he took his seat his voice continued to vibrateamong the numberless pillars of the king's court and in thousands ofspeechless hearts. The learned professors who had come from distantlands raised their right hands, and cried, Bravo!

The king threw a glance on Shekhar's face, and Shekhar in answer raisedfor a moment his eyes full of pain towards his master, and then stoodup like a stricken deer at bay. His face was pale, his bashfulness wasalmost that of a woman, his slight youthful figure, delicate in itsoutline, seemed like a tensely strung vina ready to break out in musicat the least touch. 

His head was bent, his voice was low, when he began. The first fewverses were almost inaudible. Then he slowly raised his head, and hisclear sweet voice rose into the sky like a quivering flame of fire. Hebegan with the ancient legend of the kingly line lost in the haze ofthe past, and brought it down through its long course of heroism andmatchless generosity to the present age. He fixed his gaze on the king'sface, and all the vast and unexpressed love of the people for the royalhouse rose like incense in his song, and enwreathed the throne on allsides. These were his last words when, trembling, he took his seat: "Mymaster, I may be beaten in play of words, but not in my love for thee. "

Tears filled the eyes of the hearers, and the stone walls shook withcries of victory. 

Mocking this popular outburst of feeling, with an august shake ofhis head and a contemptuous sneer, Pundarik stood up, and flung thisquestion to the assembly; "What is there superior to words?" In a momentthe hall lapsed into silence again. 

Then with a marvellous display of learning, he proved that the Word wasin the beginning, that the Word was God. He piled up quotations fromscriptures, and built a high altar for the Word to be seated above allthat there is in heaven and in earth. He repeated that question in hismighty voice: "What is there superior to words?"

Proudly he looked around him. None dared to accept his challenge, andhe slowly took his seat like a lion who had just made a full meal ofits victim. The pandits shouted, Bravo! The king remained silent withwonder, and the poet Shekhar felt himself of no account by the side ofthis stupendous learning. The assembly broke up for that day. 

Next day Shekhar began his song. It was of that day when the pipings oflove's flute startled for the first time the hushed air of the Vrindaforest. The shepherd women did not know who was the player or whencecame the music. Sometimes it seemed to come from the heart of the southwind, and sometimes from the straying clouds of the hilltops. It camewith a message of tryst from the land of the sunrise, and it floatedfrom the verge of sunset with its sigh of sorrow. The stars seemed tobe the stops of the instrument that flooded the dreams of the nightwith melody. The music seemed to burst all at once from all sides, from fields and groves, from the shady lanes and lonely roads, from themelting blue of the sky, from the shimmering green of the grass. Theyneither knew its meaning nor could they find words to give utteranceto the desire of their hearts. Tears filled their eyes, and their lifeseemed to long for a death that would be its consummation. 

Shekhar forgot his audience, forgot the trial of his strength with arival. He stood alone amid his thoughts that rustled and quivered roundhim like leaves in a summer breeze, and sang the Song of the Flute. Hehad in his mind the vision of an image that had taken its shape from ashadow, and the echo of a faint tinkling sound of a distant footstep. 

He took his seat. His hearers trembled with the sadness of anindefinable delight, immense and vague, and they forgot to applaudhim. As this feeling died away Pundarik stood up before the throneand challenged his rival to define who was this Lover and who was theBeloved. He arrogantly looked around him, he smiled at his followersand then put the question again: "Who is Krishna, the lover, and who isRadha, the beloved?"

Then he began to analyse the roots of those names, --and variousinterpretations of their meanings. He brought before the bewilderedaudience all the intricacies of the different schools of metaphysicswith consummate skill. Each letter of those names he divided from itsfellow, and then pursued them with a relentless logic till they fell tothe dust in confusion, to be caught up again and restored to a meaningnever before imagined by the subtlest of word-mongers. 

The pandits were in ecstasy; they applauded vociferously; and the crowdfollowed them, deluded into the certainty that they had witnessed, thatday, the last shred of the curtains of Truth torn to pieces before theireyes by a prodigy of intellect. The performance of his tremendous featso delighted them that they forgot to ask themselves if there was anytruth behind it after all. 

The king's mind was overwhelmed with wonder. The atmosphere wascompletely cleared of all illusion of music, and the vision of the worldaround seemed to be changed from its freshness of tender green to thesolidity of a high road levelled and made hard with crushed stones. 

To the people assembled their own poet appeared a mere boy in comparisonwith this giant, who walked with such case, knocking down difficultiesat each step in the world of words and thoughts. It became evidentto them for the first time that the poems Shekhar wrote were absurdlysimple, and it must be a mere accident that they did not write themthemselves. They were neither new, nor difficult, nor instructive, nornecessary. 

The king tried to goad his poet with keen glances, silently inciting himto make a final effort. But Shekhar took no notice, and remained fixedto his seat. 

The king in anger came down from his throne--took off his pearl chainand put it on Pundarik's head. Everybody in the hall cheered. From theupper balcony came a slight sound of the movements of rustling robes andwaist-chains hung with golden bells. Shekhar rose from his seat and leftthe hall. 

It was a dark night of waning moon. The poet Shekhar took down his MSS. From his shelves and heaped them on the floor. Some of them containedhis earliest writings, which he had almost forgotten. He turned over thepages, reading passages here and there. They all seemed to him poor andtrivial--mere words and childish rhymes!

One by one he tore his books to fragments, and threw them into a vesselcontaining fire, and said: "To thee, to thee, O my beauty, my fire! Thouhast been burning in my heart all these futile years. If my life werea piece of gold it would come out of its trial brighter, but it is atrodden turf of grass, and nothing remains of it but this handful ofashes. "

The night wore on. Shekhar opened wide his windows. He spread uponhis bed the white flowers that he loved, the jasmines, tuberoses andchrysanthemums, and brought into his bedroom all the lamps he had inhis house and lighted them. Then mixing with honey the juice of somepoisonous root he drank it and lay down on his bed. 

Golden anklets tinkled in the passage outside the door, and a subtleperfume came into the room with the breeze. 

The poet, with his eyes shut, said; "My lady, have you taken pity uponyour servant at last and come to see him?"

The answer came in a sweet voice "My poet, I have come. "

Shekhar opened his eyes--and saw before his bed the figure of a woman. 

His sight was dim and blurred. And it seemed to him that the image madeof a shadow that he had ever kept throned in the secret shrine of hisheart had come into the outer world in his last moment to gaze upon hisface. 

The woman said; "I am the Princess Ajita. "

The poet with a great effort sat up on his bed. 

The princess whispered into his car: "The king has not done you justice. It was you who won at the combat, my poet, and I have come to crown youwith the crown of victory. "

She took the garland of flowers from her own neck, and put it on hishair, and the poet fell down upon his bed stricken by death. 

ONCE THERE WAS A KING

"Once upon a time there was a king. "

When we were children there was no need to know who the king in thefairy story was. It didn't matter whether he was called Shiladitya orShaliban, whether he lived at Kashi or Kanauj. The thing that made aseven-year-old boy's heart go thump, thump with delight was this onesovereign truth; this reality of all realities: "Once there was a king. "

But the readers of this modern age are far more exact and exacting. When they hear such an opening to a story, they are at once critical andsuspicious. They apply the searchlight of science to its legendary hazeand ask: "Which king?"

The story-tellers have become more precise in their turn. They are nolonger content with the old indefinite, "There was a king, " but assumeinstead a look of profound learning, and begin: "Once there was a kingnamed Ajatasatru, "

The modern reader's curiosity, however, is not so easily satisfied. Heblinks at the author through his scientific spectacles, and asks again:"Which Ajatasatru?"

"Every schoolboy knows, " the author proceeds, "that there were threeAjatasatrus. The first was born in the twentieth century B. C. , and diedat the tender age of two years and eight months, I deeply regret that itis impossible to find, from any trustworthy source, a detailed accountof his reign. The second Ajatasatru is better known to historians. Ifyou refer to the new Encyclopedia of History. .. . "

By this time the modern reader's suspicions are dissolved. He feels hemay safely trust his author. He says to himself: "Now we shall have astory that is both improving and instructive. "

Ah! how we all love to be deluded! We have a secret dread of beingthought ignorant. And we end by being ignorant after all, only we havedone it in a long and roundabout way. 

There is an English proverb; "Ask me no questions, and I will tell youno lies. " The boy of seven who is listening to a fairy story understandsthat perfectly well; he withholds his questions, while the story isbeing told. So the pure and beautiful falsehood of it all remains nakedand innocent as a babe; transparent as truth itself; limpid as afreshbubbling spring. But the ponderous and learned lie of our moderns hasto keep its true character draped and veiled. And if there is discoveredanywhere the least little peep-hole of deception, the reader turns awaywith a prudish disgust, and the author is discredited. 

When we were young, we understood all sweet things; and we could detectthe sweets of a fairy story by an unerring science of our own. We nevercared for such useless things as knowledge. We only cared for truth. Andour unsophisticated little hearts knew well where the Crystal Palace ofTruth lay and how to reach it. But to-day we are expected to write pagesof facts, while the truth is simply this:

"There was a king. "

I remember vividly that evening in Calcutta when the fairy story began. The rain and the storm had been incessant. The whole of the city wasflooded. The water was knee-deep in our lane. I had a straining hope, which was almost a certainty, that my tutor would be prevented fromcoming that evening. I sat on the stool in the far corner of the verandalooking down the lane, with a heart beating faster and faster. Everyminute I kept my eye on the rain, and when it began to grow lessI prayed with all my might; "Please, God, send some more rain tillhalf-past seven is over. " For I was quite ready to believe that therewas no other need for rain except to protect one helpless boy oneevening in one corner of Calcutta from the deadly clutches of his tutor. 

If not in answer to my prayer, at any rate according to some grosser lawof physical nature, the rain did not give up. 

But, alas! nor did my teacher. 

Exactly to the minute, in the bend of the lane, I saw his approachingumbrella. The great bubble of hope burst in my breast, and my heartcollapsed. Truly, if there is a punishment to fit the crime after death, then my tutor will be born again as me, and I shall be born as my tutor. 

As soon as I saw his umbrella I ran as hard as I could to my mother'sroom. My mother and my grandmother were sitting opposite one anotherplaying cards by the light of a lamp. I ran into the room, and flungmyself on the bed beside my mother, and said:

"Mother dear, the tutor has come, and I have such a bad headache;couldn't I have no lessons today?"

I hope no child of immature age will be allowed to read this story, and I sincerely trust it will not be used in text-books or primers forschools. For what I did was dreadfully bad, and I received no punishmentwhatever. On the contrary, my wickedness was crowned with success. 

My mother said to me: "All right, " and turning to the servant added:"Tell the tutor that he can go back home. "

It was perfectly plain that she didn't think my illness very serious, asshe went on with her game as before, and took no further notice. And Ialso, burying my head in the pillow, laughed to my heart's content. Weperfectly understood one another, my mother and I. 

But every one must know how hard it is for a boy of seven years old tokeep up the illusion of illness for a long time. After about a minute Igot hold of Grandmother, and said: "Grannie, do tell me a story. "

I had to ask this many times. Grannie and Mother went on playing cards, and took no notice. At last Mother said to me: "Child, don't bother. Wait till we've finished our game. " But I persisted: "Grannie, do tellme a story. " I told Mother she could finish her game to-morrow, but shemust let Grannie tell me a story there and then. 

At last Mother threw down the cards and said: "You had better do whathe wants. I can't manage him. " Perhaps she had it in her mind that shewould have no tiresome tutor on the morrow, while I should be obliged tobe back to those stupid lessons. 

As soon as ever Mother had given way, I rushed at Grannie. I got holdof her hand, and, dancing with delight, dragged her inside my mosquitocurtain on to the bed. I clutched hold of the bolster with both handsin my excitement, and jumped up and down with joy, and when I had got alittle quieter, said: "Now, Grannie, let' s have the story!"

Grannie went on: "And the king had a queen. " That was good to beginwith. He had only one. 

It is usual for kings in fairy stories to be extravagant in queens. Andwhenever we hear that there are two queens, our hearts begin to sink. One is sure to be unhappy. But in Grannie's story that danger was past. He had only one queen. 

We next hear that the king had not got any son. At the age of seven Ididn't think there was any need to bother if a man had had no son. Hemight only have been in the way. Nor are we greatly excited when we hearthat the king has gone away into the forest to practise austerities inorder to get a son. There was only one thing that would have made me gointo the forest, and that was to get away from my tutor!

But the king left behind with his queen a small girl, who grew up into abeautiful princess. 

Twelve years pass away, and the king goes on practising austerities, andnever thinks all this while of his beautiful daughter. The princess hasreached the full bloom of her youth. The age of marriage has passed, butthe king does not return. And the queen pines away with grief and cries:"Is my golden daughter destined to die unmarried? Ah me! What a fate ismine. "

Then the queen sent men to the king to entreat him earnestly to comeback for a single night and take one meal in the palace. And the kingconsented. 

The queen cooked with her own hand, and with the greatest care, sixty-four dishes, and made a seat for him of sandal-wood, and arrangedthe food in plates of gold and cups of silver. The princess stood behindwith the peacock-tail fan in her hand. The king, after twelve years'absence, came into the house, and the princess waved the fan, lightingup all the room with her beauty. The king looked in his daughter's face, and forgot to take his food. 

At last he asked his queen: "Pray, who is this girl whose beauty shinesas the gold image of the goddess? Whose daughter is she?"

The queen beat her forehead, and cried: "Ah, how evil is my fate! Doyou not know your own daughter?"

The king was struck with amazement. He said at last; "My tiny daughterhas grown to be a woman. "

"What else?" the queen said with a sigh. "Do you not know that twelveyears have passed by?"

"But why did you not give her in marriage?" asked the king. 

"You were away, " the queen said. "And how could I find her a suitablehusband?"

The king became vehement with excitement. "The first man I seeto-morrow, " he said, "when I come out of the palace shall marry her. "

The princess went on waving her fan of peacock feathers, and the kingfinished his meal. 

The next morning, as the king came out of his palace, he saw the son ofa Brahman gathering sticks in the forest outside the palace gates. Hisage was about seven or eight. 

The king said: "I will marry my daughter to him. "

Who can interfere with a king's command? At once the boy was called, andthe marriage garlands were exchanged between him and the princess. 

At this point I came up close to my wise Grannie and asked her eagerly:"What then?"

In the bottom of my heart there was a devout wish to substitute myselffor that fortunate wood-gatherer of seven years old. The night wasresonant with the patter of rain. The earthen lamp by my bedside wasburning low. My grandmother's voice droned on as she told the story. Andall these things served to create in a corner of my credulous heart thebelief that I had been gathering sticks in the dawn of some indefinitetime in the kingdom of some unknown king, and in a moment garlands hadbeen exchanged between me and the princess, beautiful as the Goddess ofGrace. She had a gold band on her hair and gold earrings in her ears. She bad a necklace and bracelets of gold, and a golden waist-chain roundher waist, and a pair of golden anklets tinkled above her feet. 

If my grandmother were an author how many explanations she would have tooffer for this little story! First of all, every one would ask whythe king remained twelve years in the forest? Secondly, why should theking's daughter remain unmarried all that while? This would be regardedas absurd. 

Even if she could have got so far without a quarrel, still there wouldhave been a great hue and cry about the marriage itself. First, it neverhappened. Secondly, how could there be a marriage between a princess ofthe Warrior Caste and a boy of the priestly Brahman Caste? Her readerswould have imagined at once that the writer was preaching against oursocial customs in an underhand way. And they would write letters to thepapers. 

So I pray with all my heart that my grandmother may be born agrandmother again, and not through some cursed fate take birth as herluckless grandson. 

So with a throb of joy and delight, I asked Grannie: "What then?"

Grannie went on: Then the princess took her little husband away ingreat distress, and built a large palace with seven wings, and began tocherish her husband with great care. 

I jumped up and down in my bed and clutched at the bolster more tightlythan ever and said: "What then?"

Grannie continued: The little boy went to school and learnt many lessonsfrom his teachers, and as he grew up his class-fellows began to ask him:"Who is that beautiful lady who lives with you in the palace with theseven wings?" The Brahman's son was eager to know who she was. He couldonly remember how one day he had been gathering sticks, and a greatdisturbance arose. But all that was so long ago, that he had no clearrecollection. 

Four or five years passed in this way. His companions always asked him:"Who is that beautiful lady in the palace with the seven wings?" And theBrahman's son would come back from school and sadly tell the princess:"My school companions always ask me who is that beautiful lady in thepalace with the seven wings, and I can give them no reply. Tell me, oh, tell me, who you are!"

The princess said: "Let it pass to-day. I will tell you some otherday. " And every day the Brahman's son would ask; "Who are you?" and theprincess would reply: "Let it pass to-day. I will tell you some otherday. " In this manner four or five more years passed away. 

At last the Brahman's son became very impatient, and said: "If you donot tell me to-day who you are, O beautiful lady, I will leave thispalace with the seven wings. " Then the princess said: "I will certainlytell you to-morrow. "

Next day the Brahman's son, as soon as he came home from school, said:"Now, tell me who you are. " The princess said: "To-night I will tell youafter supper, when you are in bed. "

The Brahman's son said: "Very well "; and he began to count the hoursin expectation of the night. And the princess, on her side, spread whiteflowers over the golden bed, and lighted a gold lamp with fragrant oil, and adorned her hair, and dressed herself in a beautiful robe of blue, and began to count the hours in expectation of the night. 

That evening when her husband, the Brahman's son, had finished hismeal, too excited almost to eat, and had gone to the golden bed in thebed-chamber strewn with flowers, he said to himself: "To-night I shallsurely know who this beautiful lady is in the palace with the sevenwings. "

The princess took for her the food that was left over by her husband, and slowly entered the bed-chamber. She had to answer that night thequestion, which was the beautiful lady who lived in the palace withthe seven wings. And as she went up to the bed to tell him she found aserpent had crept out of the flowers and had bitten the Brahman's son. Her boy-husband was lying on the bed of flowers, with face pale indeath. 

My heart suddenly ceased to throb, and I asked with choking voice: "Whatthen?"

Grannie said; "Then. .. "

But what is the use of going on any further with the story? It wouldonly lead on to what was more and more impossible. The boy of sevendid not know that, if there were some "What then?" after death, nograndmother of a grandmother could tell us all about it. 

But the child's faith never admits defeat, and it would snatch at themantle of death itself to turn him back. It would be outrageous for himto think that such a story of one teacherless evening could so suddenlycome to a stop. Therefore the grandmother had to call back her storyfrom the ever-shut chamber of the great End, but she does it so simply:it is merely by floating the dead body on a banana stem on the river, and having some incantations read by a magician. But in that rainy nightand in the dim light of a lamp death loses all its horror in the mind ofthe boy, and seems nothing more than a deep slumber of a single night. When the story ends the tired eyelids are weighed down with sleep. Thusit is that we send the little body of the child floating on the back ofsleep over the still water of time, and then in the morning read a fewverses of incantation to restore him to the world of life and light. 

THE HOME-COMING

Phatik Chakravorti was ringleader among the boys of the village. A newmischief got into his head. There was a heavy log lying on the mud-flatof the river waiting to be shaped into a mast for a boat. He decidedthat they should all work together to shift the log by main force fromits place and roll it away. The owner of the log would be angry andsurprised, and they would all enjoy the fun. Every one seconded theproposal, and it was carried unanimously. 

But just as the fun was about to begin, Makhan, Phatik's youngerbrother, sauntered up, and sat down on the log in front of them allwithout a word. The boys were puzzled for a moment. He was pushed, rather timidly, by one of the boys and told to get up but he remainedquite unconcerned. He appeared like a young philosopher meditating onthe futility of games. Phatik was furious. "Makhan, " he cried, "if youdon't get down this minute I'll thrash you!"

Makhan only moved to a more comfortable position. 

Now, if Phatik was to keep his regal dignity before the public, it wasclear he ought to carry out his threat. But his courage failed himat the crisis. His fertile brain, however, rapidly seized upon a newmanoeuvre which would discomfit his brother and afford his followers anadded amusement. He gave the word of command to roll the log and Makhanover together. Makhan heard the order, and made it a point of honourto stick on. But he overlooked the fact, like those who attempt earthlyfame in other matters, that there was peril in it. 

The boys began to heave at the log with all their might, calling out, "One, two, three, go, " At the word "go" the log went; and with it wentMakhan's philosophy, glory and all. 

All the other boys shouted themselves hoarse with delight. But Phatikwas a little frightened. He knew what was coming. And, sure enough, Makhan rose from Mother Earth blind as Fate and screaming like theFuries. He rushed at Phatik and scratched his face and beat him andkicked him, and then went crying home. The first act of the drama wasover. 

Phatik wiped his face, and sat down on the edge of a sunken barge on theriver bank, and began to chew a piece of grass. A boat came up to thelanding, and a middle-aged man, with grey hair and dark moustache, stepped on shore. He saw the boy sitting there doing nothing, and askedhim where the Chakravortis lived. Phatik went on chewing the grass, and said: "Over there, " but it was quite impossible to tell where hepointed. The stranger asked him again. He swung his legs to and fro onthe side of the barge, and said; "Go and find out, " and continued tochew the grass as before. 

But now a servant came down from the house, and told Phatik his motherwanted him. Phatik refused to move. But the servant was the master onthis occasion. He took Phatik up roughly, and carried him, kicking andstruggling in impotent rage. 

When Phatik came into the house, his mother saw him. She called outangrily: "So you have been hitting Makhan again?"

Phatik answered indignantly: "No, I haven't; who told you that?"

His mother shouted: "Don't tell lies! You have. "

Phatik said suddenly: "I tell you, I haven't. You ask Makhan!" ButMakhan thought it best to stick to his previous statement. He said:"Yes, mother. Phatik did hit me. "

Phatik's patience was already exhausted. He could not hear thisinjustice. He rushed at Makban, and hammered him with blows: "Take that"he cried, "and that, and that, for telling lies. "

His mother took Makhan's side in a moment, and pulled Phatik away, beating him with her hands. When Phatik pushed her aside, she shoutedout: "What I you little villain! would you hit your own mother?"

It was just at this critical juncture that the grey-haired strangerarrived. He asked what was the matter. Phatik looked sheepish andashamed. 

But when his mother stepped back and looked at the stranger, her angerwas changed to surprise. For she recognised her brother, and cried:"Why, Dada! Where have you come from?" As she said these words, shebowed to the ground and touched his feet. Her brother had gone away soonafter she had married, and he had started business in Bombay. His sisterhad lost her husband while he was In Bombay. Bishamber had now come backto Calcutta, and had at once made enquiries about his sister. He hadthen hastened to see her as soon as he found out where she was. 

The next few days were full of rejoicing. The brother asked after theeducation of the two boys. He was told by his sister that Phatik was aperpetual nuisance. He was lazy, disobedient, and wild. But Makhan wasas good as gold, as quiet as a lamb, and very fond of reading, Bishamberkindly offered to take Phatik off his sister's hands, and educate himwith his own children in Calcutta. The widowed mother readily agreed. When his uncle asked Phatik If he would like to go to Calcutta with him, his joy knew no bounds, and he said; "Oh, yes, uncle!" In a way thatmade it quite clear that he meant it. 

It was an immense relief to the mother to get rid of Phatik. She hada prejudice against the boy, and no love was lost between the twobrothers. She was in daily fear that he would either drown Makhan someday in the river, or break his head in a fight, or run him into somedanger or other. At the same time she was somewhat distressed to seePhatik's extreme eagerness to get away. 

Phatik, as soon as all was settled, kept asking his uncle every minutewhen they were to start. He was on pins and needles all day long withexcitement, and lay awake most of the night. He bequeathed to Makhan, in perpetuity, his fishing-rod, his big kite and his marbles. Indeed, atthis time of departure his generosity towards Makhan was unbounded. 

When they reached Calcutta, Phatik made the acquaintance of his auntfor the first time. She was by no means pleased with this unnecessaryaddition to her family. She found her own three boys quite enoughto manage without taking any one else. And to bring a village lad offourteen into their midst was terribly upsetting. Bishamber shouldreally have thought twice before committing such an indiscretion. 

