p. 213

My feelings towards the young widow who lived in the next house to mine were feelings of worship; at least, that is what I told to my friends and myself. Even my nearest intimate, Nabin, knew nothing of the real state of my mind. And I had a sort of pride that I could keep my passion pure by thus concealing it in the inmost recesses of my heart. She was like a dew-drenched sephali-blossom, untimely fallen to earth. Too radiant and holy for the flower-decked marriage-bed, she had been dedicated to Heaven.

p. 213

But passion is like the mountain stream, and refuses to be enclosed in the place of its birth; it must seek an outlet. That is why I tried to give expression to my emotions in poems; but my unwilling pen refused to desecrate the object of my worship.

pp. 213–216

It happened curiously that just at this time my friend Nabin was afflicted with a madness of verse. It came upon him like an earthquake. It was the poor fellow's first attack, and he was equally unprepared for rhyme and rhythm. Nevertheless he could not refrain, for he succumbed to the fascination, as a widower to his second wife.

p. 216

So Nabin sought help from me. The subject of his poems was the old, old one, which is ever new: his poems were all addressed to the beloved one. I slapped his back in jest, and asked him: ‘Well, old chap, who is she?’

p. 216

Nabin laughed, as he replied: ‘That I have not yet discovered!’

p. 216

I confess that I found considerable comfort in bringing help to my friend. Like a hen brooding on a duck's egg, I lavished all the warmth of my pent-up passion on Nabin's effusions. So vigorously did I revise and improve his crude productions, that the larger part of each poem became my own.

p. 216

Then Nabin would say in surprise: ‘That is just what I wanted to say, but could not. How on earth do you manage to get hold of all these fine sentiments?’

pp. 216–217

Poet-like, I would reply: ‘They come from my imagination; for, as you know, truth is silent, and it is imagination only which waxes eloquent. Reality represses the flow of feeling like a rock; imagination cuts out a path for itself.’

p. 217

And the poor puzzled Nabin would say: ‘Y-e-s, I see, yes, of course’; and then after some thought would murmur again: ‘Yes, yes, you are right!’

p. 217

As I have already said, in my own love there was a feeling of reverential delicacy which prevented me from putting it into words. But with Nabin as a screen, there was nothing to hinder the flow of my pen; and a true warmth of feeling gushed out into these vicarious poems.

p. 217

Nabin in his lucid moments would say: ‘But these are yours! Let me publish them over your name.’

p. 217

‘Nonsense!’ I would reply. ‘They are yours, my dear fellow; I have only added a touch or two here and there.’

p. 217

And Nabin gradually came to believe it.

pp. 217–218

I will not deny that, with a feeling akin to that of the astronomer gazing into the starry heavens, I did sometimes turn my eyes towards the window of the house next door. It is also true that now and again my furtive glances would be rewarded with a vision. And the least glimpse of the pure light of that countenance would at once still and clarify all that was turbulent and unworthy in my emotions.

p. 218

But one day I was startled. Could I believe my eyes? It was a hot summer afternoon. One of the fierce and fitful nor'-westers was threatening. Black clouds were massed in the north-west corner of the sky; and against the strange and fearful light of that background my fair neighbour stood, gazing out into empty space. And what a world of forlorn longing did I discover in the far-away look of those lustrous black eyes! Was there then, perchance, still some living volcano within the serene radiance of that moon of mine? Alas! that look of limitless yearning, which was winging its way through the clouds like an eager bird, surely sought—not heaven—but the nest of some human heart!

p. 218

At the sight of the unutterable passion of that look I could hardly contain myself. I was no longer satisfied with correcting crude poems. My whole being longed to express itself in some worthy action. At last I thought I would devote myself to making widow-remarriage popular in my country. I was prepared not only to speak and write on the subject, but also to spend money on its cause.

pp. 218–219

Nabin began to argue with me. ‘Permanent widowhood,’ said he, ‘has in it a sense of immense purity and peace; a calm beauty like that of the silent places of the dead shimmering in the wan light of the eleventh moon.[47] Would not the mere possibility of remarriage destroy its divine beauty?’

