The Hungry Stones And Other Stories
by
Rabindranath Tagore
Part 1 out of 3
This etext was produced by Alev Akman.
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 stories which follow were translated by Mr. C. F. Andrews, with
the help of the author's help. Assistance has also been given by the
Rev. E. J. Thompson, Panna Lal Basu, Prabhat Kumar Mukerjii, and the
Sister Nivedita.
THE HUNGRY STONES
My kinsman and myself were returning to Calcutta from our Puja trip when
we met the man in a train. From his dress and bearing we took him at
first for an up-country Mahomedan, but we were puzzled as we heard him
talk. He discoursed upon all subjects so confidently that you might
think the Disposer of All Things consulted him at all times in all that
He did. Hitherto we had been perfectly happy, as we did not know that
secret and unheard-of forces were at work, that the Russians had
advanced close to us, that the English had deep and secret policies,
that confusion among the native chiefs had come to a head. But our
newly-acquired friend said with a sly smile: "There happen more things
in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are reported in your newspapers." As
we had never stirred out of our homes before, the demeanour of the man
struck us dumb with wonder. Be the topic ever so trivial, he would
quote science, or comment on the Vedas, or repeat quatrains from some
Persian poet; and as we had no pretence to a knowledge of science or the
Vedas or Persian, our admiration for him went on increasing, and my
kinsman, a theosophist, was firmly convinced that our fellow-passenger
must have been supernaturally inspired by some strange magnetism" or
"occult power," by an "astral body" or something of that kind. He
listened to the tritest saying that fell from the lips of our
extraordinary companion with devotional rapture, and secretly took down
notes of his conversation. I fancy that the extraordinary man saw this,
and was a little pleased with it.
When the train reached the junction, we assembled in the waiting room
for the connection. It was then 10 P.M., and as the train, we heard,
was likely to be very late, owing to something wrong in the lines, I
spread my bed on the table and was about to lie down for a comfortable
doze, when the extraordinary person deliberately set about spinning the
following yarn. Of course, I could get no sleep that night.
When, owing to a disagreement about some questions of administrative
policy, I threw up my post at Junagarh, and entered the service of the
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 and
babbles on the pebbles," tripping, like a skilful dancing girl, in
through the woods below the lonely hills. A flight of 150 steps rises
from the river, and above that flight, on the river's brim and at the
foot of the hills, there stands a solitary marble palace. Around it
there is no habitation of man--the village and the cotton mart of Barich
being far off.
About 250 years ago the Emperor Mahmud Shah II. had built this lonely
palace for his pleasure and luxury. In his days jets of rose-water
spurted from its fountains, and on the cold marble floors of its spray-
cooled rooms young Persian damsels would sit, their hair dishevelled
before bathing, and, splashing their soft naked feet in the clear 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 do
snow-white feet step gracefully on the snowy marble. It is but the vast
and solitary quarters of cess-collectors like us, men oppressed with
solitude and deprived of the society of women. Now, Karim Khan, the old
clerk 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 would work till dark and go away at night. I gave my ready assent.
The house had such a bad name that even thieves would not venture near
it after dark.
At first the solitude of the deserted palace weighed upon me like a
nightmare. I would stay out, and work hard as long as possible, then
return home at night jaded and tired, go to bed and fall asleep.
Before a week had passed, the place began to exert a weird fascination
upon 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 and
imperceptibly digesting me by the action of some stupefying gastric
juice.
Perhaps the process had begun as soon as I set my foot in the house, but
I 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 work
to do. A little before sunset I was sitting in an arm-chair near the
water's edge below the steps. The Susta had shrunk and sunk low; a
broad patch of sand on the other side glowed with the hues of evening;
on this side the pebbles at the bottom of the clear shallow waters were
glistening. There was not a breath of wind anywhere, and the still air
was laden with an oppressive scent from the spicy shrubs growing on the
hills close by.
As the sun sank behind the hill-tops a long dark curtain fell upon the
stage of day, and the intervening hills cut short the time in which
light 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. I
looked back, but there was no one.
As I sat down again, thinking it to be an illusion, I heard many
footfalls, as if a large number of persons were rushing down the steps.