In this world of human affairs there is no worse nuisance than a boyat the age of fourteen. He is neither ornamental, nor useful. It isimpossible to shower affection on him as on a little boy; and he isalways getting in the way. If he talks with a childish lisp he is calleda baby, and if he answers in a grown-up way he is called impertinent. In fact any talk at all from him is resented. Then he is at theunattractive, growing age. He grows out of his clothes with indecenthaste; his voice grows hoarse and breaks and quavers; his face growssuddenly angular and unsightly. It is easy to excuse the shortcomings ofearly childhood, but it is hard to tolerate even unavoidable lapses in aboy of fourteen. The lad himself becomes painfully self-conscious. Whenhe talks with elderly people he is either unduly forward, or else sounduly shy that he appears ashamed of his very existence. 

Yet it is at this very age when in his heart of hearts a young lad mostcraves for recognition and love; and he becomes the devoted slave of anyone who shows him consideration. But none dare openly love him, for thatwould be regarded as undue indulgence, and therefore bad for the boy. So, what with scolding and chiding, he becomes very much like a straydog that has lost his master. 

For a boy of fourteen his own home is the only Paradise. To live in astrange house with strange people is little short of torture, while theheight of bliss is to receive the kind looks of women, and never to beslighted by them. 

It was anguish to Phatik to be the unwelcome guest in his aunt's house, despised by this elderly woman, and slighted, on every occasion. If sheever asked him to do anything for her, he would be so overjoyed that hewould overdo it; and then she would tell him not to be so stupid, but toget on with his lessons. 

The cramped atmosphere of neglect in his aunt's house oppressed Phatikso much that he felt that he could hardly breathe. He wanted to go outinto the open country and fill his lungs and breathe freely. But therewas no open country to go to. Surrounded on all sides by Calcutta housesand walls, he would dream night after night of his village home, andlong to be back there. He remembered the glorious meadow where he usedto fly his kite all day long; the broad river-banks where he would wanderabout the livelong day singing and shouting for joy; the narrow brookwhere he could go and dive and swim at any time he liked. He thought ofhis band of boy companions over whom he was despot; and, above all, thememory of that tyrant mother of his, who had such a prejudice againsthim, occupied him day and night. A kind of physical love like that ofanimals; a longing to be in the presence of the one who is loved; aninexpressible wistfulness during absence; a silent cry of the inmostheart for the mother, like the lowing of a calf in the twilight;-thislove, which was almost an animal instinct, agitated the shy, nervous, lean, uncouth and ugly boy. No one could understand it, but it preyedupon his mind continually. 

There was no more backward boy in the whole school than Phatik. He gapedand remained silent when the teacher asked him a question, and like anoverladen ass patiently suffered all the blows that came down on hisback. When other boys were out at play, he stood wistfully by the windowand gazed at the roofs of the distant houses. And if by chance he espiedchildren playing on the open terrace of any roof, his heart would achewith longing. 

One day he summoned up all his courage, and asked his uncle: "Uncle, when can I go home?"

His uncle answered; "Wait till the holidays come. " But the holidays wouldnot come till November, and there was a long time still to wait. 

One day Phatik lost his lesson-book. Even with the help of books hehad found it very difficult indeed to prepare his lesson. Now it wasimpossible. Day after day the teacher would cane him unmercifully. His condition became so abjectly miserable that even his cousins wereashamed to own him. They began to jeer and insult him more than theother boys. He went to his aunt at last, and told her that he had losthis book. 

His aunt pursed her lips in contempt, and said: "You great clumsy, country lout. How can I afford, with all my family, to buy you new booksfive times a month?"

That night, on his way back from school, Phatik had a bad headache witha fit of shivering. He felt he was going to have an attack of malarialfever. His one great fear was that he would be a nuisance to his aunt. 

The next morning Phatik was nowhere to be seen. All searches in theneighbourhood proved futile. The rain had been pouring in torrents allnight, and those who went out in search of the boy got drenched throughto the skin. At last Bisbamber asked help from the police. 

At the end of the day a police van stopped at the door before the house. It was still raining and the streets were all flooded. Two constablesbrought out Phatik in their arms and placed him before Bishamber. He waswet through from head to foot, muddy all over, his face and eyes flushedred with fever, and his limbs all trembling. Bishamber carried him inhis arms, and took him into the inner apartments. When his wife saw him, she exclaimed; "What a heap of trouble this boy has given us. Hadn't youbetter send him home?"

Phatik heard her words, and sobbed out loud: "Uncle, I was just goinghome; but they dragged me back again. "

The fever rose very high, and all that night the boy was delirious. Bishamber brought in a doctor. Phatik opened his eyes flushed withfever, and looked up to the ceiling, and said vacantly: "Uncle, have theholidays come yet? May I go home?"

Bishamber wiped the tears from his own eyes, and took Phatik's leanand burning hands in his own, and sat by him through the night. The boybegan again to mutter. At last his voice became excited: "Mother, " hecried, "don't beat me like that! Mother! I am telling the truth!"

The next day Phatik became conscious for a short time. He turned hiseyes about the room, as if expecting some one to come. At last, with anair of disappointment, his head sank back on the pillow. He turned hisface to the wall with a deep sigh. 

Bishamber knew his thoughts, and, bending down his head, whispered:"Phatik, I have sent for your mother. " The day went by. The doctor saidin a troubled voice that the boy's condition was very critical. 

Phatik began to cry out; "By the mark!--three fathoms. By the mark--fourfathoms. By the mark-. " He had heard the sailor on the river-steamercalling out the mark on the plumb-line. Now he was himself plumbing anunfathomable sea. 

Later in the day Phatik's mother burst into the room like a whirlwind, and began to toss from side to side and moan and cry in a loud voice. 

Bishamber tried to calm her agitation, but she flung herself on the bed, and cried: "Phatik, my darling, my darling. "

Phatik stopped his restless movements for a moment. His hands ceasedbeating up and down. He said: "Eh?"

The mother cried again: "Phatik, my darling, my darling. "

Phatik very slowly turned his head and, without seeing anybody, said:"Mother, the holidays have come. "

MY LORD, THE BABY

I

Raicharan was twelve years old when he came as a servant to his master'shouse. He belonged to the same caste as his master, and was given hismaster's little son to nurse. As time went on the boy left Raicharan'sarms to go to school. From school he went on to college, and aftercollege he entered the judicial service. Always, until he married, Raicharan was his sole attendant. 

But, when a mistress came into the house, Raicharan found two mastersinstead of one. All his former influence passed to the new mistress. This was compensated for by a fresh arrival. Anukul had a son born tohim, and Raicharan by his unsparing attentions soon got a completehold over the child. He used to toss him up in his arms, call to him inabsurd baby language, put his face close to the baby's and draw it awayagain with a grin. 

Presently the child was able to crawl and cross the doorway. WhenRaicharan went to catch him, he would scream with mischievous laughterand make for safety. Raicharan was amazed at the profound skill andexact judgment the baby showed when pursued. He would say to hismistress with a look of awe and mystery: "Your son will be a judge someday. "

New wonders came in their turn. When the baby began to toddle, that wasto Raicharan an epoch in human history. When he called his father Ba-baand his mother Ma-ma and Raicharan Chan-na, then Raicharan's ecstasyknew no bounds. He went out to tell the news to all the world. 

After a while Raicharan was asked to show his ingenuity in other ways. He had, for instance, to play the part of a horse, holding the reinsbetween his teeth and prancing with his feet. He had also to wrestlewith his little charge, and if he could not, by a wrestler's trick, fallon his back defeated at the end, a great outcry was certain. 

About this time Anukul was transferred to a district on the banks of thePadma. On his way through Calcutta he bought his son a little go-cart. He bought him also a yellow satin waistcoat, a gold-laced cap, and somegold bracelets and anklets. Raicharan was wont to take these out, andput them on his little charge with ceremonial pride, whenever they wentfor a walk. 

Then came the rainy season, and day after day the rain poured down intorrents. The hungry river, like an enormous serpent, swallowed downterraces, villages, cornfields, and covered with its flood the tallgrasses and wild casuarinas on the sand-banks. From time to time therewas a deep thud, as the river-banks crumbled. The unceasing roar ofthe rain current could be beard from far away. Masses of foam, carriedswiftly past, proved to the eye the swiftness of the stream. 

One afternoon the rain cleared. It was cloudy, but cool and bright. Raicharan's little despot did not want to stay in on such a fineafternoon. His lordship climbed into the go-cart. Raicharan, between theshafts, dragged him slowly along till he reached the rice-fields on thebanks of the river. There was no one in the fields, and no boat on thestream. Across the water, on the farther side, the clouds were rifted inthe west. The silent ceremonial of the setting sun was revealed in allits glowing splendour. In the midst of that stillness the child, all ofa sudden, pointed with his finger in front of him and cried: "Chan-nalPitty fow. "

Close by on a mud-flat stood a large Kadamba tree in full flower. Mylord, the baby, looked at it with greedy eyes, and Raicharan knew hismeaning. Only a short time before he had made, out of these veryflower balls, a small go-cart; and the child had been so entirely happydragging it about with a string, that for the whole day Raicharan wasnot made to put on the reins at all. He was promoted from a horse into agroom. 

But Raicharan had no wish that evening to go splashing knee-deep throughthe mud to reach the flowers. So he quickly pointed his finger in theopposite direction, calling out: "Oh, look, baby, look! Look at thebird. " And with all sorts of curious noises he pushed the go-cartrapidly away from the tree. 

But a child, destined to be a judge, cannot be put off so easily. Andbesides, there was at the time nothing to attract his eyes. And youcannot keep up for ever the pretence of an imaginary bird. 

The little Master's mind was made up, and Raicharan was at his wits'end. "Very well, baby, " he said at last, "you sit still in the cart, andI'll go and get you the pretty flower. Only mind you don't go near thewater. "

As he said this, he made his legs bare to the knee, and waded throughthe oozing mud towards the tree. 

The moment Raicharan had gone, his little Master went off at racingspeed to the forbidden water. The baby saw the river rushing by, splashing and gurgling as it went. It seemed as though the disobedientwavelets themselves were running away from some greater Raicharan withthe laughter of a thousand children. At the sight of their mischief, the heart of the human child grew excited and restless. He got downstealthily from the go-cart and toddled off towards the river. On hisway he picked up a small stick, and leant over the bank of the streampretending to fish. The mischievous fairies of the river with theirmysterious voices seemed inviting him into their play-house. 

Raicharan had plucked a handful of flowers from the tree, and wascarrying them back in the end of his cloth, with his face wreathed insmiles. But when he reached the go-cart, there was no one there. Helooked on all sides and there was no one there. He looked back at thecart and there was no one there. 

In that first terrible moment his blood froze within him. Before hiseyes the whole universe swam round like a dark mist. From the depthof his broken heart he gave one piercing cry; "Master, Master, littleMaster. "

But no voice answered "Chan-na. " No child laughed mischievously back; noscream of baby delight welcomed his return. Only the river ran on, withits splashing, gurgling noise as before, --as though it knew nothing atall, and had no time to attend to such a tiny human event as the deathof a child. 

As the evening passed by Raicharan's mistress became very anxious. Shesent men out on all sides to search. They went with lanterns in theirhands, and reached at last the banks of the Padma. There they foundRaicharan rushing up and down the fields, like a stormy wind, shoutingthe cry of despair: "Master, Master, little Master!"

When they got Raicharan home at last, he fell prostrate at hismistress's feet. They shook him, and questioned him, and asked himrepeatedly where he had left the child; but all he could say was, thathe knew nothing. 

Though every one held the opinion that the Padma had swallowed thechild, there was a lurking doubt left in the mind. For a band of gipsieshad been noticed outside the village that afternoon, and some suspicionrested on them. The mother went so far in her wild grief as to thinkit possible that Raicharan himself had stolen the child. She called himaside with piteous entreaty and said: "Raicharan, give me back my baby. Oh! give me back my child. Take from me any money you ask, but give meback my child!"

Raicharan only beat his forehead in reply. His mistress ordered him outof the house. 

Artukul tried to reason his wife out of this wholly unjust suspicion:"Why on earth, " he said, "should he commit such a crime as that?"

The mother only replied: "The baby had gold ornaments on his body. Whoknows?"

It was impossible to reason with her after that. 

II

Raicharan went back to his own village. Up to this time he had had noson, and there was no hope that any child would now be born to him. Butit came about before the end of a year that his wife gave birth to a sonand died. 

All overwhelming resentment at first grew up in Raicharan's heart at thesight of this new baby. At the back of his mind was resentful suspicionthat it had come as a usurper in place of the little Master. He alsothought it would be a grave offence to be happy with a son of his ownafter what had happened to his master's little child. Indeed, if it hadnot been for a widowed sister, who mothered the new baby, it would nothave lived long. 

But a change gradually came over Raicharan's mind. A wonderful thinghappened. This new baby in turn began to crawl about, and cross thedoorway with mischief in its face. It also showed an amusing clevernessin making its escape to safety. Its voice, its sounds of laughter andtears, its gestures, were those of the little Master. On some days, when Raicharan listened to its crying, his heart suddenly began thumpingwildly against his ribs, and it seemed to him that his former littleMaster was crying somewhere in the unknown land of death because he hadlost his Chan-na. 

Phailna (for that was the name Raicharan's sister gave to the new baby)soon began to talk. It learnt to say Ba-ba and Ma-ma with a baby accent. When Raicharan heard those familiar sounds the mystery suddenly becameclear. The little Master could not cast off the spell of his Chan-na, and therefore he had been reborn in his own house. 

The arguments in favour of this were, to Raicharan, altogether beyonddispute:

(i. ) The new baby was born soon after his little master's death. 

(ii. ) His wife could never have accumulated such merit as to give birthto a son in middle age. 

(iii. ) The new baby walked with a toddle and called out Ba-ba and Ma-ma. There was no sign lacking which marked out the future judge. 

Then suddenly Raicharan remembered that terrible accusation of themother. "Ah, " he said to himself with amazement, "the mother's heart wasright. She knew I had stolen her child. " When once he had come to thisconclusion, he was filled with remorse for his past neglect. He now gavehimself over, body and soul, to the new baby, and became its devotedattendant. He began to bring it up, as if it were the son of a rich man. He bought a go-cart, a yellow satin waistcoat, and a gold-embroideredcap. He melted down the ornaments of his dead wife, and made goldbangles and anklets. He refused to let the little child play with anyone of the neighbourhood, and became himself its sole companion day andnight. As the baby grew up to boyhood, he was so petted and spoiltand clad in such finery that the village children would call him "YourLordship, " and jeer at him; and older people regarded Raicharan asunaccountably crazy about the child. 

At last the time came for the boy to go to school. Raicharan sold hissmall piece of land, and went to Calcutta. There he got employment withgreat difficulty as a servant, and sent Phailna to school. He spared nopains to give him the best education, the best clothes, the best food. Meanwhile he lived himself on a mere handful of rice, and would say insecret: "Ah! my little Master, my dear little Master, you loved me somuch that you came back to my house. You shall never suffer from anyneglect of mine. "

Twelve years passed away in this manner. The boy was able to read andwrite well. He was bright and healthy and good-looking. He paid a greatdeal of attention to his personal appearance, and was specially carefulin parting his hair. He was inclined to extravagance and finery, andspent money freely. He could never quite look on Raicharan as a father, because, though fatherly in affection, he had the manner of a servant. A further fault was this, that Raicharan kept secret from every one thathimself was the father of the child. 

The students of the hostel, where Phailna was a boarder, were greatlyamused by Raicharan's country manners, and I have to confess that behindhis father's back Phailna joined in their fun. But, in the bottom oftheir hearts, all the students loved the innocent and tender-hearted oldman, and Phailna was very fond of him also. But, as I have said before, he loved him with a kind of condescension. 

Raicharan grew older and older, and his employer was continually findingfault with him for his incompetent work. He had been starving himselffor the boy's sake. So he had grown physically weak, and no longer up tohis work. He would forget things, and his mind became dull and stupid. But his employer expected a full servant's work out of him, and wouldnot brook excuses. The money that Raicharan had brought with him fromthe sale of his land was exhausted. The boy was continually grumblingabout his clothes, and asking for more money. 

Raicharan made up his mind. He gave up the situation where he wasworking as a servant, and left some money with Phailna and said: "I havesome business to do at home in my village, and shall be back soon. "

He went off at once to Baraset where Anukul was magistrate. Anukul'swife was still broken down with grief. She had had no other child. 

One day Anukul was resting after a long and weary day in court. His wifewas buying, at an exorbitant price, a herb from a mendicant quack, whichwas said to ensure the birth of a child. A voice of greeting washeard in the courtyard. Anukul went out to see who was there. It wasRaicharan. Anukul's heart was softened when he saw his old servant. Heasked him many questions, and offered to take him back into service. 

Raicharan smiled faintly, and said in reply; "I want to make obeisanceto my mistress. "

Anukul went with Raicharan into the house, where the mistress did notreceive him as warmly as his old master. Raicharan took no notice ofthis, but folded his hands, and said: "It was not the Padma that stoleyour baby. It was I. "

Anukul exclaimed: "Great God! Eh! What! Where is he?" Raicharan replied:"He is with me, I will bring him the day after to-morrow. "

It was Sunday. There was no magistrate's court sitting. Both husband andwife were looking expectantly along the road, waiting from early morningfor Raicharan's appearance. At ten o'clock he came, leading Phailna bythe hand. 

Anukul's wife, without a question, took the boy into her lap, and waswild with excitement, sometimes laughing, sometimes weeping, touchinghim, kissing his hair and his forehead, and gazing into his face withhungry, eager eyes. The boy was very good-looking and dressed like agentleman's son. The heart of Anukul brimmed over with a sudden rush ofaffection. 

Nevertheless the magistrate in him asked: "Have you any proofs?"Raicharan said: "How could there be any proof of such a deed? God aloneknows that I stole your boy, and no one else in the world. "

When Anukul saw how eagerly his wife was clinging to the boy, herealised the futility of asking for proofs. It would be wiser tobelieve. And then--where could an old man like Raicharan get such a boyfrom? And why should his faithful servant deceive him for nothing?

"But, " he added severely, "Raicharan, you must not stay here. "

"Where shall I go, Master?" said Raicharan, in a choking voice, foldinghis hands; "I am old. Who will take in an old man as a servant?"

The mistress said: "Let him stay. My child will be pleased. I forgivehim. "

But Anukul's magisterial conscience would not allow him. "No, " he said, "he cannot be forgiven for what he has done. "

Raicharan bowed to the ground, and clasped Anukul's feet. "Master, " hecried, "let me stay. It was not I who did it. It was God. "

Anukul's conscience was worse stricken than ever, when Raicharan triedto put the blame on God's shoulders. 

"No, " he said, "I could not allow it. I cannot trust you any more. Youhave done an act of treachery. "

Raicharan rose to his feet and said: "It was not I who did it. "

"Who was it then?" asked Anukul. 

Raicharan replied: "It was my fate. "

But no educated man could take this for an excuse. Anukul remainedobdurate. 

When Phailna saw that he was the wealthy magistrate's son, and notRaicharan's, he was angry at first, thinking that he had been cheatedall this time of his birthright. But seeing Raicharan in distress, hegenerously said to his father: "Father, forgive him. Even if you don'tlet him live with us, let him have a small monthly pension. "

After hearing this, Raicharan did not utter another word. He lookedfor the last time on the face of his son; he made obeisance to hisold master and mistress. Then he went out, and was mingled with thenumberless people of the world. 

At the end of the month Anukul sent him some money to his village. Butthe money came back. There was no one there of the name of Raicharan. 

THE KINGDOM OF CARDS

I

Once upon a time there was a lonely island in a distant sea where livedthe Kings and Queens, the Aces and the Knaves, in the Kingdom of Cards. The Tens and Nines, with the Twos and Threes, and all the other members, had long ago settled there also. But these were not twice-born people, like the famous Court Cards. 

The Ace, the King, and the Knave were the three highest castes. Thefourth Caste was made up of a mixture of the lower Cards. The Twos andThrees were lowest of all. These inferior Cards were never allowed tosit in the same row with the great Court Cards. 

Wonderful indeed were the regulations and rules of that island kingdom. The particular rank of each individual had been settled from timeimmemorial. Every one had his own appointed work, and never did anythingelse. An unseen hand appeared to be directing them wherever theywent, --according to the Rules. 

No one in the Kingdom of Cards had any occasion to think: no one had anyneed to come to any decision: no one was ever required to debate anynew subject. The citizens all moved along in a listless groove withoutspeech. When they fell, they made no noise. They lay down on theirbacks, and gazed upward at the sky with each prim feature firmly fixedfor ever. 

There was a remarkable stillness in the Kingdom of Cards. Satisfactionand contentment were complete in all their rounded wholeness. Therewas never any uproar or violence. There was never any excitement orenthusiasm. 

The great ocean, crooning its lullaby with one unceasing melody, lappedthe island to sleep with a thousand soft touches of its wave's whitehands. The vast sky, like the outspread azure wings of the broodingmother-bird, nestled the island round with its downy plume. For on thedistant horizon a deep blue line betokened another shore. But no soundof quarrel or strife could reach the Island of Cards, to break its calmrepose. 

II

In that far-off foreign land across the sea, there lived a young Princewhose mother was a sorrowing queen. This queen had fallen from favour, and was living with her only son on the seashore. The Prince passed hischildhood alone and forlorn, sitting by his forlorn mother, weaving thenet of his big desires. He longed to go in search of the Flying Horse, the Jewel in the Cobra's hood, the Rose of Heaven, the Magic Roads, orto find where the Princess Beauty was sleeping in the Ogre's castle overthe thirteen rivers and across the seven seas. 

From the Son of the Merchant at school the young Prince learnt thestories of foreign kingdoms. From the Son of the Kotwal he learnt theadventures of the Two Genii of the Lamp. And when the rain came beatingdown, and the clouds covered the sky, he would sit on the thresholdfacing the sea, and say to his sorrowing mother: "Tell me, mother, astory of some very far-off land. "

And his mother would tell him an endless tale she had heard in herchildhood of a wonderful country beyond the sea where dwelt the PrincessBeauty. And the heart of the young Prince would become sick withlonging, as he sat on the threshold, looking out on the ocean, listeningto his mother's wonderful story, while the rain outside came beatingdown and the grey clouds covered the sky. 

One day the Son of the Merchant came to the Prince, and said boldly:"Comrade, my studies are over. I am now setting out on my travels toseek my fortunes on the sea. I have come to bid you good-bye. "

The Prince said; "I will go with you. "

And the Son of Kotwal said also: "Comrades, trusty and true, you willnot leave me behind. I also will be your companion. "

Then the young Prince said to his sorrowing mother; "Mother, I am nowsetting out on my travels to seek my fortune. When I come back oncemore, I shall surely have found some way to remove all your sorrow. "

So the Three Companions set out on their travels together. In theharbour were anchored the twelve ships of the merchant, and the ThreeCompanions got on board. The south wind was blowing, and the twelveships sailed away, as fast as the desires which rose in the Prince'sbreast. 

At the Conch Shell Island they filled one ship with conchs. At theSandal Wood Island they filled a second ship with sandal-wood, and atthe Coral Island they filled a third ship with coral. 

Four years passed away, and they filled four more ships, one with ivory, one with musk, one with cloves, and one with nutmegs. 

But when these ships were all loaded a terrible tempest arose. The shipswere all of them sunk, with their cloves and nutmeg, and musk andivory, and coral and sandal-wood and conchs. But the ship with the ThreeCompanions struck on an island reef, buried them safe ashore, and itselfbroke in pieces. 

This was the famous Island of Cards, where lived the Ace and Kingand Queen and Knave, with the Nines and Tens and all the otherMembers--according to the Rules. 

III

Up till now there had been nothing to disturb that island stillness. Nonew thing had ever happened. No discussion had ever been held. 

And then, of a sudden, the Three Companions appeared, thrown up bythe sea, --and the Great Debate began. There were three main points ofdispute. 