p. 219

Now this sort of sentimentality always makes me furious. In time of famine, if a well-fed man speaks scornfully of food, and advises a starving man at point of death to glut his hunger on the fragrance of flowers and the song of birds, what are we to think of him? I said with some heat: ‘Look here, Nabin, to the artist a ruin may be a beautiful object; but houses are built not only for the contemplation of artists, but that people may live therein; so they have to be kept in repair in spite of artistic susceptibilities. It is all very well for you to idealise widowhood from your safe distance, but you should remember that within widowhood there is a sensitive human heart, throbbing with pain and desire.’

pp. 219–220

I had an impression that the conversion of Nabin would be a difficult matter, so perhaps I was more impassioned than I need have been. I was somewhat surprised to find at the conclusion of my little speech that Nabin after a single thoughtful sigh completely agreed with me. The even more convincing peroration which I felt I might have delivered was not needed!

p. 220

After about a week Nabin came to me, and said that if I would help him he was prepared to lead the way by marrying a widow himself.

p. 220

I was overjoyed. I embraced him effusively, and promised him any money that might be required for the purpose. Then Nabin told me his story.

p. 220

I learned that Nabin's loved one was not an imaginary being. It appeared that Nabin, too, had for some time adored a widow from a distance, but had not spoken of his feelings to any living soul. Then the magazines in which Nabin's poems, or rather my poems, used to appear had reached the fair one's hands; and the poems had not been ineffective.

pp. 220–221

Not that Nabin had deliberately intended, as he was careful to explain, to conduct love-making in that way. In fact, said he, he had no idea that the widow knew how to read. He used to post the magazine, without disclosing the sender's name, addressed to the widow's brother. It was only a sort of fancy of his, a concession to his hopeless passion. It was flinging garlands before a deity; it is not the worshipper's affair whether the god knows or not, whether he accepts or ignores the offering.

p. 221

And Nabin particularly wanted me to understand that he had no definite end in view when on diverse pretexts he sought and made the acquaintance of the widow's brother. Any near relation of the loved one needs must have a special interest for the lover.

p. 221

Then followed a long story about how an illness of the brother at last brought them together. The presence of the poet himself naturally led to much discussion of the poems; nor was the discussion necessarily restricted to the subject out of which it arose.

p. 221

After his recent defeat in argument at my hands, Nabin had mustered up courage to propose marriage to the widow. At first he could not gain her consent. But when he had made full use of my eloquent words, supplemented by a tear or two of his own, the fair one capitulated unconditionally. Some money was now wanted by her guardian to make arrangements.

pp. 221–222

‘Take it at once,’ said I.

p. 222

‘But,’ Nabin went on, ‘you know it will be some months before I can appease my father sufficiently for him to continue my allowance. How are we to live in the meantime?’ I wrote out the necessary cheque without a word, and then I said: ‘Now tell me who she is. You need not look on me as a possible rival, for I swear I will not write poems to her; and even if I do I will not send them to her brother, but to you!’

p. 222

‘Don't be absurd,’ said Nabin; ‘I have not kept back her name because I feared your rivalry! The fact is, she was very much perturbed at taking this unusual step, and had asked me not to talk about the matter to my friends. But it no longer matters, now that everything has been satisfactorily settled. She lives at No. 19, the house next to yours.’

p. 222

If my heart had been an iron boiler it would have burst. ‘So she has no objection to remarriage?’ I simply asked.

p. 222

‘Not at the present moment,’ replied Nabin with a smile.

p. 222

‘And was it the poems alone which wrought the magic change?’

pp. 222–223

‘Well, my poems were not so bad, you know,’ said Nabin, ‘were they?’

p. 223

I swore mentally.

p. 223

But at whom was I to swear? At him? At myself? At Providence? All the same, I swore.

p. 223

THE END

p. 223

Printed by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.