First, to what caste should these unclassed strangers belong? Shouldthey rank with the Court Cards? Or were they merely lower-caste people, to be ranked with the Nines and Tens? No precedent could be quoted todecide this weighty question. 

Secondly, what was their clan? Had they the fairer hue and brightcomplexion of the Hearts, or was theirs the darker complexion of theClubs? Over this question there were interminable disputes. The wholemarriage system of the island, with its intricate regulations, woulddepend on its nice adjustment. 

Thirdly, what food should they take? With whom should they live andsleep? And should their heads be placed south-west, north-west, or onlynorth-east? In all the Kingdom of Cards a series of problems so vitaland critical had never been debated before. 

But the Three Companions grew desperately hungry. They had to getfood in some way or other. So while this debate went on, with itsinterminable silence and pauses, and while the Aces called their ownmeeting, and formed themselves into a Committee, to find some obsoletedealing with the question, the Three Companions themselves were eatingall they could find, and drinking out of every vessel, and breaking allregulations. 

Even the Twos and Threes were shocked at this outrageous behaviour. TheThrees said; "Brother Twos, these people are openly shameless!" Andthe Twos said: "Brother Threes, they are evidently of lower caste thanourselves!" After their meal was over, the Three Companions went for astroll in the city. 

When they saw the ponderous people moving in their dismal processionswith prim and solemn faces, then the Prince turned to the Son of theMerchant and the Son of the Kotwal, and threw back his head, and gaveone stupendous laugh. 

Down Royal Street and across Ace Square and along the Knave Embankmentran the quiver of this strange, unheard-of laughter, the laughter that, amazed at itself, expired in the vast vacuum of silence. 

The Son of the Kotwal and the Son of the Merchant were chilled throughto the bone by the ghost-like stillness around them. They turned to thePrince, and said: "Comrade, let us away. Let us not stop for a moment inthis awful land of ghosts. "

But the Prince said: "Comrades, these people resemble men, so I am goingto find out, by shaking them upside down and outside in, whether theyhave a single drop of warm living blood left in their veins. "

IV

The days passed one by one, and the placid existence of the Island wenton almost without a ripple. The Three Companions obeyed no rules norregulations. They never did anything correctly either in sitting orstanding or turning themselves round or lying on their back. On thecontrary, wherever they saw these things going on precisely and exactlyaccording to the Rules, they gave way to inordinate laughter. Theyremained unimpressed altogether by the eternal gravity of those eternalregulations. 

One day the great Court Cards came to the Son of the Kotwal and the Sonof the Merchant and the Prince. 

"Why, " they asked slowly, "are you not moving according to the Rules?"

The Three Companions answered: "Because that is our Ichcha (wish). "

The great Court Cards with hollow, cavernous voices, as if slowlyawakening from an age-long dream, said together: "Ich-cha! And pray whois Ich-cha?"

They could not understand who Ichcha was then, but the whole islandwas to understand it by-and-by. The first glimmer of light passed thethreshold of their minds when they found out, through watching theactions of the Prince, that they might move in a straight line in anopposite direction from the one in which they had always gone before. Then they made another startling discovery, that there was another sideto the Cards which they had never yet noticed with attention. This wasthe beginning of the change. 

Now that the change had begun, the Three Companions were able toinitiate them more and more deeply into the mysteries of Ichcha. TheCards gradually became aware that life was not bound by regulations. They began to feel a secret satisfaction in the kingly power of choosingfor themselves. 

But with this first impact of Ichcha the whole pack of cards began tototter slowly, and then tumble down to the ground. The scene was likethat of some huge python awaking from a long sleep, as it slowly unfoldsits numberless coils with a quiver that runs through its whole frame. 

V

Hitherto the Queens of Spades and Clubs and Diamonds and Hearts hadremained behind curtains with eyes that gazed vacantly into space, orelse remained fixed upon the ground. 

And now, all of a sudden, on an afternoon in spring the Queen of Heartsfrom the balcony raised her dark eyebrows for a moment, and cast asingle glance upon the Prince from the corner of her eye. 

"Great God, " cried the Prince, "I thought they were all painted images. But I am wrong. They are women after all. "

Then the young Prince called to his side his two Companions, and saidin a meditative voice; "My comrades! There is a charm about these ladiesthat I never noticed before. When I saw that glance of the Queen's dark, luminous eyes, brightening with new emotion, it seemed to me like thefirst faint streak of dawn in a newly created world. "

The two Companions smiled a knowing smile, and said: "Is that really so, Prince?"

And the poor Queen of Hearts from that day went from bad to worse. She began to forget all rules in a truly scandalous manner. If, forinstance, her place in the row was beside the Knave, she suddenly foundherself quite accidentally standing beside the Prince instead. At this, the Knave, with motionless face and solemn voice, would say: "Queen, youhave made a mistake. "

And the poor Queen of Hearts' red cheeks would get redder than ever. Butthe Prince would come gallantly to her rescue and say: "No! There is nomistake. From to-day I am going to be Knave!"

Now it came to pass that, while every one was trying to correct theimproprieties of the guilty Queen of Hearts, they began to make mistakesthemselves. The Aces found themselves elbowed out by the Kings. TheKings got muddled up with the Knaves. The Nines and Tens assumed airs asthough they belonged to the Great Court Cards. The Twos and Threes werefound secretly taking the places specially resented for the Fours andFives. Confusion had never been so confounded before. 

Many spring seasons had come and gone in that Island of Cards. TheKokil, the bird of Spring, had sung its song year after year. But it hadnever stirred the blood as it stirred it now. In days gone by the seahad sung its tireless melody. But, then, it had proclaimed only theinflexible monotony of the Rule. And suddenly its waves were telling, through all their flashing light and luminous shade and myriad voices, the deepest yearnings of the heart of love!

VI

Where are vanished now their prim, round, regular, complacent features?Here is a face full of love-sick longing. Here is a heart heating wildwith regrets. Here is a mind racked sore with doubts. Music and sighing, and smiles and tears, are filling the air. Life is throbbing; hearts arebreaking; passions are kindling. 

Every one is now thinking of his own appearance, and comparing himselfwith others. The Ace of Clubs is musing to himself, that the King ofSpades may be just passably good-looking. "But, " says he, "when I walkdown the street you have only to see how people's eyes turn towards me. "The King of Spades is saying; "Why on earth is that Ace of Clubs alwaysstraining his neck and strutting about like a peacock? He imagines allthe Queens are dying of love for him, while the real fact is--" Here hepauses, and examines his face in the glass. 

But the Queens were the worst of all. They began to spend all their timein dressing themselves up to the Nines. And the Nines would become theirhopeless and abject slaves. But their cutting remarks about one anotherwere more shocking still. 

So the young men would sit listless on the leaves under the trees, lolling with outstretched limbs in the forest shade. And the youngmaidens, dressed in pale-blue robes, would come walking accidentally tothe same shade of the same forest by the same trees, and turn their eyesas though they saw no one there, and look as though they came out to seenothing at all. And then one young man more forward than the rest ina fit of madness would dare to go near to a maiden in blue. But, as hedrew near, speech would forsake him. He would stand there tongue-tiedand foolish, and the favourable moment would pass. 

The Kokil birds were singing in the boughs overhead. The mischievousSouth wind was blowing; it disarrayed the hair, it whispered in theear, and stirred the music in the blood. The leaves of the trees weremurmuring with rustling delight. And the ceaseless sound of the oceanmade all the mute longings of the heart of man and maid surge backwardsand forwards on the full springtide of love. 

The Three Companions had brought into the dried-up channels of theKingdom of Cards the full flood-tide of a new life. 

VII

And, though the tide was full, there-was a pause as though the risingwaters would not break into foam but remain suspended for ever. Therewere no outspoken words, only a cautious going forward one step andreceding two. All seemed busy heaping up their unfulfilled desireslike castles in the air, or fortresses of sand. They were pale andspeechless, their eyes were burning, their lips trembling with unspokensecrets. 

The Prince saw what was wrong. He summoned every one on the Island andsaid: "Bring hither the flutes and the cymbals, the pipes and drums. Let all be played together, and raise loud shouts of rejoicing. For theQueen of Hearts this very night is going to choose her Mate!"

So the Tens and Nines began to blow on their flutes and pipes; theEights and Sevens played on their sackbuts and viols; and even the Twosand Threes began to beat madly on their drums. 

When this tumultous gust of music came, it swept away at one blast allthose sighings and mopings. And then what a torrent of laughter andwords poured forth! There were daring proposals and locking refusals, and gossip and chatter, and jests and merriment. It was like the swayingand shaking, and rustling and soughing, in a summer gale, of a millionleaves and branches in the depth of the primeval forest. 

But the Queen of Hearts, in a rose-red robe, sat silent in the shadowof her secret bower, and listened to the great uproarious sound of musicand mirth, that came floating towards her. She shut her eyes, and dreamther dream of lore. And when she opened them she found the Prince seatedon the ground before her gazing up at her face. And she covered her eyeswith both hands, and shrank back quivering with an inward tumult of joy. 

And the Prince passed the whole day alone, walking by the side of thesurging sea. He carried in his mind that startled look, that shrinkinggesture of the Queen, and his heart beat high with hope. 

That night the serried, gaily-dressed ranks of young men and maidenswaited with smiling faces at the Palace Gates. The Palace Hall waslighted with fairy lamps and festooned with the flowers of spring. Slowly the Queen of Hearts entered, and the whole assembly rose to greether. With a jasmine garland in her hand, she stood before the Princewith downcast eyes. In her lowly bashfulness she could hardly raise thegarland to the neck of the Mate she had chosen. But the Prince bowed hishead, and the garland slipped to its place. The assembly of youths andmaidens had waited her choice with eager, expectant hush. And whenthe choice was made, the whole vast concourse rocked and swayed with atumult of wild delight. And the sound of their shouts was heard in everypart of the island, and by ships far out at sea. Never had such a shoutbeen raised in the Kingdom of Cards before. 

And they carried the Prince and his Bride, and seated them on thethrone, and crowned them then and there in the Ancient Island of Cards. 

And the sorrowing Mother Queen, on the 'far-off island shore on theother side of the sea, came sailing to her son's new kingdom in a shipadorned with gold. 

And the citizens are no longer regulated according to the Rules, but aregood or bad, or both, according to their Ichcha. 

THE DEVOTEE

At a time, when my unpopularity with a part of my readers had reachedthe nadir of its glory, and my name had become the central orb of thejournals, to be attended through space with a perpetual rotation ofrevilement, I felt the necessity to retire to some quiet place andendeavour to forget my own existence. 

I have a house in the country some miles away from Calcutta, where Ican remain unknown and unmolested. The villagers there have not, as yet, come to any conclusion about me. They know I am no mere holiday-maker orpleasure-seeker; for I never outrage the silence of the village nightswith the riotous noises of the city. Nor do they regard me as ascetic, because the little acquaintance they have of me carries the savour ofcomfort about it. I am not, to them, a traveller; for, though I am avagabond by nature, my wandering through the village fields is aimless. They are hardly even quite certain whether I am married or single; forthey have never seen me with my children. So, not being able to classifyme in any animal or vegetable kingdom that they know, they have longsince given me up and left me stolidly alone. 

But quite lately I have come to know that there is one person in thevillage who is deeply interested in me. Our acquaintance began on asultry afternoon in July. There had been rain all the morning, and theair was still wet and heavy with mist, like eyelids when weeping isover. 

I sat lazily watching a dappled cow grazing on the high bank of theriver. The afternoon sun was playing on her glossy hide. The simplebeauty of this dress of light made me wonder idly at man's deliberatewaste of money in setting up tailors' shops to deprive his own skin ofits natural clothing. 

While I was thus watching and lazily musing, a woman of middle age cameand prostrated herself before me, touching the ground with her forehead. She carried in her robe some bunches of flowers, one of which sheoffered to me with folded hands. She said to me, as she offered it:"This is an offering to my God. "

She went away. I was so taken aback as she uttered these words, thatI could hardly catch a glimpse of her before she was gone. The wholeincident was entirely simple, but it left a deep impression on my mind;and as I turned back once more to look at the cattle in the field, the zest of life in the cow, who was munching the lush grass with deepbreaths, while she whisked off the flies, appeared to me fraught withmystery. My readers may laugh at my foolishness, but my heart was fullof adoration. I offered my worship to the pure joy of living, which isGod's own life. Then, plucking a tender shoot from the mango tree, Ifed the cow with it from my own hand, and as I did this I had thesatisfaction of having pleased my God. 

The next year when I returned to the village it was February. The coldseason still lingered on. The morning sun came into my room, and I wasgrateful for its warmth. I was writing, when the servant came to tell methat a devotee, of the Vishnu cult, wanted to see me. I told him, inan absent way, to bring her upstairs, and went on with my writing. TheDevotee came in, and bowed to me, touching my feet. I found that she wasthe same woman whom I had met, for a brief moment, a year ago. 

I was able now to examine her more closely. She was past that age whenone asks the question whether a woman is beautiful or not. Her staturewas above the ordinary height, and she was strongly built; but her bodywas slightly bent owing to her constant attitude of veneration. Hermanner had nothing shrinking about it. The most remarkable of herfeatures were her two eyes. They seemed to have a penetrating powerwhich could make distance near. 

With those two large eyes of hers, she seemed to push me as she entered. 

"What is this?" she asked. "Why have you brought me here before yourthrone, my God? I used to see you among the trees; and that was muchbetter. That was the true place to meet you. "

She must have seen me walking in the garden without my seeing her. Forthe last few clays, however, I had suffered from a cold, and had beenprevented from going out. I had, perforce, to stay indoors and pay myhomage to the evening sky from my terrace. After a silent pause theDevotee said to me: "O my God, give me some words of good. "

I was quite unprepared for this abrupt request, and answered her on thespur of the moment: "Good words I neither give nor receive. I simplyopen my eyes and keep silence, and then I can at once both hear and see, even when no sound is uttered. Now, while I am looking at you, it is asgood as listening to your voice. "

The Devotee became quite excited as I spoke, and exclaimed: "God speaksto me, not only with His mouth, but with His whole body. "

I said to her: "When I am silent I can listen with my whole body. I havecome away from Calcutta here to listen to that sound. "

The Devotee said: "Yes, I know that, and therefore I have come here tosit by you. "

Before taking her leave, she again bowed to me, and touched my feet. I could see that she was distressed, because my feet were covered. Shewished them to be bare. 

Early next morning I came out, and sat on my terrace on the roof. Beyondthe line of trees southward I could see the open country chill anddesolate. I could watch the sun rising over the sugar-cane in the East, beyond the clump of trees at the side of the village. Out of the deepshadow of those dark trees the village road suddenly appeared. Itstretched forward, winding its way to some distant villages on thehorizon, till it was lost in the grey of the mist. 

That morning it was difficult to say whether the sun had risen or not. Awhite fog was still clinging to the tops of the trees. I saw the Devoteewalking through the blurred dawn, like a mist-wraith of the morningtwilight. She was singing her chant to God, and sounding her cymbals. 

The thick haze lifted at last; and the sun, like the kindly grandsire ofthe village, took his seat amid all the work that was going on in homeand field. 

When I had just settled down at my writing-table, to appease the hungryappetite of my editor in Calcutta, there came a sound of footsteps onthe stair, and the Devotee, humming a tune to herself, entered, andbowed before me. I lifted my head from my papers. 

She said to me: "My God, yesterday I took as sacred food what was leftover from your meal. "

I was startled, and asked her how she could do that. 

"Oh, " she said, "I waited at your door in the evening, while you were atdinner, and took some food from your plate when it was carried out. "

This was a surprise to me, for every one in the village knew that I hadbeen to Europe, and had eaten with Europeans. I was a vegetarian, nodoubt, but the sanctity of my cook would not bear investigation, and theorthodox regarded my food as polluted. 

The Devotee, noticing my sign of surprise, said: "My God, why should Icome to you at all, if I could not take your food?"

I asked her what her own caste people would say. She told me she hadalready spread the news far and wide all over the village. The castepeople had shaken their heads, but agreed that she must go her own way. 

I found out that the Devotee came from a good family in the country, andthat her mother was well to-do, and desired to keep her daughter. Butshe preferred to be a mendicant. I asked her how she made her living. She told me that her followers had given her a piece of land, and thatshe begged her food from door to door. She said to me: "The food which Iget by begging is divine. "

After I had thought over what she said, I understood her meaning. Whenwe get our food precariously as alms, we remember God the giver. Butwhen we receive our food regularly at home, as a matter of course, weare apt to regard it as ours by right. 

I had a great desire to ask her about her husband. But as she nevermentioned him even indirectly, I did not question her. 

I found out very soon that the Devotee had no respect at all for thatpart of the village where the people of the higher castes lived. 

"They never give, " she said, "a single farthing to God's service; andyet they have the largest share of God's glebe. But the poor worship andstarve. "

I asked her why she did not go and live among these godless people, and help them towards a better life. "That, " I said with some unction, "would be the highest form of divine worship. "

I had heard sermons of this kind from time to time, and I am rather fondof copying them myself for the public benefit, when the chance comes. 

But the Devotee was not at all impressed. She raised her big round eyes, and looked straight into mine, and said:

"You mean to say that because God is with the sinners, therefore whenyou do them any service you do it to God? Is that so?"

"Yes, " I replied, "that is my meaning. "

"Of course, " she answered almost impatiently, "of course, God is withthem: otherwise, how could they go on living at all? But what is that tome? My God is not there. My God cannot be worshipped among them; becauseI do not find Him there. I seek Him where I can find Him. "

As she spoke, she made obeisance to me. What she meant to say was reallythis. A mere doctrine of God's omnipresence does not help us. That Godis all-pervading, --this truth may be a mere intangible abstraction, andtherefore unreal to ourselves. Where I can see Him, there is His realityin my soul. 

I need not explain that all the while she showered her devotion on meshe did it to me not as an individual. I was simply a vehicle of herdivine worship. It was not for me either to receive it or to refuse it:for it was not mine, but God's. 

When the Devotee came again, she found me once more engaged with mybooks and papers. 

"What have you been doing, " she said, with evident vexation, "that myGod should make you undertake such drudgery? Whenever I come, I find youreading and writing. "

"God keeps his useless people busy, " I answered; "otherwise they wouldbe bound to get into mischief. They have to do all the least necessarythings in life. It keeps them out of trouble. "

The Devotee told me that she could not bear the encumbrances, withwhich, day by day, I was surrounded. If she wanted to see me, she wasnot allowed by the servants to come straight upstairs. If she wantedto touch my feet in worship, there were my socks always in the way. Andwhen she wanted to have a simple talk with me, she found my mind lost ina wilderness of letters. 

This time, before she left me, she folded her hands, and said: "My God!I felt your feet in my breast this morning. Oh, how cool! And they werebare, not covered. I held them upon my head for a long time in worship. That filled my very being. Then, after that, pray what was the use of mycoming to you yourself? Why did I come? My Lord, tell me truly, --wasn'tit a mere infatuation?"

There were some flowers in my vase on the table. While she was there, the gardener brought some new flowers to put in their place. The Devoteesaw him changing them. 

"Is that all?" she exclaimed. "Have you done with the flowers? Then givethem to me. "

She held the flowers tenderly in the cup of her hands, and began to gazeat them with bent head. After a few moments' silence she raised her headagain, and said to me: "You never look at these flowers; therefore theybecome stale to you. If you would only look into them, then your readingand writing would go to the winds. "

She tied the flowers together in the end of her robe, and placed them, in an attitude of worship, on the top of her head, saying reverently:"Let me carry my God with me. "

While she did this, I felt that flowers in our rooms do not receivetheir due meed of loving care at our hands. When we stick them in vases, they are more like a row of naughty schoolboys standing on a form to bepunished. 

The Devotee came again the same evening, and sat by my feet on theterrace of the roof. 

"I gave away those flowers, " she said, "as I went from house to housethis morning, singing God's name. Beni, the head man of our village, laughed at me for my devotion, and said: 'Why do you waste allthis devotion on Him? Don't you know He is reviled up and down thecountryside?' Is that true, my God? Is it true that they are hard uponyou?"

For a moment I shrank into myself. It was a shock to find that thestains of printers' ink could reach so far. 

The Devotee went on: "Beni imagined that he could blow out the flameof my devotion at one breath! But this is no mere tiny flame: it is aburning fire. Why do they abuse you, my God?"

I said: "Because I deserved it. I suppose in my greed I was loiteringabout to steal people's hearts in secret. "

The Devotee said: "Now you see for yourself how little their hearts areworth. They are full of poison, and this will cure you of your greed. "

"When a man, " I answered, "has greed in his heart, he is always onthe verge of being beaten. The greed itself supplies his enemies withpoison. "

"Our merciful God, " she replied, "beats us with His own hand, and drivesaway all the poison. He who endures God's beating to the end is saved. "

II. 

That evening the Devotee told me the story of her life. The stars ofevening rose and set behind the trees, as she went on to the end of hertale. 

"My husband is very simple. Some people think that he is a simpleton;but I know that those who understand simply, understand truly. Inbusiness and household management he was able to hold his own. Becausehis needs were small, and his wants few, he could manage carefullyon what we had. He would never meddle in other matters, nor try tounderstand them. 

"Both my husband's parents died before we had been married long, and wewere left alone. But my husband always needed some one to be over him. Iam ashamed to confess that he had a sort of reverence for me, and lookedupon me as his superior. But I am sure that he could understand thingsbetter than I, though I had greater powers of talking. 

"Of all the people in the world he held his Guru Thakur (spiritualmaster) in the highest veneration. Indeed it was not veneration merelybut love; and such love as his is rare. 

"Guru Thakur was younger than my husband. Oh! how beautiful he was!

"My husband had played games with him when he was a boy; and from thattime forward he had dedicated his heart and soul to this friend of hisearly days. Thakur knew how simple my husband was, and used to tease himmercilessly. 

"He and his comrades would play jokes upon him for their own amusement;but he would bear them all with longsuffering. 

"When I married into this family, Guru Thakur was studying at Benares. My husband used to pay all his expenses. I was eighteen years old whenhe returned home to our village. 

"At the age of fifteen I had my child. I was so young I did not knowhow to take care of him. I was fond of gossip, and liked to be with myvillage friends for hours together. I used to get quite cross withmy boy when I was compelled to stay at home and nurse him. Alas! mychild-God came into my life, but His playthings were not ready for Him. He came to the mother's heart, but the mother's heart lagged behind. Heleft me in anger; and ever since I have been searching for Him up anddown the world. 

"The boy was the joy of his father's life. My careless neglect used topain my husband. But his was a mute soul. He has never been able to giveexpression to his pain. 

"The wonderful thing was this, that in spite of my neglect the childused to love me more than any one else. He seemed to have the dread thatI would one day go away and leave him. So even when I was with him, hewould watch me with a restless look in his eyes. He had me very littleto himself, and therefore his desire to be with me was always painfullyeager. When I went each day to the river, he used to fret and stretchout his little arms to be taken with me. But the bathing ghal was myplace for meeting my friends, and I did not care to burden myself withthe child. 

"It was an early morning in August. Fold after fold of grey clouds hadwrapped the mid-day round with a wet clinging robe. I asked the maid totake care of the boy, while I went down to the river. The child criedafter me as I went away. 

"There was no one there at the bathing ghat when I arrived. As aswimmer, I was the best among all the village women. The river wasquite full with the rains. I swam out into the middle of the stream somedistance from the shore. 

"Then I heard a cry from the bank, 'Mother!' I turned my head and sawmy boy coming down the steps, calling me as he came. I shouted to himto stop, but he went on, laughing and calling. My feet and hands becamecramped with fear. I shut my eyes, afraid to see. When I openedthem, there, at the slippery stairs, my boy's ripple of laughter haddisappeared for ever. 

"I got back to the shore. I raised him from the water. I took him in myarms, my boy, my darling, who had begged so often in vain for me totake him. I took him now, but he no more looked in my eyes and called'Mother. '

"My child-God had come. I had ever neglected Him. I had ever made Himcry. And now all that neglect began to beat against my own heart, blowupon blow, blow upon blow. When my boy was with me, I had left himalone. I had refused to take him with me. And now, when he is dead, hismemory clings to me and never leaves me. 

"God alone knows all that my husband suffered. If he had only punishedme for my sin, it would have been better for us both. But he knew onlyhow to endure in silence, not how to speak. 

"When I was almost mad with grief, Guru Thakur came back. In earlierdays, the relation between him and my husband had been that of boyishfriendship. Now, my husband's reverence for his sanctity and learningwas unbounded. He could hardly speak in his presence, his awe of him wasso great. 

"My husband asked his Guru to try to give me some consolation. GuruThakur began to read and explain to me the scriptures. But I do notthink they had much effect on my mind. All their value for me lay in thevoice that uttered them. God makes the draught of divine life deepestin the heart for man to drink, through the human voice. He has no bettervessel in His hand than that; and He Himself drinks His divine draughtout of the same vessel. 

"My husband's love and veneration for his Guru filled our house, asincense fills a temple shrine. I showed that veneration, and had peace. I saw my God in the form of that Guru. He used to come to take his mealat our house every morning. The first thought that would come to my mindon waking from sleep was that of his food as a sacred gift from God. When I prepared the things for his meal, my fingers would sing for joy. 

"When my husband saw my devotion to his Guru, his respect for me greatlyincreased. He noticed his Guru's eager desire to explain the scripturesto me. He used to think that he could never expect to earn any regardfrom his Guru himself, on account of his stupidity; but his wife hadmade up for it. 

"Thus another five years went by happily, and my whole life would havepassed like that; but beneath the surface some stealing was going onsomewhere in secret. I could not detect it; but it was detected by theGod of my heart. Then came a day when, in a moment our whole life wasturned upside down. 

"It was a morning in midsummer. I was returning home from bathing, myclothes all wet, down a shady lane. At the bend of the road, under themango tree, I met my Guru Thakur. He had his towel on his shoulder andwas repeating some Sanskrit verses as he was going to take his bath. With my wet clothes clinging all about me I was ashamed to meet him. Itried to pass by quickly, and avoid being seen. He called me by my name. 

"I stopped, lowering my eyes, shrinking into myself. He fixed his gazeupon me, and said: 'How beautiful is your body!'

"All the universe of birds seemed to break into song in the branchesoverhead. All the bushes in the lane seemed ablaze with flowers. Itwas as though the earth and sky and everything had become a riot ofintoxicating joy. 

"I cannot tell how I got home. I only remember that I rushed into theroom where we worship God. But the room seemed empty. Only before myeyes those same gold spangles of light were dancing which had quiveredin front of me in that shady lane on my way back from the river. 

"Guru Thakur came to take his food that day, and asked my husband whereI had gone. He searched for me, but could not find me anywhere. 

"Ah! I have not the same earth now any longer. The same sunlight is notmine. I called on my God in my dismay, and He kept His face turned awayfrom me. 

"The day passed, I know not how. That night I had to meet my husband. But the night is dark and silent. It is the time when my husband's mindcomes out shining, like stars at twilight. I had heard him speak thingsin the dark, and I had been surprised to find how deeply he understood. 

"Sometimes I am late in the evening in going to rest on account ofhousehold work. My husband waits for me, seated on the floor, withoutgoing to bed. Our talk at such times had often begun with somethingabout our Guru. 

"That night, when it was past midnight, I came to my room, and found myhusband sleeping on the floor. Without disturbing him I lay down on theground at his feet, my head towards him. Once he stretched his feet, while sleeping, and struck me on the breast. That was his last bequest. 

"Next morning, when my husband woke up from his sleep, I was alreadysitting by him. Outside the window, over the thick foliage of thejack-fruit tree, appeared the first pale red of the dawn at the fringeof the night. It was so early that the crows had not yet begun to call. 

"I bowed, and touched my husband's feet with my forehead. He sat up, starting as if waking from a dream, and looked at my face in amazement. I said:

"'I have made up my mind. I must leave the world. I cannot belong toyou any longer. I must leave your home. '

"Perhaps my husband thought that he was still dreaming. He said not aword. 

"'Ah! do hear me!' I pleaded with infinite pain. 'Do hear me andunderstand! You must marry another wife. I must take my leave. '

"My husband said: 'What is all this wild, mad talk? Who advises you toleave the world?'

"I said: 'My Guru Thakur. '

"My husband looked bewildered. 'Guru Thakur!' he cried. 'When did hegive you this advice?'

"'In the morning, ' I answered, 'yesterday, when I met him on my way backfrom the river. '

"His voice trembled a little. He turned, and looked in my face, andasked me: 'Why did he give you such a behest?'

"'I do not know, ' I answered. 'Ask him! He will tell you himself, if hecan. '

"My husband said: 'It is possible to leave the world, even whencontinuing to live in it. You need not leave my home. I will speak to myGuru about it. '

"'Your Guru, ' I said, 'may accept your petition; but my heart willnever give its consent. I must leave your home. From henceforth, theworld is no more to me. '

"My husband remained silent, and we sat there on the floor in the dark. When it was light, he said to me: 'Let us both come to him. '

"I folded my hands and said: 'I shall never meet him again. '

"He looked into my face. I lowered my eyes. He said no more. I knewthat, somehow, he had seen into my mind, and understood what was there. In this world of mine, there were only two who loved me best--my boyand my husband. That love was my God, and therefore it could brook nofalsehood. One of these two left me, and I left the other. Now I musthave truth, and truth alone. "

She touched the ground at my feet, rose and bowed to me, and departed. 

VISION

I

When I was a very young wife, I gave birth to a dead child, and camenear to death myself. I recovered strength very slowly, and my eyesightbecame weaker and weaker. 

My husband at this time was studying medicine. He was not altogethersorry to have a chance of testing his medical knowledge on me. So hebegan to treat my eyes himself. 

My elder brother was reading for his law examination. One day he came tosee me, and was alarmed at my condition. 

"What are you doing?" he said to my husband. "You are ruining Kumo'seyes. You ought to consult a good doctor at once. "

My husband said irritably: "Why! what can a good doctor do more than Iam doing? The case is quite a simple one, and the remedies are all wellknown. "

Dada answered with scorn: "I suppose you think there is no differencebetween you and a Professor in your own Medical College. "

My husband replied angrily: "If you ever get married, and there is adispute about your wife's property, you won't take my advice about Law. Why, then, do you now come advising me about Medicine?"

While they were quarrelling, I was saying to myself that it was alwaysthe poor grass that suffered most when two kings went to war. Here was adispute going on between these two, and I had to bear the brunt of it. 

It also seemed to me very unfair that, when my family had given me inmarriage, they should interfere afterwards. After all, my pleasure andpain are my husband's concern, not theirs. 

From that day forward, merely over this trifling matter of my eyes, thebond between my husband and Dada was strained. 

To my surprise one afternoon, while my husband was away, Dada broughta doctor in to see me. He examined my eyes very carefully, and lookedgrave. He said that further neglect would be dangerous. He wrote out aprescription, and Dada for the medicine at once. When the strange doctorhad gone, I implored my Dada not to interfere. I was sure that only evilwould come from the stealthy visits of a doctor. 

I was surprised at myself for plucking up courage speak to my brotherlike that. I had always hitherto been afraid of him. I am sure also thatDada was surprised at my boldness. He kept silence for a while, and thensaid to me: "Very well, Kumo. I won't call in the doctor any more. Butwhen the medicine comes you must take it. "

Dada then went away. The medicine came from chemist. I took it--bottles, powders, prescriptions and all--and threw it down the well!

My husband had been irritated by Dada's interference, and he began totreat my eyes with greater diligence than ever. He tried all sorts ofremedies. I bandaged my eyes as he told me, I wore his coloured glasses, I put in his drops, I took all his powders. I even drank the cod-liveroil he gave me, though my gorge rose against it. 

Each time he came back from the hospital, he would ask me anxiously howI felt; and I would answer: "Oh! much better. " Indeed I became an expertin self-delusion. When I found that the water in my eyes was stillincreasing, I would console myself with the thought that it was a goodthing to get rid of so much bad fluid; and, when the flow of water in myeyes decreased, I was elated at my husband's skill. 

But after a while the agony became unbearable. My eyesight faded away, and I had continual headaches day and night. I saw how much alarmedmy husband was getting. I gathered from his manner that he was castingabout for a pretext to call in a doctor. So I hinted that it might be aswell to call one in. 

That he was greatly relieved, I could see. He called in an Englishdoctor that very day. I do not know what talk they had together, but Igathered that the Sahib had spoken very sharply to my husband. 

He remained silent for some time after the doctor had gone. I tookhis hands in mine, and said: "What an ill-mannered brute that was! Whydidn't you call in an Indian doctor? That would have been much better. Do you think that man knows better than you do about my eyes?"

My husband was very silent for a moment, and then said with a brokenvoice: "Kumo, your eyes must be operated on. "

I pretended to be vexed with him for concealing the fact from me solong. 

"Here you have known this all the time, " said I, "and yet you have saidnothing about it! Do you think I am such a baby as to be afraid of anoperation?"

At that he regained his good spirits: "There are very few men, " saidhe, "who are heroic enough to look forward to an operation withoutshrinking. "

I laughed at him: "Yes, that is so. Men are heroic only before theirwives!"

He looked at me gravely, and said: "You are perfectly right. We men aredreadfully vain. "

I laughed away his seriousness: "Are you sure you can beat us women evenin vanity?"

When Dada came, I took him aside: "Dada, that treatment your doctorrecommended would have done me a world of good; only unfortunately. I mistook the mixture for the lotion. And since the day I made themistake, my eyes have grown steadily worse; and now an operation isneeded. "

Dada said to me: "You were under your husband's treatment, and that iswhy I gave up coming to visit you. "

"No, " I answered. "In reality, I was secretly treating myself inaccordance with your doctor's directions. "

Oh! what lies we women have to tell! When we are mothers, we tell liesto pacify our children; and when we are wives, we tell lies to pacifythe fathers of our children. We are never free from this necessity. 

My deception had the effect of bringing about a better feeling betweenmy husband and Dada. Dada blamed himself for asking me to keep a secretfrom my husband: and my husband regretted that he had not taken mybrother's advice at the first. 

At last, with the consent of both, an English doctor came, and operatedon my left eye. That eye, however, was too weak to bear the strain;and the last flickering glimmer of light went out. Then the other eyegradually lost itself in darkness. 

One day my husband came to my bedside. "I cannot brazen it out beforeyou any longer, " said he, "Kumo, it is I who have ruined your eyes. "

I felt that his voice was choking with tears, and so I took up his righthand in both of mine and said: "Why! you did exactly what was right. Youhave dealt only with that which was your very own. Just imagine, if somestrange doctor had come and taken away my eyesight. What consolationshould I have had then? But now I can feel that all has happened for thebest; and my great comfort is to know that it is at your hands I havelost my eyes. When Ramchandra found one lotus too few with which toworship God, he offered both his eyes in place of the lotus. And I hatededicated my eyes to my God. From now, whenever you see something thatis a joy to you, then you must describe it to me; and I will feed uponyour words as a sacred gift left over from your vision. "

I do not mean, of course, that I said all this there and then, for it isimpossible to speak these things an the spur of the moment. But I usedto think over words like these for days and days together. And when Iwas very depressed, or if at any time the light of my devotion becamedim, and I pitied my evil fate, then I made my mind utter thesesentences, one by one, as a child repeats a story that is told. And so Icould breathe once more the serener air of peace and love. 

At the very time of our talk together, I said enough to show my husbandwhat was in my heart. 

"Kumo, " he said to me, "the mischief I have done by my folly can neverbe made good. But I can do one thing. I can ever remain by your side, and try to make up for your want of vision as much as is in my power. "

"No, " said I. "That will never do. I shall not ask you to turn yourhouse into an hospital for the blind. There is only one thing to bedone, you must marry again. "

As I tried to explain to him that this was necessary, my voice brokea little. I coughed, and tried to hide my emotion, but he burst outsaying:

"Kumo, I know I am a fool, and a braggart, and all that, but I am not avillain! If ever I marry again, I swear to you--I swear to you the mostsolemn oath by my family god, Gopinath--may that most hated of all sins, the sin of parricide, fall on my head!"

Ah! I should never, never have allowed him to swear that dreadfuloath. But tears were choking my voice, and I could not say a word forinsufferable joy. I hid my blind face in my pillows, and sobbed, andsobbed again. At last, when the first flood of my tears was over, I drewhis head down to my breast. 

"Ah!" said I, "why did you take such a terrible oath? Do you thinkI asked you to marry again for your own sordid pleasure? No! I wasthinking of myself, for she could perform those services which were mineto give you when I had my sight. "

"Services!" said he, "services! Those can be done by servants. Do youthink I am mad enough to bring a slave into my house, and bid her sharethe throne with this my Goddess?"

As he said the word "Goddess, " he held up my face in his hands, andplaced a kiss between my brows. At that moment the third eye of divinewisdom was opened, where he kissed me, and verily I had a consecration. 

I said in my own mind: "It is well. I am no longer able to serve him inthe lower world of household cares. But I shall rise to a higherregion. I shall bring down blessings from above. No more lies! No moredeceptions for me! All the littlenesses and hypocrisies of my formerlife shall be banished for ever!"

That day, the whole day through, I felt a conflict going on within me. The joy of the thought, that after this solemn oath it was impossiblefor my husband to marry again, fixed its roots deep in my heart, andI could not tear them out. But the new Goddess, who had taken her newthrone in me, said: "The time might come when it would be good foryour husband to break his oath and marry again. " But the woman, who waswithin me, said: "That may be; but all the same an oath is an oath, andthere is no way out. " The Goddess, who was within me, answered: "That isno reason why you should exult over it. " But the woman, who was withinme, replied: "What you say is quite true, no doubt; all the same he hastaken his oath. " And the same story went on again and again. At lastthe Goddess frowned in silence, and the darkness of a horrible fear camedown upon me. 

My repentant husband would not let the servants do my work; he must doit all himself. At first it gave me unbounded delight to be dependenton him thus for every little thing. It was a means of keeping him bymy side, and my desire to have him with me had become intense since myblindness. That share of his presence, which my eyes had lost, my othersenses craved. When he was absent from my side, I would feel as if Iwere hanging in mid-air, and had lost my hold of all things tangible. 

Formerly, when my husband came back late from the hospital, I usedto open my window and gaze at the road. That road was the link whichconnected his world with mine. Now when I had lost that link through myblindness, all my body would go out to seek him. The bridge that unitedus had given way, and there was now this unsurpassable chasm. When heleft my side the gulf seemed to yawn wide open. I could only wait forthe time when he should cross back again from his own shore to mine. 

But such intense longing and such utter dependence can never be good. A wife is a burden enough to a man, in all conscience, and to add to itthe burden of this blindness was to make his life unbearable. I vowedthat I would suffer alone, and never wrap my husband round in the foldsof my all-pervading darkness. 

Within an incredibly short space of time I managed to train myself todo all my household duties by the help of touch and sound and smell. Infact I soon found that I could get on with greater skill than before. For sight often distracts rather than helps us. And so it came to passthat, when these roving eyes of mine could do their work no longer, all the other senses took up their several duties with quietude andcompleteness. 

When I had gained experience by constant practice, I would not let myhusband do any more household duties for me. He complained bitterly atfirst that I was depriving him of his penance. 

This did not convince me. Whatever he might say, I could feel that hehad a real sense of relief when these household duties were over. Toserve daily a wife who is blind can never make up the life of a man. 

II

My husband at last had finished his medical course. He went away fromCalcutta to a small town to practise as a doctor. There in the country Ifelt with joy, through all my blindness, that I was restored to the armsof my mother. I had left my village birthplace for Calcutta when I waseight years old. Since then ten years had passed away, and in the greatcity the memory of my village home had grown dim. As long as I hadeyesight, Calcutta with its busy life screened from view the memory ofmy early days. But when I lost my eyesight I knew for the first timethat Calcutta allured only the eyes: it could not fill the mind. Andnow, in my blindness, the scenes of my childhood shone out once more, like stars that appear one by one in the evening sky at the end of theday. 

It was the beginning of November when we left Calcutta for Harsingpur. The place was new to me, but the scents and sounds of the countrysidepressed round and embraced me. The morning breeze coming fresh fromthe newly ploughed land, the sweet and tender smell of the floweringmustard, the shepherd-boy's flute sounding in the distance, even thecreaking noise of the bullock-cart, as it groaned over the brokenvillage road, filled my world with delight. The memory of my past life, with all its ineffable fragrance and sound, became a living present tome, and my blind eyes could not tell me I was wrong. I went back, andlived over again my childhood. Only one thing was absent: my mother wasnot with me. 

I could see my home with the large peepul trees growing along the edgeof the village pool. I could picture in my mind's eye my old grandmotherseated on the ground with her thin wisps of hair untied, warming herback in the sun as she made the little round lentil balls to be driedand used for cooking. But somehow I could not recall the songs she usedto croon to herself in her weak and quavering voice. In the evening, whenever I heard the lowing of cattle, I could almost watch the figureof my mother going round the sheds with lighted lamp in her hand. Thesmell of the wet fodder and the pungent smoke of the straw fire wouldenter into my very heart. And in the distance I seemed to hear theclanging of the temple bell wafted up by the breeze from the river bank. 

Calcutta, with all its turmoil and gossip, curdles the heart. There, all the beautiful duties of life lose their freshness and innocence. Iremember one day, when a friend of mine came in, and said to me: "Kumo, why don't you feel angry? If I had been treated like you by my husband, I would never look upon his face again. "

She tried to make me indignant, because he had been so long calling in adoctor. 

"My blindness, " said I, "was itself a sufficient evil. Why should I makeit worse by allowing hatred to grow up against my husband?"

My friend shook her head in great contempt, when she heard suchold-fashioned talk from the lips of a mere chit of a girl. She went awayin disdain. But whatever might be my answer at the time, such words asthese left their poison; and the venom was never wholly got out of thesoul, when once they had been uttered. 

So you see Calcutta, with its never-ending gossip, does harden theheart. But when I came back to the country all my earlier hopes andfaiths, all that I held true in life during childhood, became fresh andbright once more. God came to me, and filled my heart and my world. Ibowed to Him, and said:

"It is well that Thou has taken away my eyes. Thou art with me. "

Ah! But I said more than was right. It was a presumption to say: "Thouart with me. " All we can say is this: "I must be true to Thee. " Evenwhen nothing is left for us, still we have to go on living. 

III

We passed a few happy months together. My husband gained some reputationin his profession as a doctor. And money came with it. 

But there is a mischief in money. I cannot point to any one event; but, because the blind have keener perceptions than other people, I coulddiscern the change which came over my husband along with the increase ofwealth. 

He had a keen sense of justice when he was younger, and had often toldme of his great desire to help the poor when once he obtained a practiceof his own. He had a noble contempt far those in his profession whowould not feel the pulse of a poor patient before collecting his fee. But now I noticed a difference. He had become strangely hard. Once whena poor woman came, and begged him, out of charity, to save the life ofher only child, he bluntly refused. And when I implored him myself tohelp her, he did his work perfunctorily. 

While we were less rich my husband disliked sharp practice in moneymatters. He was scrupulously honourable in such things. But since hehad got a large account at the bank he was often closeted for hours withsome scamp of a landlord's agent, for purposes which clearly boded nogood. 

Where has he drifted? What has become of this husband of mine, --thehusband I knew before I was blind; the husband who kissed me that daybetween my brows, and enshrined me on the throne of a Goddess? Thosewhom a sudden gust of passion brings down to the dust can rise up againwith a new strong impulse of goodness. But those who, day by day, becomedried up in the very fibre of their moral being; those who by some outerparasitic growth choke the inner life by slow degrees, --such wench oneday a deadness which knows no healing. 

The separation caused by blindness is the merest physical trifle. But, ah! it suffocates me to find that he is no longer with me, where hestood with me in that hour when we both knew that I was blind. That is aseparation indeed!

I, with my love fresh and my faith unbroken, have kept to the shelter ofmy heart's inner shrine. But my husband has left the cool shade of thosethings that are ageless and unfading. He is fast disappearing into thebarren, waterless waste in his mad thirst for gold. 

Sometimes the suspicion comes to me that things not so bad as they seem:that perhaps I exaggerate because I am blind. It may be that, if myeyesight were unimpaired, I should have accepted world as I found it. This, at any rate, was the light in which my husband looked at all mymoods and fancies. 

One day an old Musalman came to the house. He asked my husband to visithis little grand-daughter. I could hear the old man say: "Baba, I ama poor man; but come with me, and Allah will do you good. " My husbandanswered coldly: "What Allah will do won't help matters; I want to knowwhat you can do for me. "

When I heard it, I wondered in my mind why God had not made me deaf aswell as blind. The old man heaved a deep sigh, and departed. I sentmy maid to fetch him to my room. I met him at the door of the innerapartment, and put some money into his hand. 

"Please take this from me, " said I, "for your little grand-daughter, andget a trustworthy doctor to look after her. And-pray for my husband. "

But the whole of that day I could take no food at all. In the afternoon, when my husband got up from sleep, he asked me: "Why do you look sopale?"

I was about to say, as I used to do in the past: "Oh! It's nothing ";but those days of deception were over, and I spoke to him plainly. 

"I have been hesitating, " I said, "for days together to tell yousomething. It has been hard to think out what exactly it was I wanted tosay. Even now I may not be able to explain what I had in my mind. But Iam sure you know what has happened. Our lives have drifted apart. "

My husband laughed in a forced manner, and said: "Change is the law ofnature. "

I said to him: "I know that. But there are some things that areeternal. "

Then he became serious. 

"There are many women, " said he, "who have a real cause for sorrow. There are some whose husbands do not earn money. There are others whosehusbands do not love them. But you are making yourself wretched aboutnothing at all. "

Then it became clear to me that my very blindness had conferred on methe power of seeing a world which is beyond all change. Yes! It is true. I am not like other women. And my husband will never understand me. 

IV

Our two lives went on with their dull routine for some time. Then therewas a break in the monotony. An aunt of my husband came to pay us avisit. 

The first thing she blurted out after our first greeting was this:"Well, Krum, it's a great pity you have become blind; but why do youimpose your own affliction on your husband? You must get him to anotherwife. "

There was an awkward pause. If my husband had only said something injest, or laughed in her face, all would have been over. But he stammeredand hesitated, and said at last in a nervous, stupid way: "Do you reallythink so? Really, Aunt, you shouldn't talk like that. "

His aunt appealed to me. "Was I wrong, Kumo?"

I laughed a hollow laugh. 

"Had not you better, " said I, "consult some one more competent todecide? The pickpocket never asks permission from the man whose pockethe is going to pick. "

"You are quite right, " she replied blandly. "Abinash, my dear, let ushave our little conference in private. What do you say to that?"

After a few days my husband asked her, in my presence, if she knew ofany girl of a decent family who could come and help me in my householdwork. He knew quite well that I needed no help. I kept silence. 

"Oh! there are heaps of them, " replied his aunt. "My cousin has adaughter who is just of the marriageable age, and as nice a girl asyou could wish. Her people would be only too glad to secure you as ahusband. "

Again there came from him that forced, hesitating laugh, and he said:"But I never mentioned marriage. "

"How could you expect, " asked his aunt, "a girl of decent family to comeand live in your house without marriage?"

He had to admit that this was reasonable, and remained nervously silent. 

I stood alone within the closed doors of my blindness after he had gone, and called upon my God and prayed: "O God, save my husband. "

When I was coming out of the household shrine from my morning worship afew days later, his aunt took hold of both my hands warmly. 

"Kumo, here is the girl, " said she, "we were speaking about the otherday. Her name is Hemangini. She will be delighted to meet you. Hemo, come here and be introduced to your sister. "

My husband entered the room at the same moment. He feigned surprise whenhe saw the strange girl, and was about to retire. But his aunt said:"Abinash, my dear, what are you running away for? There is no need todo that. Here is my cousin's daughter, Hemangini, come to see you. Hemo, make your bow to him. "

As if taken quite by surprise, he began to ply his aunt with questionsabout the when and why and how of the new arrival. 