p. 223

[1] The maternal aunt is addressed as Mashi.

p. 223

[2] The annaprashan ceremony takes place when a child is first given rice. Usually it receives its name on that day.

p. 223

[3] Baba literally means Father, but is often used by elders as a term of endearment. In the same way ‘Ma’ is used.

p. 223

[4] The bride and the bridegroom see each other's face for the first time at the marriage ceremony under a veil thrown over their heads.

p. 223

[5] Widows are supposed to dress in white only, without ornaments or jewellery.

p. 223

[6] See note on p. 38.

p. 223

[7] Elder brother.

p. 223

[8] The divine craftsman in Hindu mythology.

p. 223

[9] Sudha means nectar, ambrosia.

p. 223

[10] After betrothal the prospective bride and bridegroom are not supposed to see each other again till that part of the wedding ceremony which is called the Auspicious Vision.

p. 223

[11] Superintendent of bailiffs.

p. 223

[12] Kachari, generally anglicised as cuteberry: offices and courts.

p. 223

[13] Country doctor, unqualified by any medical training.

p. 223

[14] A ceremonial worship.

p. 223

[15] It is a superstition current in Bengal that if a man pronounces the name of a very miserly individual, he has to go without his meal that day.

p. 223

[16] Jaganath is the Lord of Festivity, and Jaganash would mean the despoiler of it.

p. 223

[17] A water-pot holding about three gallons of water.

p. 223

[18] A prayer carpet.

p. 223

[19] Incantations.

p. 223

[20] Yak or Yaksa is a supernatural being described in Sanskrit mythology and poetry. In Bengal, Yak has come to mean a ghostly custodian of treasure, under such circumstances as in this story.

p. 223

[21] The incidents described in this story, now happily a thing of the past, were by no means rare in Bengal at one time. Our author, however, slightly departs from the current accounts. Such criminally superstitious practices were resorted to by miserly persons under the idea that they themselves would re-acquire the treasure in a future state of existence. ‘When you see me in a future birth passing this way, you must make over all this treasure to me. Guard it till then and stir not,’—was the usual promise exacted from the victim before he became yak. Many were the ‘true’ stories we heard in childhood of people becoming suddenly rich by coming across ghostly custodians of wealth belonging to them in a past birth.

p. 223

[22] Thali: plate.

p. 223

[23] Dao: knife.

p. 223

[24] Lathis: stick.

p. 223

[25] A garment with the name of Krishna printed over it.

p. 223

[26] Lit. the ‘brother's mark.’ A beautiful and touching ceremony in which a Hindu sister makes a mark of sandalwood paste on the forehead of her brother and utters a formula, ‘putting the barrier in Yama's doorway’ (figurative for wishing long life). On these occasions, the sisters entertain their brothers and make them presents of clothes, etc.

p. 223

[27] The Viceroy.

p. 223

[28] Land.

p. 223

[29] The Hindu god of marriage.

p. 223

[30] A literary word for books. The colloquial will be boi.

p. 223

[31] A chapkan is a long coat.

p. 223

[32] Turban.

p. 223

[33] Servants.

p. 223

[34] Sweetly speaking.

p. 223

[35] Lovely-locked.

p. 223

[36] Sweetly smiling.

p. 223

[37] The Lower World.

p. 223

[38] Smoky fires are lit in the cow-sheds to drive off mosquitoes.

p. 223

[39] Family servants call the master and mistress father and mother and the children elder brothers and sisters.

p. 223

[40] Dada = elder brother.

p. 223

[41] Bathing-place.

p. 223

[42] Once in the egg, and again once out of the egg.

p. 223

[43] See note on Damaynti.

p. 223

[44] A habit which was relic from his days of poverty, when milk was too rare a luxury to allow of even its stains in the cup being wasted.

p. 223

[45] A reference to a folk-story of a saint who turned a pet mouse into a tiger.

p. 223

[46] To find Satish a wife.

p. 223

[47] The eleventh day of the moon is a day of fasting and penance.