I saw the hollowness of the whole thing, and took Hemangini by the handand led her to my own room. I gently stroked her face and arms and hair, and found that she was about fifteen years old, and very beautiful. 

As I felt her face, she suddenly burst out laughing and said: "Why! whatare you doing? Are you hypnotising me?"

That sweet ringing laughter of hers swept away in a moment all the darkclouds that stood between us. I threw my right arm about her neck. 

"Dear one, " said I, "I am trying to see you. " And again I stroked hersoft face with my left hand. 

"Trying to see me?" she said, with a new burst of laughter. "Am I likea vegetable marrow, grown in your garden, that you want to feel me allround to see how soft I am?"

I suddenly bethought me that she did not know I had lost my sight. 

"Sister, I am blind, " said I. 

She was silent. I could feel her big young eyes, full of curiosity, peering into my face. I knew they were full of pity. Then she grewthoughtful and puzzled, and said, after a short pause:

"Oh! I see now. That was the reason your husband invited his aunt tocome and stay here. "

"No!" I replied, "you are quite mistaken. He did not ask her to come. She came of her own accord. "

Hemangini went off into a peal of laughter. "That's just like my aunt, "said she. "Oh I wasn't it nice of her to come without any invitation?But now she's come, you won't get her to move for some time, I canassure you!"

Then she paused, and looked puzzled. 

"But why did father send me?" she asked. "Can you tell me that?"

The aunt had come into the room while we were talking. Hemangini said toher: "When are you thinking of going back, Aunt?"

The aunt looked very much upset. 

"What a question to ask!" said she, "I've never seen such a restlessbody as you. We've only just come, and you ask when we're going back!"

"It is all very well for you, " Hemangini said, "for this house belongsto your near relations. But what about me? I tell you plainly I can'tstop here. " And then she held my hand and said: "What do you think, dear?"

I drew her to my heart, but said nothing. The aunt was in a greatdifficulty. She felt the situation was getting beyond her control; soshe proposed that she and her niece should go out together to bathe. 

"No! we two will go together, " said Hemangini, clinging to me. The auntgave in, fearing opposition if she tried to drag her away. 

Going down to the river Hemangini asked me: "Why don't you havechildren?"

I was startled by her question, and answered: "How can I tell? My Godhas not given me any. That is the reason. "

"No! That's not the reason, " said Hemangini quickly. "You must havecommitted some sin. Look at my aunt. She is childless. It must bebecause her heart has some wickedness. But what wickedness is in yourheart?"

The words hurt me. I have no solution to offer for the problem of evil. I sighed deeply, and said in the silence of my soul: "My God! Thouknowest the reason. "

"Gracious goodness, " cried Hemangini, "what are you sighing for? No oneever takes me seriously. "

And her laughter pealed across the river. 

V

I found out after this that there were constant interruptions in myhusband's professional duties. He refused all calls from a distance, andwould hurry away from his patients, even when they were close at hand. 

Formerly it was only during the mid-day meals and at night-time that hecould come into the inner apartment. But now, with unnecessary anxietyfor his aunt's comfort, he began to visit her at all hours of the day. Iknew at once that he had come to her room, when I heard her shouting forHemangini to bring in a glass of water. At first the girl would do whatshe was told; but later on she refused altogether. 

Then the aunt would call, in an endearing voice: "Hemo! Hemo!Hemangini. " But the girl would cling to me with an impulse of pity. Asense of dread and sadness would keep her silent. Sometimes she wouldshrink towards me like a hunted thing, who scarcely knew what wascoming. 

About this time my brother came down from Calcutta to visit me. I knewhow keen his powers of observation were, and what a hard judge he was. I feared my husband would be put on his defence, and have to stand histrial before him. So I endeavoured to hide the true situation behind amask of noisy cheerfulness. But I am afraid I overdid the part: it wasunnatural for me. 

My husband began to fidget openly, and asked how long my brother wasgoing to stay. At last his impatience became little short of insulting, and my brother had no help for it but to leave. Before going he placedhis hand on my head, and kept it there for some time. I noticed that hishand shook, and a tear fell from his eyes, as he silently gave me hisblessing. 

I well remember that it was an evening in April, and a market-day. People who had come into the town were going back home from market. There was the feeling of an impending storm in the air; the smell of thewet earth and the moisture in the wind were all-pervading. I never keepa lighted lamp in my bedroom, when I am alone, lest my clothes shouldcatch fire, or some accident happen. I sat on the floor in my dark room, and called upon the God of my blind world. 

"O my Lord, " I cried, "Thy face is hidden. I cannot see. I am blind. Ihold tight this broken rudder of a heart till my hands bleed. The waveshave become too strong for me. How long wilt thou try me, my God, howlong?"

I kept my head prone upon the bedstead and began to sob. As I did so, I felt the bedstead move a little. The next moment Hemangini was by myside. She clung to my neck, and wiped my tears away silently. I do notknow why she had been waiting that evening in the inner room, or why shehad been lying alone there in the dusk. She asked me no question. Shesaid no word. She simply placed her cool hand on my forehead, and kissedme, and departed. 

The next morning Hemangini said to her aunt in my presence: "If you wantto stay on, you can. But I don't. I'm going away home with our familyservant. "

The aunt said there was no need for her to go alone, for she was goingaway also. Then smilingly and mincingly she brought out, from a plushcase, a ring set with pearls. 

"Look, Hemo, " said she, "what a beautiful ring my Abinash brought foryou. "

Hemangini snatched the ring from her hand. 

"Look, Aunt, " she answered quickly, "just see how splendidly I aim. " Andshe flung the ring into the tank outside the window. 

The aunt, overwhelmed with alarm, vexation, and surprise, bristled likea hedgehog. She turned to me, and held me by the hand. 

"Kumo, " she repeated again and again, "don't say a word about thischildish freak to Abinash. He would be fearfully vexed. "

I assured her that she need not fear. Not a word would reach him aboutit from my lips. 

The next day before starting for home Hemangini embraced me, and said:"Dearest, keep me in mind; do not forget me. "

I stroked her face over and over with my fingers, and said: "Sister, theblind have long memories. "

I drew her head towards me, and kissed her hair and her forehead. Myworld suddenly became grey. All the beauty and laughter and tenderyouth, which had nestled so close to me, vanished when Hemanginideparted. I went groping about with arms outstretched, seeking to findout what was left in my deserted world. 

My husband came in later. He affected a great relief now that they weregone, but it was exaggerated and empty. He pretended that his aunt'svisit had kept him away from work. 

Hitherto there had been only the one barrier of blindness between meand my husband. Now another barrier was added, --this deliberate silenceabout Hemangini. He feigned utter indifference, but I knew he was havingletters about her. 

It was early in May. My maid entered my room one morning, and askedme: "What is all this preparation going on at the landing on the river?Where is Master going?"

I knew there was something impending, but I said to the maid: "I can'tsay. "

The maid did not dare to ask me any more questions. She sighed, and wentaway. 

Late that night my husband came to me. 

"I have to visit a patient in the country, " said he. "I shall have tostart very early to-morrow morning, and I may have to be away for two orthree days. "

I got up from my bed. I stood before him, and cried aloud: "Why are youtelling me lies?"

My husband stammered out: "What--what lies have I told you?"

I said: "You are going to get married. "

He remained silent. For some moments there was no sound in the room. Then I broke the silence:

"Answer me, " I cried. "Say, yes. "

He answered, "Yes, " like a feeble echo. 

I shouted out with a loud voice: "No! I shall never allow you. I shallsave you from this great disaster, this dreadful sin. If I fail in this, then why am I your wife, and why did I ever worship my God?"

The room remained still as a stone. I dropped on the floor, and clung tomy husband's knees. 

"What have I done?" I asked. "Where have I been lacking? Tell me truly. Why do you want another wife?"

My husband said slowly: "I will tell you the truth. I am afraid ofyou. Your blindness has enclosed you in its fortress, and I have now noentrance. To me you are no longer a woman. You are awful as my God. Icannot live my every day life with you. I want a woman--just an ordinarywoman--whom I can be free to chide and coax and pet and scold. "

Oh, tear open my heart and see! What am I else but that, --just anordinary woman? I am the same girl that I was when I was newly wed, agirl with all her need to believe, to confide, to worship. 

I do not recollect exactly the words that I uttered. I only rememberthat I said: "If I be a true wife, then, may God be my witness, youshall never do this wicked deed, you shall never break your oath. Beforeyou commit such sacrilege, either I shall become a widow, or Hemanginishall die. "

Then I fell down on the floor in a swoon. When I came to myself, it wasstill dark. The birds were silent. My husband had gone. 

All that day I sat at my worship in the sanctuary at the householdshrine. In the evening a fierce storm, with thunder and lightning andrain, swept down upon the house and shook it. As I crouched before theshrine, I did not ask my God to save my husband from the storm, thoughhe must have been at that time in peril on the river. I prayed thatwhatever might happen to me, my husband might be saved from this greatsin. 

Night passed. The whole of the next day I kept my seat at worship. Whenit was evening there was the noise of shaking and beating at the door. When the door was broken open, they found me lying unconscious on theground, and carried me to my room. 

When I came to myself at last, I heard some one whispering in my ear:"Sister. "

I found that I was lying in my room with my head on Hemangini's lap. When my head moved, I heard her dress rustle. It was the sound of bridalsilk. 

O my God, my God! My prayer has gone unheeded! My husband has fallen!

Hemangini bent her head low, and said in a sweet whisper: "Sister, dearest, I have come to ask your blessing on our marriage. "

At first my whole body stiffened like the trunk of a tree that has beenstruck by lightning. Then I sat up, and said, painfully, forcing myselfto speak the words: "Why should I not bless you? You have done nowrong. "

Hemangini laughed her merry laugh. 

"Wrong!" said she. "When you married it was right; and when I marry, youcall it wrong!"

I tried to smile in answer to her laughter. I said in my mind: "Myprayer is not the final thing in this world. His will is all. Let theblows descend upon my head; but may they leave my faith and hope in Goduntouched. "

Hemangini bowed to me, and touched my feet. "May you be happy, " said I, blessing her, "and enjoy unbroken prosperity. "

Hemangini was still unsatisfied. 

"Dearest sister, " she said, "a blessing for me is not enough. You mustmake our happiness complete. You must, with those saintly hands ofyours, accept into your home my husband also. Let me bring him to you. "

I said: "Yes, bring him to me. "

A few moments later I heard a familiar footstep, and the question, "Kumo, how are you?"

I started up, and bowed to the ground, and cried: "Dada!"

Hemangini burst out laughing. 

"You still call him elder brother?" she asked. "What nonsense! Call himyounger brother now, and pull his ears and cease him, for he has marriedme, your younger sister. "

Then I understood. My husband had been saved from that great sin. He hadnot fallen. 

I knew my Dada had determined never to marry. And, since my mother haddied, there was no sacred wish of hers to implore him to wedlock. But I, his sister, by my sore need bad brought it to pass. He had married formy sake. 

Tears of joy gushed from my eyes, and poured down my cheeks. I tried, but I could not stop them. Dada slowly passed his fingers through myhair. Hemangini clung to me, and went on laughing. 

I was lying awake in my bed for the best part of the night, waiting withstraining anxiety for my husband's return. I could not imagine how hewould bear the shock of shame and disappointment. 

When it was long past the hour of midnight, slowly my door opened. I satup on my bed, and listened. They were the footsteps of my husband. Myheart began to beat wildly. He came up to my bed, held my band in his. 

"Your Dada, " said he, "has saved me from destruction. I was beingdragged down and down by a moments madness. An infatuation had seizedme, from which I seemed unable to escape. God alone knows what a load Iwas carrying on that day when I entered the boat. The storm came downon river, and covered the sky. In the midst of all fears I had a secretwish in my heart to be drowned, and so disentangle my life from the knotwhich I had tied it. I reached Mathurganj. There I heard the news whichset me free. Your brother had married Hemangini. I cannot tell you withwhat joy and shame I heard it. I hastened on board the boat again. Inthat moment of self-revelation I knew that I could have no happinessexcept with you. You are a Goddess. "

I laughed and cried at the same time, and said: "No, no, no! I am notgoing to be a Goddess any longer I am simply your own little wife. I aman ordinary woman. "

"Dearest, " he replied, "I have also something I want to say to you. Never again put me to shame by calling me your God. "

On the next day the little town became joyous with sound of conchshells. But nobody made any reference to that night of madness, when allwas so nearly lost. 

THE BABUS OF NAYANJORE

I

Once upon a time the Babus of Nayanjore were famous landholders. Theywere noted for their princely extravagance. They would tear off therough border of their Dacca muslin, because it rubbed against theirskin. They could spend many thousands of rupees over the wedding of akitten. On a certain grand occasion it is alleged that in order to turnnight into day they lighted numberless lamps and showered silver threadsfrom the sky to imitate sunlight. Those were the days before the flood. The flood came. The line of succession among these old-world Babus, withtheir lordly habits, could not continue for long. Like a lamp with toomany wicks burning, the oil flared away quickly, and the light went out. 

Kailas Babu, our neighbour, is the last relic of this extinctmagnificence. Before he grew up, his family had very nearly reached itslowest ebb. When his father died, there was one dazzling outburst offuneral extravagance, and then insolvency. The property was sold toliquidate the debt. What little ready money was left over was altogetherinsufficient to keep up the past ancestral splendours. 

Kailas Babu left Nayanjore, and came to Calcutta. His son did not remainlong in this world of faded glory. He died, leaving behind him an onlydaughter. 

In Calcutta we are Kailas Baba's neighbours. Curiously enough our ownfamily history is just the opposite to his. My father got his money byhis own exertions, and prided himself on never spending a penny morethan was needed. His clothes were those of a working man, and hishands also. He never had any inclination to earn the title of Baba byextravagant display, and I myself his only son, owe him gratitude forthat. He gave me the very best education, and I was able to make my wayin the world. I am not ashamed of the fact that I am a self-made man. Crisp bank-notes in my safe are dearer to me than a long pedigree in anempty family chest. 

I believe this was why I disliked seeing Kailas Baba drawing his heavycheques on the public credit from the bankrupt bank of his ancient Babureputation I used to fancy that he looked down on me, because my fatherhad earned money with his own hands. 

I ought to have noticed that no one showed any vexation towards KailasBabu except myself. Indeed it would have been difficult to find anold man who did less harm than he. He was always ready with his kindlylittle acts of courtesy in times of sorrow and joy. He would join in allthe ceremonies and religious observances of his neighbours. His familiarsmile would greet young and old alike. His politeness in asking detailsabout domestic affairs was untiring. The friends who met him in thestreet were perforce ready to be button-holed, while a long string ofquestions of this kind followed one another from his lips:

"My dear friend, I am delighted to see you. Are quite well? How isShashi? and Dada--is he all right? Do you know, I've only just heard thatMadhu's son has got fever. How is he? Have you heard? And Hari CharanBabu--I've not seen him for a long time--I hope he is not ill. What's thematter with Rakkhal? And, er--er, how are the ladies of your family?"

Kailas Balm was spotlessly neat in his dress on all occasions, thoughhis supply of clothes was sorely limited. Every day he used to air hisshirts and vests and coats and trousers carefully, and put them out inthe sun, along with his bed-quilt, his pillowcase, and the small carpeton which he always sat. After airing them he would shake them, and brushthem, and put them on the rock. His little bits of furniture made hissmall room decent, and hinted that there was more in reserve if needed. Very often, for want of a servant, he would shut up his house for awhile. Then he would iron out his shirts and linen with his own hands, and do other little menial tasks. After this he would open his door andreceive his friends again. 

Though Kailas Balm, as I have said, had lost all his landed property, he had still same family heirlooms left. There was a silver cruet forsprinkling scented water, a filigree box for otto-of-roses, a small goldsalver, a costly ancient shawl, and the old-fashioned ceremonial dressand ancestral turban. These he had rescued with the greatest difficultyfrom the money-lenders' clutches. On every suitable occasion he wouldbring them out in state, and thus try to save the world-famed dignityof the Babus of Nayanjore. At heart the most modest of men, in his dailyspeech he regarded it as a sacred duty, owed to his rank, to give freeplay to his family pride. His friends would encourage this trait in hischaracter with kindly good-humour, and it gave them great amusement. 

The neighbourhood soon learnt to call him their Thakur Dada(Grandfather). They would flock to his house, and sit with him for hourstogether. To prevent his incurring any expense, one or other of hisfriends would bring him tobacco, and say: "Thakur Dada, this morningsome tobacco was sent to me from Gaya. Do take it, and see how you likeit. "

Thakur Dada would take it, and say it was excellent. He would then go onto tell of a certain exquisite tobacco which they once smoked in the olddays at Nayanjore at the cost of a guinea an ounce. 

"I wonder, " he used to say, "I wonder if any one would like to try itnow. I have some left, and can get it at once. "

Every one knew, that, if they asked for it, then somehow or other thekey of the cupboard would be missing; or else Ganesh, his old familyservant, had put it away somewhere. 

"You never can be sure, " he would add, "where things go to when servantsare about. Now, this Ganesh of mine, --I can't tell you what a fool heis, but I haven't the heart to dismiss him. "

Ganesh, for the credit of the family, was quite ready to bear all theblame without a word. 

One of the company usually said at this point: "Never mind, Thakur Dada. Please don't trouble to look for it. This tobacco we're smoking will doquite well. The other would be too strong. "

Then Thakur Dada would be relieved, and settle down again, and the talkwould go on. 

When his guests got up to go away, Thakur Dada would accompany them tothe door, and say to them on the door-step: "Oh, by the way, when areyou all coming to dine with me?"

One or other of us would answer: "Not just yet, Thakur Dada, not justyet. We'll fix a day later. "

"Quite right, " he would answer. "Quite right. We had much better waittill the rains come. It's too hot now. And a grand rich dinner such as Ishould want to give you would upset us in weather like this. "

But when the rains did come, every one careful not to remind him of hispromise. If the subject was brought up, some friend would suggestgently that it was very inconvenient to get about when the rains were sosevere, that it would be much better to wait till they were over. And sothe game went on. 

His poor lodging was much too small for his position, and we used tocondole with him about it. His friends would assure him they quiteunderstood his difficulties: it was next to impossible to get a decenthouse in Calcutta. Indeed, they had all been looking out for years fora house to suit him, but, I need hardly add, no friend had been foolishenough to find one. Thakur Dada used to say, after a long sigh ofresignation: "Well, well, I suppose I shall have to put up with thishouse after all. " Then he would add with a genial smile: "But, you know, I could never bear to be away from my friends. I must be near you. Thatreally compensates for everything. "

Somehow I felt all this very deeply indeed. I suppose the real reasonwas, that when a man is young stupidity appears to him the worst ofcrimes. Kailas Babu was not really stupid. In ordinary business mattersevery one was ready to consult him. 

But with regard to Nayanjore his utterances were certainly voidof common sense. Because, out of amused affection for him, no onecontradicted his impossible statements, he refused to keep them inbounds. When people recounted in his hearing the glorious history ofNayanjore with absurd exaggerations he would accept all they said withthe utmost gravity, and never doubted, even in his dreams, that any onecould disbelieve it. 

II

When I sit down and try to analyse the thoughts and feelings that I hadtowards Kailas Babu I see that there was a still deeper reason for mydislike. I will now explain. 

Though I am the son of a rich man, and might have wasted time atcollege, my industry was such that I took my M. A. Degree in CalcuttaUniversity when quite young. My moral character was flawless. Inaddition, my outward appearance was so handsome, that if I were to callmyself beautiful, it might be thought a mark of self-estimation, butcould not be considered an untruth. 

There could be no question that among the young men of Bengal I wasregarded by parents generally as a very eligible match. I was myselfquite clear on the point, and had determined to obtain my full value inthe marriage market. When I pictured my choice, I had before my mind'seye a wealthy father's only daughter, extremely beautiful and highlyeducated. Proposals came pouring in to me from far and near; large sumsin cash were offered. I weighed these offers with rigid impartiality, inthe delicate scales of my own estimation. But there was no one fit to bemy partner. I became convinced, with the poet Bhabavuti, that

 In this worlds endless time and boundless space One may be born at last to match my sovereign grace. 

But in this puny modern age, and this contracted space of modern Bengal, it was doubtful if the peerless creature existed as yet. 

Meanwhile my praises were sung in many tunes, and in different metres, by designing parents. 

Whether I was pleased with their daughters or not, this worship whichthey offered was never unpleasing. I used to regard it as my proper due, because I was so good. We are told that when the gods withhold theirboons from mortals they still expect their worshippers to pay themfervent honour, and are angry if it is withheld. I had that divineexpectance strongly developed in myself. 

I have already mentioned that Thakur Dada had an only grand-daughter. I had seen her many times, but had never mistaken her for beautiful. Nothought had ever entered my mind that she would be a possible partnerfor myself. All the same, it seemed quite certain to me that some day oxother Kailas Babu would offer her, with all due worship, as an oblationat my shrine. Indeed-this was the secret of my dislike-I was thoroughlyannoyed that he had not done it already. 

I heard he had told his friends that the Babus of Nayanjore never craveda boon. Even if the girl remained unmarried, he would not break thefamily tradition. It was this arrogance of his that made me angry. Myindignation smouldered for some time. But I remained perfectly silent, and bore it with the utmost patience, because I was so good. 

As lightning accompanies thunder, so in my character a flash ofhumour was mingled with the mutterings of my wrath. It was, of course, impossible for me to punish the old man merely to give vent to my rage;and for a long time I did nothing at all. But suddenly one day such anamusing plan came into my head, that I could not resist the temptationof carrying it into effect. 

I have already said that many of Kailas Babu's friends used to flatterthe old man's vanity to the full. One, who was a retired Governmentservant, had told him that whenever he saw the Chota Lord Sahib healways asked for the latest news about the Babus of Nayanjore, and theChota Lard had been heard to say that in all Bengal the only reallyrespectable families were those of the Maharaja of Burdwan and the Babusof Nayanjore. When this monstrous falsehood was told to Kailas Balmhe was extremely gratified, and often repeated the story. And whereverafter that he met this Government servant in company he would ask, alongwith other questions:

"Oh! er--by the way, how is the Chota Lord Sahib? Quite well, did yousay? Ah, yes, I am so delighted to hear it I And the dear Mem Sahib, isshe quite well too? Ah, yes! and the little children-are they quitewell also? Ah, yes I that's very goad news! Be sure and give them mycompliments when you see them. "

Kailas Balm would constantly express his intention of going some day andpaying a visit to the Sahib. 

But it may be taken for granted that many Chota Lords and Burro Lordsalso would come and go, and much water would pass down the Hoogly, before the family coach of Nayanjore would be furnished up to pay avisit to Government House. 

One day I took Kailas Babu aside, and told him in a whisper: "ThakurDada, I was at the Levee yesterday, and the Chota Lord happened tomention the Babes of Nayanjore. I told him that Kailas Balm had come totown. Do you know, he was terribly hurt because you hadn't called. Hetold me he was going to put etiquette on one side, and pay you a privatevisit himself this very afternoon. "

Anybody else could have seen through this plot of mine in a moment. And, if it had been directed against another person, Kailas Balm would haveunderstood the joke. But after all he had heard from his friend theGovernment servant, and after all his own exaggerations, a visit fromthe Lieutenant-Governor seemed the most natural thing in the world. Hebecame highly nervous and excited at my news. Each detail of the comingvisit exercised him greatly--most of all his own ignorance of English. How on earth was that difficulty to be met? I told him there wasno difficulty at all: it was aristocratic not to know English: and, besides, the Lieutenant-Governor always brought an interpreter with him, and he had expressly mentioned that this visit was to be private. 

About mid-day, when most of our neighbours are at work, and the rest areasleep, a carriage and pair stopped before the lodging of Kailas Babu. Two flunkeys in livery came up the stairs, and announced in a loudvoice, "The Chota Lord Sahib hoe arrived. " Kailas Babu was ready, waiting for him, in his old-fashioned ceremonial robes and ancestralturban, and Ganesh was by his side, dressed in his master's best suitof clothes for the occasion. When the Chota Lord Sahib was announced, Kailas Balm ran panting and puffing and trembling to the door, and ledin a friend of mine, in disguise, with repeated salaams, bowing low ateach step, and walking backward as best he could. He had his old familyshawl spread over a hard wooden chair, and he asked the Lord Sahib tobe seated. He then made a high flown speech in Urdu, the ancient Courtlanguage of the Sahibs, and presented on the golden salver a stringof gold mohurs, the last relics of his broken fortune. The old familyservant Ganesh, with an expression of awe bordering on terror, stoodbehind with the scent-sprinkler, drenching the Lord Sahib, touching himgingerly from time to time with the otto-of-roses from the filigree box. 

Kailas Babu repeatedly expressed his regret at not being able to receiveHis Honour Bahadur with all the ancestral magnificence of his own familyestate at Nayanjore. There he could have welcomed him properly with dueceremonial. But in Calcutta he was a mere stranger and sojourner-in facta fish out of water. 

My friend, with his tall silk hat on, very gravely nodded. I need hardlysay that according to English custom the hat ought to have been removedinside the room. But my friend did not dare to take it off for fear ofdetection; and Kailas Balm and his old servant Ganesh were sublimelyunconscious of the breach of etiquette. 

After a ten minutes' interview, which consisted chiefly of nodding thehead, my friend rose to his feet to depart. The two flunkeys in livery, as had been planned beforehand, carried off in state the string ofgold mohurs, the gold salver, the old ancestral shawl, the silverscent-sprinkler, and the otto-of-roses filigree box; they placed themceremoniously in the carriage. Kailas Babu regarded this as the usualhabit of Chota Lard Sahibs. 

I was watching all the while from the next room. My sides were achingwith suppressed laughter. When I could hold myself in no longer, Irushed into a further room, suddenly to discover, in a corner, a younggirl sobbing as if her heart would break. When she saw my uproariouslaughter she stood upright in passion, flashing the lightning of her bigdark eyes in mine, and said with a tear-choked voice:

"Tell me! What harm has my grandfather done to you? Why have you come todeceive him? Why have you come here? Why--"

She could say no more. She covered her face with her hands, and brokeinto sobs. 

My laughter vanished in a moment. It had never occurred to me that therewas anything but a supremely funny joke in this act of mine, and here Idiscovered that I had given the cruelest pain to this tenderest littleheart. All the ugliness of my cruelty rose up to condemn me. I slunk outof the room in silence, like a kicked dog. 

Hitherto I had only looked upon Kusum, the grand-daughter of KailasBabu, as a somewhat worthless commodity in the marriage market, waitingin vain to attract a husband. But now I found, with a shock of surprise, that in the corner of that room a human heart was beating. 

The whole night through I had very little sleep. My mind was in atumult. On the next day, very early in the morning, I took all thosestolen goods back to Kailas Babe's lodgings, wishing to hand them overin secret to the servant Ganesh. I waited outside the door, and, notfinding any one, went upstairs to Kailas Babu's room. I heard from thepassage Kusum asking her grandfather in the most winning voice: "Dada, dearest, do tell me all that the Chota Lord Sahib said to you yesterday. Don't leave out a single word. I am dying to hear it all over again. "

And Dada needed no encouragement. His face beamed over with pride as herelated all manner of praises, which the Lard Sahib had been good enoughto utter concerning the ancient families of Nayanjore. The girl wasseated before him, looking up into his face, and listening with raptattention. She was determined, out of love for the old man, to play herpart to the full. 

My heart was deeply touched, and tears came to my eyes. I stood therein silence in the passage, while Thakur Dada finished all hisembellishments of the Chota Lord Sahib's wonderful visit. When he leftthe room at last, I took the stolen goods and laid them at the feet ofthe girl and came away without a word. 

Later in the day I called again to see Kailas Balm himself. According toour ugly modern custom, I had been in the habit of making no greeting atall to this old man when I came into the room. But on this day I made alow bow, and touched his feet. I am convinced the old man thought thatthe coming of the Chota Lord Sahib to his house was the cause of my newpoliteness. He was highly gratified by it, and an air of benign severityshone from his eyes. His friends had flocked in, and he hadalready begun to tell again at full length the story of theLieutenant-Governor's visit with still further adornments of a mostfantastic kind. The interview was already becoming an epic, both inquality and in length. 

When the other visitors had taken their leave, I made my proposal to theold man in a humble manner. I told him that, "though I could never for amoment hope to be worthy of marriage connection with such an illustriousfamily, yet. .. Etc. Etc. "

When I made clear my proposal of marriage, the old man embraced me, andbroke out in a tumult of joy: "I am a poor man, and could never haveexpected such great good fortune. "

That was the first and last time in his life that Kailas Babu confessedto being poor. It was also the first and last time in his life that heforgot, if only for a single moment, the ancestral dignity that belongsto the Babus of Nayanjore. 

LIVING OR DEAD?

I

The widow in the house of Saradasankar, the Ranihat zemindar, had nokinsmen of her father's family. One after another all had died. Norhad she in her husband's family any one she could call her own, neitherhusband nor son. The child of her brother-in-law Saradasankar was herdarling. Far a long time after his birth, his mother had been very ill, and the widow, his aunt Kadambini, had fostered him. If a woman fostersanother's child, her love for him is all the stronger because she hasno claim upon him-no claim of kinship, that is, but simply the claim oflove. Love cannot prove its claim by any document which society accepts, and does not wish to prove it; it merely worships with double passionits life's uncertain treasure. Thus all the widow's thwarted love wentout to wards this little child. One night in Sraban Kadambini diedsuddenly. For some reason her heart stopped beating. Everywhere else theworld held on its course; only in this gentle little breast, sufferingwith love, the watch of time stood still for ever. 

Lest they should be harassed by the poike, four of the zemindar'sBrahmin servants took away the body, without ceremony, to be burned. Theburning-ground of Ranihat was very far from the village. There was ahut beside a tank, a huge banian near it, and nothing more. Formerly ariver, now completely dried up, ran through the ground, and part ofthe watercourse had been dug out to make a tank for the performance offuneral rites. The people considered the tank as part of the river andreverenced it as such. 

Taking the body into the hut, the four men sat down to wait for thewood. The time seemed so long that two of the four grew restless, andwent to see why it did not come. Nitai and Gurucharan being gone, Bidhuand Banamali remained to watch over the body. 

It was a dark night of Sraban. Heavy clouds hung In a starless sky. The two men sat silent in the dark room. Their matches and lamp wereuseless. The matches were damp, and would not light, for all theirefforts, and the lantern went out. 

After a long silence, one said: "Brother, it would be good if we had abowl of tobacco. In our hurry we brought none. "

The other answered: "I can run and bring all we want. "

Understanding why Banarnali wanted to go (From fear of ghosts, theburning-ground being considered haunted. ), Bidhu said: "I daresay!Meanwhile, I suppose I am to sit here alone!"

Conversation ceased again. Five minutes seemed like an hour. In theirminds they cursed the two, who had gone to fetch the wood, and theybegan to suspect that they sat gossiping in some pleasant nook. Therewas no sound anywhere, except the incessant noise of frogs and cricketsfrom the tank. Then suddenly they fancied that the bed shook slightly, as if the dead body had turned on its side. Bidhu and Banamali trembled, and began muttering: "Ram, Ram. " A deep sigh was heard in the room. In amoment the watchers leapt out of the hut, and raced for the village. 

After running about three miles, they met their colleagues coming backwith a lantern. As a matter of fact, they had gone to smoke, and knewnothing about the wood. But they declared that a tree had been cut down, and that, when it was split up, it would be brought along at once. ThenBidhu and Banamali told them what had happened in the hut. Nitai andGurucharan scoffed at the story, and abused Bidhu and Banamali angrilyfor leaving their duty. 

Without delay all four returned to the hut. As they entered, they sawat once that the body was gone; nothing but an empty bed remained. Theystared at one another. Could a jackal have taken it? But there was noscrap of clothing anywhere. Going outside, they saw that on the mudthat had collected at the door of the but there were a woman's tinyfootprints, newly made. Saradasankar was no fool, and they could hardlypersuade him to believe in this ghost story. So after much discussionthe four decided that it would be best to say that the body had beenburnt. 

Towards dawn, when the men with the wood arrived they were told that, owing to their delay, the work had been done without them; there hadbeen some wood in the but after all. No one was likely to question this, since a dead body is not such a valuable property that any one wouldsteal it. 

II

Every one knows that, even when there is no sign, life is often secretlypresent, and may begin again in an apparently dead body. Kadambini wasnot dead; only the machine of her life had for some reason suddenlystopped. 

When consciousness returned, she saw dense darkness on all sides. Itoccurred to her that she was not lying in her usual place. She calledout "Sister, " but no answer came from the darkness. As she sat up, terror-stricken, she remembered her death-bed, the sudden pain at herbreast, the beginning of a choking sensation. Her elder sister-in-lawwas warming some milk for the child, when Kadambini became faint, andfell on the bed, saying with a choking voice: "Sister, bring the childhere. I am worried. " After that everything was black, as when an inkpotis upset over an exercise-book. Kadambini's memory and consciousness, all the letters of the world's book, in a moment became formless. Thewidow could not remember whether the child, in the sweet voice of love, called her "Auntie, " as if for the last time, or not; she could notremember whether, as she left the world she knew for death's endlessunknown journey, she had received a parting gift of affection, love'spassage-money for the silent land. At first, I fancy, she thought thelonely dark place was the House of Yama, where there is nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to do, only an eternal watch. But when a colddamp wind drove through the open door, and she heard the croaking offrogs, she remembered vividly and in a moment all the rains of her shortlife, and could feel her kinship with the earth. Then came a flashof lightning, and she saw the tank, the banian, the great plain, thefar-off trees. She remembered how at full moon she had sometimes cometo bathe in this tank, and how dreadful death had seemed when she saw acorpse on the burning-ground. 

Her first thought was to return home. But then she reflected: "I amdead. How can I return home? That would bring disaster on them. I haveleft the kingdom of the living; I am my own ghost!" If this were not so, she reasoned, how could she have got out of Saradasankar's well-guardedzenana, and come to this distant burningground at midnight? Also, if herfuneral rites had not been finished, where had the men gone who shouldburn her? Recalling her death-moment in Saradasankar's brightly-lithouse, she now found herself alone in a distant, deserted, dark burning. Ground. Surely she was no member of earthly society! Surely she was acreature of horror, of ill-omen, her own ghost!

At this thought, all the bonds were snapped which bound her to theworld. She felt that she had marvellous strength, endless freedom. Shecould do what she liked, go where she pleased. Mad with the inspirationof this new idea, she rushed from the but like a gust of wind, and stoodupon the burning ground. All trace of shame or fear had left her. 

But as she walked on and on, her feet grew tired, her body weak. The plain stretched on endlessly; here and there were paddy-fields;sometimes she found herself standing knee-deep in water. 

At the first glimmer of dawn she heard one or two birds cry from thebamboo-clumps by the distant houses. Then terror seized her. She couldnot tell in what new relation she stood to the earth and to living folk. So long as she had been on the plain, on the burning-ground, covered bythe dark night of Sraban, so long she had been fearless, a denizen ofher own kingdom. By daylight the homes of men filled her with fear. Menand ghosts dread each other, for their tribes inhabit different banks ofthe river of death. 

III

Her clothes were clotted in the mud; strange thoughts and walking bynight had given her the aspect of a madwoman; truly, her apparition wassuch that folk might have been afraid of her, and children might havestoned her or run away. Luckily, the first to catch sight of her was atraveller. He came up, and said: "Mother, you look a respectable woman. Wherever are you going, alone and in this guise?"

Kadambini, unable to collect her thoughts, stared at him in silence. She could not think that she was still in touch with the world, thatshe looked like a respectable woman, that a traveller was asking herquestions. 

Again the min said: "Come, mother, I will see you home. Tell me whereyou live. "

Kadambini thought. To return to her father-in-law's house would beabsurd, and she had no father's house. Then she remembered the friend ofher childhood. She had not seen Jogmaya since the days of her youth, but from time to time they had exchanged letters. Occasionally there hadbeen quarrels between them, as was only right, since Kadambini wished tomake it dear that her love for Jogmaya was unbounded, while her friendcomplained that Kadambini did not return a love equal to her own. Theywere both sure that, if they once met, they would be inseparable. 

Kadambini said to the traveller: "I will go to Sripati's house atNisindapur. "

As he was going to Calcutta, Nisindapur, though not near, was on hisway. So he took Kadambini to Sripati s house, and the friends metagain. At first they did not recognise one another, but gradually eachrecognised the features of the other's childhood. 

"What luck!" said Jogmaya. "I never dreamt that I should see you again. But how hate you come here, sister? Your father-in-law's folk surelydidn't let you go!"

Kadambini remained silent, and at last said: "Sister, do not ask aboutmy father-in-law. Give me a corner, and treat me as a servant: I will doyour work. "

"What?" cried Jogmaya. "Keep you like a servant! Why, you are my closestfriend, you are my--" and so on and so on. 

Just then Sripati came in. Kadambini stared at him for some time, andthen went out very slowly. She kept her head uncovered, and showed notthe slightest modesty or respect. Jogmaya, fearing that Sripati wouldbe prejudiced against her friend, began an elaborate explanation. ButSripati, who readily agreed to anything Jogmaya said, cut short herstory, and left his wife uneasy in her mind. 

Kadambini had come, but she was not at one with her friend: death wasbetween them. She could feel no intimacy for others so long as herexistence perplexed her and consciousness remained. Kadambini would lookat Jogmaya, and brood. She would think: "She has her husband and herwork, she lives in a world far away from mine. She shares affection andduty with the people of the world; I am an empty shadow. She is amongthe living; I am in eternity. "

Jogmaya also was uneasy, but could not explain why. Women do not lovemystery, because, though uncertainty may be transmuted into poetry, intoheroism, into scholarship, it cannot be turned to account in householdwork. So, when a woman cannot understand a thing, she either destroysand forgets it, or she shapes it anew for her own use; if she fails todeal with it in one of these ways, she loses her temper with it. Thegreater Kadambini's abstraction became, the more impatient was Jogmayawith her, wondering what trouble weighed upon her mind. 

Then a new danger arose. Kadambini was afraid of herself; yet she couldnot flee from herself. Those who fear ghosts fear those who are behindthem; wherever they cannot see there is fear. But Kadambini's chiefterror lay in herself, for she dreaded nothing external. At the dead ofnight, when alone in her room, she screamed; in the evening, when shesaw her shadow in the lamp-light, her whole body shook. Watching herfearfulness, the rest of the house fell into a sort of terror. Theservants and Jogmaya herself began to see ghosts. 

One midnight, Kadambini came out from her bedroom weeping, and wailed atJogmaya's door: "Sister, sister, let me lie at your feet! Do not put meby myself!"

Jogmaya's anger was no less than her fear. She would have liked to driveKadambini from the house that very second. The good-natured Sripati, after much effort, succeeded in quieting their guest, and put her in thenext room. 

Next day Sripati was unexpectedly summoned to his wife's apartments. She began to upbraid him: "You, do you call yourself a man? A woman runsaway from her father-in-law, and enters your house; a month passes, and you haven't hinted that she should go away, nor have I heard theslightest protest from you. I should cake it as a favour if you wouldexplain yourself. You men are all alike. "

Men, as a race, have a natural partiality for womankind in general, foe which women themselves hold them accountable. Although Sripatiwas prepared to touch Jogmaya's body, and swear that his kind feelingtowards the helpless but beautiful Kadambini was no whit greater than itshould be, he could not prove it by his behaviour. He thought that herfather-in-law's people must have treated this forlorn widow abominably, if she could bear it no longer, and was driven to take refuge withhim. As she had neither father nor mother, how could he desert her? Sosaying, he let the matter drop, far he had no mind to distress Kadambiniby asking her unpleasant questions. 

His wife, then, tried other means of her sluggish lord, until at lasthe saw that for the sake of peace he must send word to Kadambini'sfather-in-law. The result of a letter, he thought, might not besatisfactory; so he resolved to go to Ranihat, and act on what helearnt. 

So Sripati went, and Jogmaya on her part said to Kadambini "Friend, ithardly seems proper for you to stop here any longer. What will peoplesay?"

Kadambini stared solemnly at Jogmaya, and said: "What have I to do withpeople?"

Jogmaya was astounded. Then she said sharply: "If you have nothing todo with people, we have. How can we explain the detention of a womanbelonging to another house?"

Kadambini said: "Where is my father-in-law's house?"

"Confound it!" thought Jogmaya. "What will the wretched woman say next?"

Very slowly Kadambini said: "What have I to do with you? Am I of theearth? You laugh, weep, love; each grips and holds his own; I merelylook. You are human, I a shadow. I cannot understand why God has kept mein this world of yours. "

So strange were her look and speech that Jogmaya understood something ofher drift, though not all. Unable either to dismiss her, or to ask herany more questions, she went away, oppressed with thought. 

IV

It was nearly ten o'clock at night when Sripati returned from Ranihat. The earth was drowned in torrents of rain. It seemed that the downpourwould never stop, that the night would never end. 

Jogmaya asked: "Well?"

"I've lots to say, presently. "

So saying, Sripati changed his clothes, and sat down to supper; then helay dawn for a smoke. His mind was perplexed. 

His wife stilled her curiosity for a long time; then she came to hiscouch and demanded: "What did you hear?"

"That you have certainly made a mistake. "

Jogmaya was nettled. Women never make mistakes, or, if they do, asensible man never mentions them; it is better to take them on his ownshoulders. Jogmaya snapped: "May I be permitted to hear how?"

Sripati replied: "The woman you have taken into your house is not yourKadambini. "

Hearing this, she was greatly annoyed, especially since it was herhusband who said it. "What! I don't know my own friend? I must come toyou to recognise her! You are clever, indeed!"

Sripati explained that there was no need to quarrel about hiscleverness. He could prove what he said. There was no doubt thatJogmaya's Kadambini was dead. 

Jogmaya replied: "Listen! You've certainly made some huge mistake. You've been to the wrong house, or are confused as to what you haveheard. Who told you to go yourself? Write a letter, and everything willbe cleared up. "

Sripati was hurt by his wife's lack of faith in his executive ability;he produced all sorts of proof, without result. Midnight found themstill asserting and contradicting. Although they were both agreed nowthat Kadambini should be got out of the house, although Sripati believedthat their guest had deceived his wife all the time by a pretendedacquaintance, and Jogmaya that she was a prostitute, yet in the presentdiscussion neither would acknowledge defeat. By degrees their voicesbecame so loud that they forgot that Kadambini was sleeping in the nextroom. 

The one said: "We're in a nice fix! I tell you, I heard it with my ownears!" And the other answered angrily: "What do I care about that? I cansee with my own eyes, surely. "

At length Jogmaya said: "Very well. Tell me when Kadambini died. " Shethought that if she could find a discrepancy between the day of deathand the date of some letter from Kadambini, she could prove that Sripatierred. 

He told her the date of Kadambini's death, and they both saw that itfell on the very day before she came to their house. Jogmaya's hearttrembled, even Sripati was not unmoved. 

Just then the door flew open; a damp wind swept in and blew the lampout. The darkness rushed after it, and filled the whole house. Kadambinistood in the room. It was nearly one o'clock, the rain was peltingoutside. 

Kadambini spoke: "Friend, I am your Kadambini, but I am no longerliving. I am dead. "

Jogmaya screamed with terror; Sripati could speak. 

"But, save in being dead, I have done you no wrong. If I have no placeamong the living, I have none among the dead. Oh! whither shall I go?"

Crying as if to wake the sleeping Creator in the dense night of rain, she asked again: "Oh! whither shall I go?"

So saying Kadambini left her friend fainting in the dark house, and wentout into the world, seeking her own place. 

V

It is hard to say how Kadambini reached Ranihat. At first she showedherself to no one, but spent the whole day in a ruined temple, starving. When the untimely afternoon of the rains was pitch-black, and peoplehuddled into their houses for fear of the impending storm, thenKadambini came forth. Her heart trembled as she reached herfather-in-law's house; and when, drawing a thick veil over her face, she entered, none of the doorkeepers objected, since they took her for aservant. And the rain was pouring down, and the wind howled. 

The mistress, Saradasankar's wife, was playing cards with her widowedsister. A servant was in the kitchen, the sick child was sleeping in thebedroom. Kadambini, escaping every one's notice, entered this room. I donot know why she had come to her father-in-law's house; she herself didnot know; she felt only that she wanted to see her child again. She hadno thought where to go next, or what to do. 

In the lighted room she saw the child sleeping, his fists clenched, hisbody wasted with fever. At sight of him, her heart became parched andthirsty. If only she could press that tortured body to her breast!Immediately the thought followed: "I do not exist. Who would see it? Hismother loves company, loves gossip and cards. All the time that she leftme in charge, she was herself free from anxiety, nor was she troubledabout him in the least. Who will look after him now as I did?"

The child turned on his side, and cried, half-asleep: "Auntie, giveme water. " Her darling had not yet forgotten his auntie! In a fever ofexcitement, she poured out some water, and, taking him to her breast, she gave it him. 

As long as he was asleep, the child felt no strangeness in taking waterfrom the accustomed hand. But when Kadambini satisfied her long-starvedlonging, and kissed him and began rocking him asleep again, he awoke andembraced her. "Did you die, Auntie?" he asked. 

"Yes, darling. "

"And you have come back? Do not die again. "

Before she could answer disaster overtook her. One of the maidservantscoming in with a cup of sago dropped it, and fell down. At the crash themistress left her cards, and entered the room. She stood like a pillarof wood, unable to flee or speak. Seeing all this, the child, too, became terrified, and burst out weeping: "Go away, Auntie, " he said, "goaway!"

Now at last Kadambini understood that she had not died. The old room, the old things, the same child, the same love, all returned to theirliving state, without change or difference between her and them. In herfriend's house she had felt that her childhood's companion was dead. Inher child's room she knew that the boy's "Auntie" was not dead at all. In anguished tones she said: "Sister, why do you dread me? See, I am asyou knew me. "

Her sister-in-law could endure no longer, and fell into a faint. Saradasankar himself entered the zenana. With folded hands, he saidpiteously: "Is this right? Satis is my only son. Why do you showyourself to him? Are we not your own kin? Since you went, he has wastedaway daily; his fever has been incessant; day and night he cries:'Auntie, Auntie. ' You have left the world; break these bonds of maya(Illusory affection binding a soul to the world). We will perform allfuneral honours. "

Kadambini could bear no more. She said: "Oh, I am not dead, I am notdead. Oh, how can I persuade you that I am not dead? I am living, living!" She lifted a brass pot from the ground and dashed it againsther forehead. The blood ran from her brow. "Look!" she cried, "I amliving!" Saradasankar stood like an image; the child screamed with fear, the two fainting women lay still. 

Then Kadambini, shouting "I am not dead, I am not dead, " went downthe steps to the zenana well, and plunged in. From the upper storeySaradasankar heard the splash. 

All night the rain poured; it poured next day at dawn, was pouring stillat noon. By dying, Kadambini had given proof that she was not dead. 

"WE CROWN THEE KING"

When Nabendu Sekhar was wedded to Arunlekha, the God of marriage smiledfrom behind the sacrificial fire. Alas! what is sport for the gods isnot always a joke to us poor mortals. 

Purnendu Sekhar, the father of Nabendu, was a man well known amongstthe English officials of the Government. In the voyage of life he hadarrived at the desert shores of Rai Bahadurship by diligently plying hisoats of salaams. He held in reserve enough for further advancement, butat the age of fifty-five, his tender gaze still fixed on the misty pealsof Raja-hood, he suddenly found himself transported to a region whereearthly honours and decorations are naught, and his salaam-wearied neckfound everlasting repose on the funeral pyre. 

According to modern science, force is not destroyed, but is merelyconverted to another form, and applied to another point. So Purnendu'ssalaam-force, constant handmaid of the fickle Goddess of Fortune, descended from the shoulder of the father to that of his worthy son; andthe youthful head of Nabendu Sekhar began to move up and down, at thedoors of high-placed Englishmen, like a pumpkin swayed by the wind. 

The traditions of the family into which he had married were entirelydifferent. Its eldest son, Pramathanath, had won for himself the loveof his kinsfolk and the regard of all who knew him. His kinsmen and hisneighbours looked up to him as their ideal in all things. 

Pramathanath was a Bachelor of Arts, and in addition was gifted withcommon sense. But he held no high official position; he had no handsomesalary; nor did he exert any influence with his pen. There was no one inpower to lend him a helping hand, because he desired to keep awayfrom Englishmen, as much as they desired to keep away from him. So ithappened that he shone only within the sphere of his family and hisfriends, and excited no admiration beyond it. 

Yet this Pramathanath had once sojourned in England for some threeyears. The kindly treatment he received during his stay thereoverpowered him so much that he forgot the sorrow and the humiliation ofhis own country, and came back dressed in European clothes. This rathergrieved his brothers and his sisters at first, but after a few days theybegan to think that European clothes suited nobody better, and graduallythey came to share his pride and dignity. 

On his return from England, Pramathanath resolved that he would show theworld how to associate with Anglo-Indians on terms of equality. Those ofour countrymen who think that no such association is possible, unlesswe bend our knees to them, showed their utter lack of self-respect, andwere also unjust to the English-so thought Pramathanath. 

He brought with him letters of introduction from many distinguishedEnglishmen at home, and these gave him some recognition in Anglo-Indiansociety. He and his wife occasionally enjoyed English hospitality attea, dinner, sports and other entertainments. Such good luck intoxicatedhim, and began to produce a tingling sensation in every vein of hisbody. 

About this time, at the opening of a new railway line, many of thetown, proud recipients of official favour, were invited by theLieutenant-Governor to take the first trip. Pramathanath was among them. On the return journey, a European Sergeant of the Police expelledsome Indian gentlemen from a railway-carriage with great insolence. Pramathanath, dressed in his European clothes, was there. He, too, wasgetting out, when the Sergeant said: "You needn't move, sir. Keep yourseat, please. "

At first Pramathanath felt flattered at the special respect thus shownto him. When, however, the train went on, the dull rays of the settingsun, at the west of the fields, now ploughed up and stripped of green, seemed in his eyes to spread a glow of shame over the whole country. Sitting near the window of his lonely compartment, he seemed to catcha glimpse of the down-cast eyes of his Motherland, hidden behind thetrees. As Pramathanath sat there, lost in reverie, burning tears floweddown his cheeks, and his heart burst with indignation. 

He now remembered the story of a donkey who was drawing the chariotof an idol along the street. The wayfarers bowed down to the idol, and touched the dusty ground with their foreheads. The foolish donkeyimagined that all this reverence was being shown to him. "The onlydifference, " said Pramathanath to himself, "between the donkey andmyself is this: I understand to-day that the respect I receive is notgiven to me but to the burden on my back. "

Arriving home, Pramathanath called together all the children of thehousehold, and lighting a big bonfire, threw all his European clothesinto it one by one. The children danced round and round it, and thehigher the flames shot up, the greater was their merriment. After that, Pramathanath gave up his sip of tea and bits of toast in Anglo-Indianhouses, and once again sat inaccessible within the castle of his house, while his insulted friends went about from the door of one Englishman tothat of another, bending their turbaned heads as before. 

By an irony of fate, poor Nabendu Sekhar married the second daughter ofthis house. His sisters-in-law were well educated and handsome. Nabenduconsidered he had made a lucky bargain. But he lost no time in trying toimpress on the family that it was a rare bargain on their side also. Asif by mistake, he would often hand to his sisters-in-law sundry lettersthat his late father had received from Europeans. And when the cherrylips of those young ladies smiled sarcastically, and the point of ashining dagger peeped out of its sheath of red velvet, the unfortunateman saw his folly, and regretted it. 

Labanyalekha, the eldest sister, surpassed the rest in beauty andcleverness. Finding an auspicious day, she put on the mantel-shelf ofNabendu's bedroom two pairs of English boots, daubed with vermilion, andarranged flowers, sandal-paste, incense and a couple of burning candlesbefore them in true ceremonial fashion. When Nabendu came in, thetwo sisters-in-law stood on either side of him, and said with mocksolemnity: "Bow down to your gods, and may you prosper through theirblessings. "

The third sister Kiranlekha spent many days in embroidering with redsilk one hundred common English names such as Jones, Smith, Brown, Thomson, etc. , on a chadar. When it was ready, she presented thisnamavoli (A namavoli is a sheet of cloth printed all over with the namesof Hindu gods and goddesses and worn by pious Hindus when engaged indevotional exercises. ) to Nabendu Sekhar with great ceremony. 

The fourth, Sasankalekha, of tender age and therefore of no account, said: "I will make you a string of beads, brother, with which to tellthe names of your gods-the sahibs. " Her sisters reproved her, saying:"Run away, you saucy girl. "

Feelings of shame and irritation assailed by turns the mind of NabenduSekhar. Still he could not forego the company of his sisters-in-law, especially as the eldest one was beautiful. Her honey was no less thanher gall, and Nabendu's mind tasted at once the sweetness of the oneand the bitterness of the other. The butterfly, with its bruised wings, buzzes round the flower in blind fury, unable to depart. 

The society of his sisters-in-Law so much infatuated him that at lastNabendu began to disavow his craving for European favours. When hewent to salaam the Burra Sahib, he used to pretend that he was goingto listen to a speech by Mr. Surendranath Banerjea. When he went tothe railway station to pay respects to the Chota Sahib, returningfrom Darjeeling, he would tell his sisters-in-law that he expected hisyoungest uncle. 

It was a sore trial to the unhappy man placed between the cross-fires ofhis Sahibs and his sisters-in-law. The sisters-in-law, however, secretlyvowed that they would not rest till the Sahibs had been put to rout. 

About this time it was rumoured that Nabendu's name would be includedin the forthcoming list of Birthday honours, and that he would mount thefirst step of the ladder to Paradise by becoming a Rai Bahadur. Thepoor fellow had not the courage to break the joyful news to hissisters-in-law. One evening, however, when the autumn moon was floodingthe earth with its mischievous beams, Nabendu's heart was so full thathe could not contain himself any longer, and he told his wife. Thenext day, Mrs. Nabendu betook herself to her eldest sister's house in apalanquin, and in a voice choked with tears bewailed her lot. 

"He isn't going to grow a tail, " said Labanya, "by becoming a RaiBahadur, is he? Why should you feel so very humiliated?"

"Oh, no, sister dear, " replied Arunlekha, "I am prepared to beanything--but not a Rai-Baha-durni. " The fact was that in her circleof acquaintances there was one Bhutnath Babu, who was a Rai Bahadur, andthat explained her intense aversion to that title. 

Labanya said to her sister in soothing tones: "Don't be upset about it, dear; I will see what I can do to prevent it. "

Babu Nilratan, the husband of Labanya, was a pleader at Buxar. When theautumn was over, Nabendu received an invitation from Labanya to pay thema visit, and he started for Buxar greatly pleased. 

The early winter of the western province endowed Labanyalekha with newhealth and beauty, and brought a glowing colour to her pale cheeks, Shelooked like the flower-laden kasa reeds on a clear autumn day, growingby the lonely bank of a rivulet. To Nabendu's enchanted eyes sheappeared like a malati plant in full blossom, showering dew-dropsbrilliant with the morning light. 

Nabendu had never felt better in his life. The exhilaration of his ownhealth and the genial company of his pretty sister-in-law made him thinkhimself light enough to tread on air. The Ganges in front of the gardenseemed to him to be flowing ceaselessly to regions unknown, as though itgave shape to his own wild fantasies. 

As he returned in the early morning from his walk on the bank of theriver, the mellow rays of the winter sun gave his whole frame thatpleasing sensation of warmth which lovers feel in each other's arms. Coming home, he would now and then find his sister-in-Law amusingherself by cooking some dishes. He would offer his help, and display hiswant of skill and ignorance at every step. But Nabendu did not appear tobe at all anxious to improve himself by practice and attention. Onthe contrary he thoroughly enjoyed the rebukes he received from hissister-in-law. He was at great pains to prove every day that he wasinefficient and helpless as a new-born babe in mixing spices, handlingthe saucepan, and regulating the heat so as to prevent things gettingburnt-and he was duly rewarded with pitiful smiles and scoldings. 

In the middle of the day he ate a great deal of the good food set beforehim, incited by his keen appetite and the coaxing of his sister-in-law. Later on, he would sit down to a game of cards--at which he betrayedthe same lack of ability. He would cheat, pry into his adversary's hand, quarrel--but never did he win a single rubber, and worse still, he wouldnot acknowledge defeat. This brought him abuse every day, and still heremained incorrigible. 

There was, however, one matter in which his reform was complete. For thetime at least, he had forgotten that to win the smiles of Sahibs was thefinal goal of life. He was beginning to understand how happy and worthywe might feel by winning the affection and esteem of those near and dearto us. 

Besides, Nabendu was now moving in a new atmosphere. Labanya's husband, Babu Nilratan, a leader of the bar, was reproached by many becausehe refused to pay his respects to European officials. To all suchreproaches Nilratan would reply: "No, thank you, --if they are not politeenough to return my call, then the politeness I offer them is a lossthat can never be made up for. The sands of the desert may be very whiteand shiny, but I would much rather sow my seeds in black soil, where Ican expect a return. "

And Nabendu began to adopt similar ideas, all regardless of the future. His chance of Rai Bahadurship throve on the soil carefully prepared byhis late father and also by himself in days gone by, nor was any freshwatering required. Had he not at great expense laid out a splendidrace-course in a town, which was a fashionable resort of Europeans?

When the time of Congress drew near, Nilratan received a request fromhead-quarters to collect subscriptions. Nabendu, free from anxiety, was merrily engaged in a game of cards with his sister-in-law, whenNilratan Babu came upon him with a subscription-book in his hand, andsaid: "Your signature, please. "

From old habit Nabendu looked horrified. Labanya, assuming an air ofgreat concern and anxiety, said: "Never do that. It would ruin yourracecourse beyond repair. "

Nabendu blurted out: "Do you suppose I pass sleepless nights throughfear of that?"

"We won't publish your name in the papers, " said Nilratan reassuringly. 

Labanya, looking grave and anxious, said: "Still, it wouldn't be safe. Things spread so, from mouth to mouth--"

Nabendu replied with vehemence: "My name wouldn't suffer by appearingin the newspapers. " So saying, he snatched the subscription list fromNilratan's hand, and signed away a thousand rupees. Secretly he hopedthat the papers would not publish the news. 

Labanya struck her forehead with her palm and gasped out: "What--haveyou--done?"

"Nothing wrong, " said Nabendu boastfully. 

"But--but--, " drawled Labanya, "the Guard sahib of Sealdah Station, the shop-assistant at Whiteaway's, the syce-sahib of Hart Bros. --thesegentlemen might be angry with you, and decline to come to your Poojahdinner to drink your champagne, you know. Just think, they mightn't patyou on the back, when you meet them again!"

"It wouldn't break my heart, " Nabendu snapped out. 

A few days passed. One morning Nabendu was sipping his tea, and glancingat a newspaper. Suddenly a letter signed "X" caught his eye. The writerthanked him profusely for his donation, and declared that the increaseof strength the Congress had acquired by having such a man within itsfold, was inestimable. 

Alas, father Purnendu Sekhar! Was it to increase the strength of theCongress, that you brought this wretch into the world?

Put the cloud of misfortune had its silver lining. That he was not amere cypher was clear from the fact that the Anglo-Indian community onthe one side and the Congress on the other were each waiting patiently, eager to hook him, and land him on their own side. So Nabendu, beamingwith pleasure took the paper to his sister-in-law, and showed her theletter. Looking as though she knew nothing about it, Labanya exclaimedin surprise: "Oh, what a pity! Everything has come out! Who bore yousuch ill-will? Oh, how cruel of him, how wicked of him!"

Nabendu laughed out, saying: "Now--now--don't call him names, Labanya. Iforgive him with all my heart, and bless him too. "

A couple of days after this, an anti-Congress Anglo-Indian paper reachedNabendu through the post. There was a letter in it, signed "One whoknows, " and contradicting the above report. "Those who have the pleasureof Babu Nabendu Sekhar's personal acquaintance, " the writer went on, "cannot for a moment believe this absurd libel to be true. For him toturn a Congresswalla is as impossible as it is for the leopard to changehis spots. He is a man of genuine worth, and neither a disappointedcandidate for Government employ nor a briefless barrister. He is not oneof those who, after a brief sojourn in England, return aping our dressand manners, audaciously try to thrust themselves on Anglo-Indiansociety, and finally go back in dejection. So there is absolutely noreason why Balm Nabendu Sekhar, " etc. , etc. 

Ah, father Purnendu Sekhar! What a reputation you had made with theEuropeans before you died!

This letter also was paraded before his sister-in-law, for did it notassert that he was no mean, contemptible scallywag, but a man of realworth?

Labanya exclaimed again in feigned surprise: "Which of your friendswrote it now? Oh, come--is it the Ticket Collector, or the hidemerchant, or is it the drum-major of the Fort?"

"You ought to send in a contradiction, I think, " said Nilratan. 

"Is it necessary?" said Nabendu loftily. "Must I contradict every littlething they choose to say against me?"

Labanya filled the room with a deluge of laughter. Nabendu felt a littledisconcerted at this, and said: "Why? What's the matter?" She went onlaughing, unable to check herself, and her youthful slender form wavedto and fro. This torrent of merriment had the effect of overthrowingNabendu completely, and he said in pitiable accents: "Do you imaginethat I am afraid to contradict it?"

"Oh, dear, no, " said Labanya; "I was thinking that you haven't yetceased trying to save that race-course of yours, so full of promise. While there is life, there is hope, you know. "

"That's what I am afraid of, you think, do you? Very well, you shallsee, " said Nabendu desperately, and forthwith sat down to write hiscontradiction. When he had finished, Labanya and Nilratan read itthrough, and said: "It isn't strong enough. We must give it them prettyhot, mustn't we?" And they kindly undertook to revise the composition. Thus it ran: "When one connected to us by ties of blood turns our enemyhe becomes far more dangerous than any outsider. To the Government ofIndia, the haughty Anglo-Indians are worse enemies than the Russiansor the frontier Pathans themselves--they are the impenetrable barrier, forever hindering the growth of any bond of friendship between theGovernment and people of the country. It is the Congress which hasopened up the royal road to a better understanding between the rulersand the ruled, and the Anglo-Indian papers have planted themselves likethorns across the whole breadth of that road, " etc. , etc. 

Nabendu had an inward fear as to the mischief this letter might do, butat the same time he felt elated at the excellence of its composition, which he fondly imagined to be his own. It was duly published, andfor some days comments, replies, and rejoinders went on in variousnewspapers, and the air was full of trumpet-notes, proclaiming thefact that Nabendu had joined the Congress, and the amount of hissubscription. 

Nabendu, now grown desperate, talked as though he was a patriot ofthe fiercest type. Labanya laughed inwardly, and said to herself:"Well---well--you have to pass through the ordeal of fire yet. "

One morning when Nabendu, before his bath, had finished rubbing oilover his chest, and was trying various devices to reach the inaccessibleportions of his back, the bearer brought in a card inscribed with thename of the District Magistrate himself! Good heavens!--What would hedo? He could not possibly go, and receive the Magistrate Sahib, thusoil-besmeared. He shook and twitched like a koi-fish, ready dressed forthe frying pan. He finished his bath in a great hurry, tugged on hisclothes somehow, and ran breathlessly to the outer apartments. Thebearer said that the Sahib had just left after waiting for a long time. How much of the blame for concocting this drama of invented incidentsmay be set down to Labanya, and how much to the bearer is a nice problemfor ethical mathematics to solve. 

Nabendu's heart was convulsed with pain within his breast, like the tailof a lizard just cut off. He moped like an owl all day long. 

Labanya banished all traces of inward merriment from her face, and kepton enquiring in anxious tones: "What has happened to you? You are notill, I hope?"

Nabendu made great efforts to smile, and find a humorous reply. "Howcan there be, " he managed to say, "any illness within your jurisdiction, since you yourself are the Goddess of Health?"

But the smile soon flickered out. His thoughts were: "I subscribedto the Congress fund to begin with, published a nasty letter in anewspaper, and on the top of that, when the Magistrate Sahib himselfdid me the honour to call on me, I kept him waiting. I wonder what he isthinking of me. "

Alas, father Purnendu Sekhar, by an irony of Fate I am made to appearwhat I am not. 

The next morning, Nabendu decked himself in his best clothes, wore hiswatch and chain, and put a big turban on his head. 

"Where are you off to?" enquired his sister-in-law. 

"Urgent business, " Nabendu replied. Labanya kept quiet. 

Arriving at the Magistrate's gate, he took out his card-case. 

"You cannot see him now, " said the orderly peon icily. 

Nabendu took out a couple of rupees from his pocket. The peon at oncesalaamed him and said: "There are five of us, sir. " Immediately Nabendupulled out a ten-rupee note, and handed it to him. 

He was sent for by the Magistrate, who was writing in his dressing-gownand bedroom slippers. Nabendu salaamed him. The Magistrate pointed toa chair with his finger, and without raising his eyes from the paperbefore him said: "What can I do for you, Babu?"

Fingering his watch-chain nervously, Nabendu said is shaky tones:"Yesterday you were good enough to call at my place, sir--"

The Sahib knitted his brows, and, lifting just one eye from his paper, said: "I called at your place! Babu, what nonsense are you talking?"

"Beg your pardon, sir, " faltered out Nabendu. "There has been amistake--some confusion, " and wet with perspiration, he tumbled outof the room somehow. And that night, as he lay tossing on his bed, adistant dream-like voice came into his ear with a recurring persistency:"Babu, you are a howling idiot. "

On his way home, Nabendu came to the conclusion that the Magistratedenied having called, simply because he was highly offended. 

So he explained to Labanya that he had been out purchasing rose-water. No sooner had he uttered the words than half-a-dozen chuprassis wearingthe Collectorate badge made their appearance, and after salaamingNabendu, stood there grinning. 

"Have they come to arrest you because you subscribed to the Congressfund?" whispered Labanya with a smile. 

The six peons displayed a dozen rows of teeth and said:"Bakshish--Babu-Sahib. "

From a side room Nilratan came out, and said in an irritated manner:"Bakshish? What for?"

The peons, grinning as before, answered: "The Babu-Sahib went to see theMagistrate--so we have come for bakshish. "

"I didn't know, " laughed out Labanya, "that the Magistrate was sellingrose-water nowadays. Coolness wasn't the special feature of his tradebefore. "

Nabendu in trying to reconcile the story of his purchase with his visitto the Magistrate, uttered some incoherent words, which nobody couldmake sense of. 

Nilratan spoke to the peons: "There has been no occasion for bakshish;you shan't have it. "

Nabendu said, feeling very small: "Oh, they are poor men--what'sthe harm of giving them something?" And he took out a currency note. Nilratan snatched it way from Nabendu's hand, remarking: "There arepoorer men in the world--I will give it to them for you. "

Nabendu felt greatly distressed that he was not able to appease theseghostly retainers of the angry Siva. When the peons were leaving, withthunder in their eyes, he looked at them languishingly, as much as tosay: "You know everything, gentlemen, it is not my fault. "

The Congress was to be held at Calcutta this year. Nilratan went downthither with his wife to attend the sittings. Nabendu accompanied them. 

As soon as they arrived at Calcutta, the Congress party surroundedNabendu, and their delight and enthusiasm knew no bounds. They cheeredhim, honoured him, and extolled him up to the skies. Everybody saidthat, unless leading men like Nabendu devoted themselves to the Cause, there was no hope for the country. Nabendu was disposed to agree withthem, and emerged out of the chaos of mistake and confusion as a leaderof the country. When he entered the Congress Pavilion on the first day, everybody stood up, and shouted "Hip, hip, hurrah, " in a loud outlandishvoice, hearing which our Motherland reddened with shame to the root ofher ears. 

In due time the Queen's birthday came, and Nabendu's name was not foundin the list of Rai Bahadurs. 

He received an invitation from Labanya for that evening. When he arrivedthere, Labanya with great pomp and ceremony presented him with a robeof honour, and with her own hand put a mark of red sandal paste on themiddle of his forehead. Each of the other sisters threw round his neck agarland of flowers woven by herself. Decked in a pink Sari and dazzlingjewels, his wife Arunlekha was waiting in a side room, her face lit upwith smiles and blushes. Her sisters rushed to her, and, placing anothergarland in her hand, insisted that she also should come, and do herpart in the ceremony, but she would not listen to it; and that principalgarland, cherishing a desire for Nabendu's neck, waited patiently forthe still secrecy of midnight. 

The sisters said to Nabendu: "To-day we crown thee King. Such honourwill not be done to any body else in Hindoostan. "

Whether Nabendu derived any consolation from this, he alone can tell;but we greatly doubt it. We believe, in fact, that he will become aRai Bahadur before he has done, and the Englishman and the Pioneer willwrite heart-rending articles lamenting his demise at the proper time. So, in the meanwhile, Three Cheers for Babu Purnendu Sekhar! Hip, hip, hurrah--Hip, hip, hurrah--Hip, hip, hurrah. 

THE RENUNCIATION

I

It was a night of full moon early in the month of Phalgun. The youthfulspring was everywhere sending forth its breeze laden with the fragranceof mango-blossoms. The melodious notes of an untiring papiya (One of thesweetest songsters in Bengal. Anglo-Indian writers have nicknamed it the"brain-fever bird, " which is a sheer libel. ), concealed within thethick foliage of an old lichi tree by the side of a tank, penetrated asleepless bedroom of the Mukerji family. There Hemanta now restlesslytwisted a lock of his wife's hair round his finger, now beat her churlagainst her wristlet until it tinkled, now pulled at the chaplet offlowers about her head, and left it hanging over hex face. His moodwas that of as evening breeze which played about a favourite floweringshrub, gently shaking her now this side, now that, in the hope ofrousing her to animation. 

But Kusum sat motionless, looking out of the open window, with eyesimmersed in the moonlit depth of never-ending space beyond. Herhusband's caresses were lost on her. 

At last Hemanta clasped both the hands of his wife, and, shaking themgently, said: "Kusum, where are you? A patient search through a bigtelescope would reveal you only as a small speck-you seem to havereceded so far away. O, do come closer to me, dear. See how beautifulthe night is. "

Kusum turned her eyes from the void of space towards her husband, andsaid slowly: "I know a mantra (A set of magic words. ), which could inone moment shatter this spring night and the moon into pieces. "

"If you do, " laughed Hemanta, "pray don't utter it. If any mantra ofyours could bring three or four Saturdays during the week, and prolongthe nights till 5 P. M. The next day, say it by all means. "

Saying this, he tried to draw his wife a little closer to him. Kusum, freeing herself from the embrace, said: "Do you know, to-night I feela longing to tell you what I promised to reveal only on my death-bed. To-night I feel that I could endure whatever punishment you mightinflict on me. "

Hemanta was on the point of making a jest about punishments by recitinga verse from Jayadeva, when the sound of an angry pair of slipperswas heard approaching rapidly. They were the familiar footsteps of hisfather, Haribar Mukerji, and Hemanta, not knowing what it meant, was ina flutter of excitement. 

Standing outside the door Harihar roared out: "Hemanta, turn your wifeout of the house immediately. "

Hemanta looked at his wife, and detected no trace of surprise in herfeatures. She merely buried her face within the palms of her hands, and, with all the strength and intensity of her soul, wished that she couldthen and there melt into nothingness. It was the same papiya whosesong floated into the room with the south breeze, and no one heard it. Endless are the beauties of the earth-but alas, how easily everything istwisted out of shape. 

II

Returning from without, Hemanta asked his wife: "Is it true?"

"It is, " replied Kusum. 

"Why didn't you tell me long ago?"

"I did try many a time, and I always failed. I am a wretched woman. "

"Then tell me everything now. "

Kusum gravely told her story in a firm unshaken voice. She wadedbarefooted through fire, as it were, with slow unflinching steps, andnobody knew how much she was scorched. Having heard her to the end, Hemanta rose and walked out. 

Kusum thought that her husband had gone, never to return to her again. It did not strike her as strange. She took it as naturally as any otherincident of everyday life-so dry and apathetic had her mind becomeduring the last few moments. Only the world and love seemed to her asa void and make-believe from beginning to end. Even the memory of theprotestations of love, which her husband had made to her in days past, brought to her lips a dry, hard, joyless smile, like a sharp cruel knifewhich had cut through her heart. She was thinking, perhaps, that thelove which seemed to fill so much of one's life, which brought in itstrain such fondness and depth of feeling, which made even the briefestseparation so exquisitely painful and a moment's union so intenselysweet, which seemed boundless in its extent and eternal in itsduration, the cessation of which could not be imagined even in births tocome--that this was that love! So feeble was its support! No sooner doesthe priesthood touch it than your "eternal" love crumbles into a handfulof dust! Only a short while ago Hemanta had whispered to her: "What abeautiful night!" The same night was not yet at an end, the same yapiyawas still warbling, the same south breeze still blew into the roam, making the bed-curtain shiver; the same moonlight lay on the bed nextthe open window, sleeping like a beautiful heroine exhausted withgaiety. All this was unreal! Love was more falsely dissembling than sheherself!

III

The next morning Hemanta, fagged after a sleepless night, and lookinglike one distracted, called at the house of Peari Sankar Ghosal. "Whatnews, my son?" Peari Sankar greeted him. 

Hemanta, flaring up like a big fire, said in a trembling voice: "Youhave defiled our caste. You have brought destruction upon us. And youwill have to pay for it. " He could say no more; he felt choked. 

"And you have preserved my caste, presented my ostracism from thecommunity, and patted me on the back affectionately!" said Peari Sankarwith a slight sarcastic smile. 

Hemanta wished that his Brahmin-fury could reduce Peari Sankar to ashesin a moment, but his rage burnt only himself. Peari Sankar sat beforehim unscathed, and in the best of health. 

"Did I ever do you any harm?" demanded Hemanta in a broken voice. 

"Let me ask you one question, " said Peari Sankar. "My daughter--my onlychild-what harm had she done your father? You were very young then, and probably never heard. Listen, then. Now, don't you excite yourself. There is much humour in what I am going to relate. 

"You were quite small when my son-in-law Nabakanta ran away to Englandafter stealing my daughter's jewels. You might truly remember thecommotion in the village when he returned as a barrister five yearslater. Or, perhaps, you were unaware of it, as you were at school inCalcutta at the time. Your father, arrogating to himself the headshipof the community, declared that if I sent my daughter to her husband'shome, I must renounce her for good, and never again allow her to crossmy threshold. I fell at your father's feet, and implored him, saying:'Brother, save me this once. I will make the boy swallow cow-dung, andgo through the prayaschittam ceremony. Do take him back into caste. ' Butyour father remained obdurate. For my part, I could not disown my onlychild, and, bidding good-bye to my village and my kinsmen, I betookmyself to Calcutta. There, too, my troubles followed me. When I had madeevery arrangement for my nephew's marriage, your father stirred up thegirl's people, and they broke the match off. Then I took a solemn vowthat, if there was a drop of Brahmin blood flowing in my veins, I wouldavenge myself. You understand the business to some extent now, don'tyou? But wait a little longer. You will enjoy it, when I tell you thewhole story; it is interesting. 

"When you were attending college, one Bipradas Chatterji used to livenext door to your lodgings. The poor fellow is dead now. In his houselived a child-widow called Kusum, the destitute orphan of a Kayesthagentleman. The girl was very pretty, and the old Brahmin desired toshield her from the hungry gaze of college students. But for a younggirl to throw dust in the eyes of her old guardian was not at all adifficult task. She often went to the top of the roof, to hang herwashing out to dry, and, I believe, you found your own roof best suitedfor your studies. Whether you two spoke to each other, when on yourrespective roofs, I cannot tell, but the girl's behaviour excitedsuspicion in the old man's mind. She made frequent mistakes in herhousehold duties, and, like Parbati (The wife of Shiva the Destroyer), engaged in her devotions, began gradually to renounce food and sleep. Some evenings she would burst into tears in the presence of the oldgentleman, without any apparent reason. 

"At last he discovered that you two saw each other from the roofs prettyfrequently, and that you even went the length of absenting yourself fromcollege to sit on the roof at mid-day with a book in your hand, sofond had you grown suddenly of solitary study. Bipradas came to me foradvice, and told me everything. 'Uncle, ' said I to him, 'for a longwhile you have cherished a desire to go on a pilgrimage to Benares. Youhad better do it now, and leave the girl in my charge. I will take careof her. '

"So he went. I lodged the girl in the house of Sripati Chatterji, passing him off as her father. What happened next is known to you. I feel a great relief to-day, having told you everything from thebeginning. It sounds like a romance, doesn't it? I think of turning itinto a book, and getting it printed. But I am not a writing-man myself. They say my nephew has some aptitude that way--I will get him to writeit for me. But the best thing would be, if you would collaborate withhim, because the conclusion of the story is not known to me so well. "

Without paying much attention to the concluding remarks of Peari Sankar, Hemanta asked: "Did not Kusum object to this marriage?"

"Well, " said Peari Sankar, "it is very difficult to guess. You know, myboy, how women's minds are constituted. When they say 'no, ' they mean'yes. ' During the first few days after her removal to the new home, shewent almost crazy at not seeing you. You, too, seemed to have discoveredher new address somehow, as you used to lose your way after starting forcollege, and loiter about in front of Sripati's house. Your eyes did notappear to be exactly in search of the Presidency College, as they weredirected towards the barred windows of a private house, through whichnothing but insects and the hearts of moon-struck young men could obtainaccess. I felt very sorry for you both. I could see that your studieswere being seriously interrupted, and that the plight of the girl waspitiable also. 

"One day I called Kusum to me, and said: 'Listen to me, my daughter. Iam an old man, and you need feel no delicacy in my presence. I know whomyou desire at heart. The young man's condition is hopeless too. I wish Icould bring about your union. ' At this Kusum suddenly melted into tears, and ran away. On several evenings after that, I visited Sripati's house, and, calling Kusum to me, discussed with her matters relating to you, and so I succeeded in gradually overcoming her shyness. At last, when Isaid that I would try to bring about a marriage, she asked me: 'Howcan it be?' 'Never mind, ' I said, 'I would pass you off as a Brahminmaiden. ' After a good deal of argument, she begged me to find outwhether you would approve of it. 'What nonsense, ' replied I, 'the boyis well-nigh mad as it were, what's the use of disclosing all thesecomplications to him? Let the ceremony be over smoothly and then--all'swell that ends well. Especially, as there is not the slightest risk ofits ever leaking out, why go out of the way to make a fellow miserablefor life?'

"I do not know whether the plan had Kusum's assent or not. At times shewept, and at other times she remained silent. If I said, 'Let us drop itthen, ' she would become very restless. When things were in this state, Isent Sripati to you with the proposal of marriage; you consented withouta moment's hesitation. Everything was settled. 

"Shortly before the day fixed, Kusum became so obstinate that I hadthe greatest difficulty in bringing her round again. 'Do let it drop, uncle, ' she said to me constantly. 'What do you mean, you silly child, 'I rebuked her, ' how can we back out now, when everything has beensettled?'

"'Spread a rumour that I am dead, ' she implored. 'Send me awaysomewhere. '

"'What would happen to the young man then?' said I. ' He is now in theseventh heaven of delight, expecting that his long cherished desirewould be fulfilled to-morrow; and to-day you want me to send him thenews of your death. The result would be that to-morrow I should have tobear the news of his death to you, and the same evening your deathwould be reported to me. Do you imagine, child, that I am capable ofcommitting a girl-murder and a Brahmin-murder at my age?'

"Eventually the happy marriage was celebrated at the auspicious moment, and I felt relieved of a burdensome duty which I owed to myself. Whathappened afterwards you know best. "

"Couldn't you stop after having done us an irreparable injury?" burstout Hemanta after a short silence. "Why have you told the secret now?"

With the utmost composure, Peari Sankar replied: "When I saw that allarrangements had been made for the wedding of your sister, I said tomyself: 'Well, I have fouled the caste of one Brahmin, but that was onlyfrom a sense of duty. Here, another Brahmin's caste is imperilled, andthis time it is my plain duty to prevent it. ' So I wrote to them sayingthat I was in a position to prove that you had taken the daughter of asudra to wife. "

Controlling himself with a gigantic effort, Hemanta said: "What willbecome of this girl whom I shall abandon now? Would you give her foodand shelter?"

"I have done what was mine to do, " replied Peari Sankar calmly. "It isno part of my duty to look after the discarded wives of other people. Anybody there? Get a glass of cocoanut milk for Hemanta Babu with ice init. And some pan too. "

Hemanta rose, and took his departure without waiting for this luxurioushospitality. 

IV

It was the fifth night of the waning of the moon--and the night wasdark. No birds were singing. The lichi tree by the tank looked likea smudge of ink on a background a shade less deep. The south wind wasblindly roaming about in the darkness like a sleep-walker. The starsin the sky with vigilant unblinking eyes were trying to penetrate thedarkness, in their effort to fathom some profound mystery. 

No light shone in the bedroom. Hemanta was sitting on the side of thebed next the open window, gazing at the darkness in front of him. Kusumlay on the floor, clasping her husband's feet with both her arms, and her face resting on them. Time stood like an ocean hushed intostillness. On the background of eternal night, Fate seemed to havepainted this one single picture for all time--annihilation on everyside, the judge in the centre of it, and the guilty one at his feet. 

The sound of slippers was heard again. Approaching the door, HariharMukerji said: "You have had enough time, --I can't allow you more. Turnthe girl out of the house. "

Kusum, as she heard this, embraced her husband's feet with all theardour of a lifetime, covered them with kisses, and touching herforehead to them reverentially, withdrew herself. 

Hemanta rose, and walking to the door, said: "Father, I won't forsake mywife. "

"What!" roared out Harihar, "would you lose your caste, sir?"

"I don't care for caste, " was Hemanta's calm reply. 

"Then you too I renounce. "

THE CABULIWALLAH

(THE FRUITSELLER FROM CABUL)

My five years' old daughter Mini cannot live without chattering. Ireally believe that in all her life she has not wasted a minute insilence. Her mother is often vexed at this, and would stop her prattle, but I would not. To see Mini quiet is unnatural, and I cannot bear itlong. And so my own talk with her is always lively. 

One morning, for instance, when I was in the midst of the seventeenthchapter of my new novel, my little Mini stole into the room, and puttingher hand into mine, said: "Father! Ramdayal the door-keeper calls a crowa krow! He doesn't know anything, does he?"

Before I could explain to her the differences of language in this world, she was embarked on the full tide of another subject. "What do youthink, Father? Bhola says there is an elephant in the clouds, blowingwater out of his trunk, and that is why it rains!"

And then, darting off anew, while I sat still making ready some reply tothis last saying, "Father! what relation is Mother to you?"

"My dear little sister in the law!" I murmured involuntarily to myself, but with a grave face contrived to answer: "Go and play with Bhola, Mini! I am busy!"

The window of my room overlooks the road. The child had seated herselfat my feet near my table, and was playing softly, drumming on her knees. I was hard at work on my seventeenth chapter, where Protrap Singh, thehero, had just caught Kanchanlata, the heroine, in his arms, and wasabout to escape with her by the third story window of the castle, whenall of a sudden Mini left her play, and ran to the window, crying, "ACabuliwallah! a Cabuliwallah!" Sure enough in the street below was aCabuliwallah, passing slowly along. He wore the loose soiled clothingof his people, with a tall turban; there was a bag on his back, and hecarried boxes of grapes in his hand. 

I cannot tell what were my daughter's feelings at the sight of this man, but she began to call him loudly. "Ah!" I thought, "he will come in, andmy seventeenth chapter will never be finished!" At which exact momentthe Cabuliwallah turned, and looked up at the child. When she sawthis, overcome by terror, she fled to her mother's protection, anddisappeared. She had a blind belief that inside the bag, which thebig man carried, there were perhaps two or three other children likeherself. The pedlar meanwhile entered my doorway, and greeted me with asmiling face. 

So precarious was the position of my hero and my heroine, that my firstimpulse was to stop and buy something, since the man had been called. Imade some small purchases, and a conversation began about Abdurrahman, the Russians, she English, and the Frontier Policy. 

As he was about to leave, he asked: "And where is the little girl, sir?"

And I, thinking that Mini must get rid of her false fear, had herbrought out. 

She stood by my chair, and looked at the Cabuliwallah and his bag. Heoffered her nuts and raisins, but she would not be tempted, and onlyclung the closer to me, with all her doubts increased. 

This was their first meeting. 

One morning, however, not many days later, as I was leaving the house, Iwas startled to find Mini, seated on a bench near the door, laughing andtalking, with the great Cabuliwallah at her feet. In all her life, itappeared; my small daughter had never found so patient a listener, saveher father. And already the corner of her little sari was stuffed withalmonds and raisins, the gift of her visitor, "Why did you give herthose?" I said, and taking out an eight-anna bit, I handed it to him. The man accepted the money without demur, and slipped it into hispocket. 

Alas, on my return an hour later, I found the unfortunate coin had madetwice its own worth of trouble! For the Cabuliwallah had given it toMini, and her mother catching sight of the bright round object, hadpounced on the child with: "Where did you get that eight-anna bit?"

"The Cabuliwallah gave it me, " said Mini cheerfully. 

"The Cabuliwallah gave it you!" cried her mother much shocked. "Oh, Mini! how could you take it from him?"

I, entering at the moment, saved her from impending disaster, andproceeded to make my own inquiries. 

It was not the first or second time, I found, that the two had met. The Cabuliwallah had overcome the child's first terror by a judiciousbribery of nuts and almonds, and the two were now great friends. 

They had many quaint jokes, which afforded them much amusement. Seatedin front of him, looking down on his gigantic frame in all her tinydignity, Mini would ripple her face with laughter, and begin: "OCabuliwallah, Cabuliwallah, what have you got in your bag?"

And he would reply, in the nasal accents of the mountaineer: "Anelephant!" Not much cause for merriment, perhaps; but how they bothenjoyed the witticism! And for me, this child's talk with a grown-up manhad always in it something strangely fascinating. 

Then the Cabuliwallah, not to be behindhand, would take his turn: "Well, little one, and when are you going to the father-in-law's house?"

Now most small Bengali maidens have heard long ago about thefather-in-law's house; but we, being a little new-fangled, had keptthese things from our child, and Mini at this question must have beena trifle bewildered. But she would not show it, and with ready tactreplied: "Are you going there?"

Amongst men of the Cabuliwallah's class, however, it is well known thatthe words father-in-law's house have a double meaning. It is a euphemismfor jail, the place where we are well cared for, at no expense toourselves. In this sense would the sturdy pedlar take my daughter'squestion. "Ah, " he would say, shaking his fist at an invisiblepoliceman, "I will thrash my father-in-law!" Hearing this, and picturingthe poor discomfited relative, Mini would go off into peals of laughter, in which her formidable friend would join. 

These were autumn mornings, the very time of year when kings of oldwent forth to conquest; and I, never stirring from my little corner inCalcutta, would let my mind wander over the whole world. At the veryname of another country, my heart would go out to it, and at the sightof a foreigner in the streets, I would fall to weaving a network ofdreams, --the mountains, the glens, and the forests of his distant home, with his cottage in its setting, and the free and independent lifeof far-away wilds. Perhaps the scenes of travel conjure themselves upbefore me, and pass and repass in my imagination all the more vividly, because I lead such a vegetable existence, that a call to travel wouldfall upon me like a thunderbolt. In the presence of this Cabuliwallah, I was immediately transported to the foot of arid mountain peaks, with narrow little defiles twisting in and out amongst their toweringheights. I could see the string of camels bearing the merchandise, andthe company of turbaned merchants, carrying some of their queer oldfirearms, and some of their spears, journeying downward towardsthe plains. I could see--but at some such point Mini's mother wouldintervene, imploring me to "beware of that man. "

Mini's mother is unfortunately a very timid lady. Whenever she hears anoise in the street, or sees people coming towards the house, she alwaysjumps to the conclusion that they are either thieves, or drunkards, orsnakes, or tigers, or malaria or cockroaches, or caterpillars, or anEnglish sailor. Even after all these years of experience, she isnot able to overcome her terror. So she was full of doubts about theCabuliwallah, and used to beg me to keep a watchful eye on him. 

I tried to laugh her fear gently away, but then she would turn round onme seriously, and ask me solemn questions. 

Were children never kidnapped?

Was it, then, not true that there was slavery in Cabul?

Was it so very absurd that this big man should be able to carry off atiny child?

I urged that, though not impossible, it was highly improbable. But thiswas not enough, and her dread persisted. As it was indefinite, however, it did not seem right to forbid the man the house, and the intimacy wenton unchecked. 

Once a year in the middle of January Rahmun, the Cabuliwallah, was inthe habit of returning to his country, and as the time approached hewould be very busy, going from house to house collecting his debts. Thisyear, however, he could always find time to come and see Mini. It wouldhave seemed to an outsider that there was some conspiracy between thetwo, for when he could not come in the morning, he would appear in theevening. 

Even to me it was a little startling now and then, in the corner ofa dark room, suddenly to surprise this tall, loose-garmented, muchbebagged man; but when Mini would run in smiling, with her, "O!Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!" and the two friends, so far apart inage, would subside into their old laughter and their old jokes, I feltreassured. 

One morning, a few days before he had made up his mind to go, I wascorrecting my proof sheets in my study. It was chilly weather. Throughthe window the rays of the sun touched my feet, and the slight warmthwas very welcome. It was almost eight o'clock, and the early pedestrianswere returning home, with their heads covered. All at once, I heard anuproar in the street, and, looking out, saw Rahmun being led away boundbetween two policemen, and behind them a crowd of curious boys. Therewere blood-stains on the clothes of the Cabuliwallah, and one of thepolicemen carried a knife. Hurrying out, I stopped them, and enquiredwhat it all meant. Partly from one, partly from another, I gathered thata certain neighbour had owed the pedlar something for a Rampuri shawl, but had falsely denied having bought it, and that in the course of thequarrel, Rahmun had struck him. Now in the heat of his excitement, theprisoner began calling his enemy all sorts of names, when suddenly ina verandah of my house appeared my little Mini, with her usualexclamation: "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!" Rahmun's face lighted upas he turned to her. He had no bag under his arm today, so she could notdiscuss the elephant with him. She at once therefore proceeded to thenext question: "Are you going to the father-in-law's house?" Rahmunlaughed and said: "Just where I am going, little one!" Then seeing thatthe reply did not amuse the child, he held up his fettered hands. "Ali, "he said, "I would have thrashed that old father-in-law, but my hands arebound!"

On a charge of murderous assault, Rahmun was sentenced to some years'imprisonment. 

Time passed away, and he was not remembered. The accustomed work in theaccustomed place was ours, and the thought of the once-free mountaineerspending his years in prison seldom or never occurred to us. Even mylight-hearted Mini, I am ashamed to say, forgot her old friend. Newcompanions filled her life. As she grew older, she spent more of hertime with girls. So much time indeed did she spend with them that shecame no more, as she used to do, to her father's room. I was scarcely onspeaking terms with her. 

Years had passed away. It was once more autumn and we had madearrangements for our Mini's marriage. It was to take place during thePuja Holidays. With Durga returning to Kailas, the light of our homealso was to depart to her husband's house, and leave her father's in theshadow. 

The morning was bright. After the rains, there was a sense of ablutionin the air, and the sun-rays looked like pure gold. So bright were theythat they gave a beautiful radiance even to the sordid brick walls ofour Calcutta lanes. Since early dawn to-day the wedding-pipes had beensounding, and at each beat my own heart throbbed. The wail of the tune, Bhairavi, seemed to intensify my pain at the approaching separation. MyMini was to be married to-night. 

From early morning noise and bustle had pervaded the house. Inthe courtyard the canopy had to be slung on its bamboo poles; thechandeliers with their tinkling sound must be hung in each room andverandah. There was no end of hurry and excitement. I was sitting inmy study, looking through the accounts, when some one entered, salutingrespectfully, and stood before me. It was Rahmun the Cabuliwallah. Atfirst I did not recognise him. He had no bag, nor the long hair, nor thesame vigour that he used to have. But he smiled, and I knew him again. 

"When did you come, Rahmun?" I asked him. 

"Last evening, " he said, "I was released from jail. "

The words struck harsh upon my ears. I had never before talked with onewho had wounded his fellow, and my heart shrank within itself, when Irealised this, for I felt that the day would have been better-omened hadhe not turned up. 

"There are ceremonies going on, " I said, "and I am busy. Could youperhaps come another day?"

At once he turned to go; but as he reached the door he hesitated, andsaid: "May I not see the little one, sir, for a moment?" It was hisbelief that Mini was still the same. He had pictured her running to himas she used, calling "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!" He had imaginedtoo that they would laugh and talk together, just as of old. In fact, inmemory of former days he had brought, carefully wrapped up in paper, afew almonds and raisins and grapes, obtained somehow from a countryman, for his own little fund was dispersed. 

I said again: "There is a ceremony in the house, and you will not beable to see any one to-day. "

The man's face fell. He looked wistfully at me for a moment, said "Goodmorning, " and went out. I felt a little sorry, and would have called himback, but I found he was returning of his own accord. He came close upto me holding out his offerings and said: "I brought these few things, sir, for the little one. Will you give them to her?"

I took them and was going to pay him, but he caught my hand and said:"You are very kind, sir! Keep me in your recollection. Do not offer memoney!--You have a little girl, I too have one like her in my own home. I think of her, and bring fruits to your child, not to make a profit formyself. "

Saying this, he put his hand inside his big loose robe, and brought outa small and dirty piece of paper. With great care he unfolded this, andsmoothed it out with both hands on my table. It bore the impression ofa little band. Not a photograph. Not a drawing. The impression of anink-smeared hand laid flat on the paper. This touch of his own littledaughter had been always on his heart, as he had come year after year toCalcutta, to sell his wares in the streets. 

Tears came to my eyes. I forgot that he was a poor Cabuli fruit-seller, while I was--but no, what was I more than he? He also was a father. Thatimpression of the hand of his little Parbati in her distant mountainhome reminded me of my own little Mini. 

I sent for Mini immediately from the inner apartment. Many difficultieswere raised, but I would not listen. Clad in the red silk of herwedding-day, with the sandal paste on her forehead, and adorned as ayoung bride, Mini came, and stood bashfully before me. 

The Cabuliwallah looked a little staggered at the apparition. He couldnot revive their old friendship. At last he smiled and said: "Littleone, are you going to your father-in-law's house?"

But Mini now understood the meaning of the word "father-in-law, " and shecould not reply to him as of old. She flushed up at the question, andstood before him with her bride-like face turned down. 

I remembered the day when the Cabuliwallah and my Mini had first met, and I felt sad. When she had gone, Rahmun heaved a deep sigh, and satdown on the floor. The idea had suddenly come to him that his daughtertoo must have grown in this long time, and that he would have to makefriends with her anew. Assuredly he would not find her, as he used toknow her. And besides, what might not have happened to her in theseeight years?

The marriage-pipes sounded, and the mild autumn sun streamed roundus. But Rahmun sat in the little Calcutta lane, and saw before him thebarren mountains of Afghanistan. 

I took out a bank-note, and gave it to him, saying: "Go back to yourown daughter, Rahmun, in your own country, and may the happiness of yourmeeting bring good fortune to my child!"

Having made this present, I had to curtail some of the festivities. I could not have the electric lights I had intended, nor the militaryband, and the ladies of the house were despondent at it. But to me thewedding feast was all the brighter for the thought that in a distantland a long-lost father met again with his only child.