A strange thrill of delight, slightly tinged with fear, passed through
my frame, and though there was not a figure before my eyes, methought I
saw a bevy of joyous maidens coming down the steps to bathe in the Susta
in that summer evening. Not a sound was in the valley, in the river, or
in 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 a
hundred cascades, as they ran past me, in quick playful pursuit of each
other, towards the river, without noticing me at all. As they were
invisible to me, so I was, as it were, invisible to them. The river was
perfectly calm, but I felt that its still, shallow, and clear waters
were stirred suddenly by the splash of many an arm jingling with
bracelets, that the girls laughed and dashed and spattered water at one
another, that the feet of the fair swimmers tossed the tiny waves up in
showers of pearl.
I felt a thrill at my heart--I cannot say whether the excitement was due
to fear or delight or curiosity. I had a strong desire to see them more
clearly, but naught was visible before me; I thought I could catch all
that they said if I only strained my ears; but however hard I strained
them, I heard nothing but the chirping of the cicadas in the woods. It
seemed as if a dark curtain of 250 years was hanging before me, and I
would fain lift a corner of it tremblingly and peer through, though the
assembly on the other side was completely enveloped in darkness.
The oppressive closeness of the evening was broken by a sudden gust of
wind, and the still surface of the Suista rippled and curled like the
hair of a nymph, and from the woods wrapt in the evening gloom there
came forth a simultaneous murmur, as though they were awakening from a
black dream. Call it reality or dream, the momentary glimpse of that
invisible mirage reflected from a far-off world, 250 years old,
vanished in a flash. The mystic forms that brushed past me with their
quick unbodied steps, and loud, voiceless laughter, and threw themselves
into the river, did not go back wringing their dripping robes as they
went. Like fragrance wafted away by the wind they were dispersed
by a single breath of the spring.
Then I was filled with a lively fear that it was the Muse that had taken
advantage of my solitude and possessed me--the witch had evidently come
to ruin a poor devil like myself making a living by collecting cotton
duties. I decided to have a good dinner--it is the empty stomach that
all sorts of incurable diseases find an easy prey. I sent for my cook
and gave orders for a rich, sumptuous moghlai dinner, redolent of spices
and ghi.
Next morning the whole affair appeared a queer fantasy. With a light
heart I put on a sola hat like the sahebs, and drove out to my work. I
was to have written my quarterly report that day, and expected to return
late; but before it was dark I was strangely drawn to my house--by what
I could not say--I felt they were all waiting, and that I should delay
no longer. Leaving my report unfinished I rose, put on my sola hat, and
startling the dark, shady, desolate path with the rattle of my carriage,
I reached the vast silent palace standing on the gloomy skirts of the
hills.
On the first floor the stairs led to a very spacious hall, its roof
stretching wide over ornamental arches resting on three rows of massive
pillars, and groaning day and night under the weight of its own intense
solitude. The day had just closed, and the lamps had not yet been
lighted. As I pushed the door open a great bustle seemed to follow
within, as if a throng of people had broken up in confusion, and rushed
out 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 ecstatic
delight, and a faint scent of attar and unguents almost effected by age
lingered in my nostrils. Standing in the darkness of that vast desolate
hall between the rows of those ancient pillars, I could hear the gurgle
of fountains plashing on the marble floor, a strange tune on the guitar,
the jingle of ornaments and the tinkle of anklets, the clang of bells
tolling the hours, the distant note of nahabat, the din of the crystal
pendants of chandeliers shaken by the breeze, the song of bulbuls from
the cages in the corridors, the cackle of storks in the gardens, all
creating 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 all
else a mere dream. That I, that is to say, Srijut So-and-so, the eldest
son of So-and-so of blessed memory, should be drawing a monthly salary
of 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 and
soia hat, appeared to me to be such an astonishingly ludicrous illusion
that I burst into a horse-laugh, as I stood in the gloom of that vast
silent hall.
At that moment my servant entered with a lighted kerosene lamp in his
hand. I do not know whether he thought me mad, but it came back to me
at once that I was in very deed Srijut So-and-so, son of So-and-so of
blessed memory, and that, while our poets, great and small, alone could
say whether inside of or outside the earth there was a region where
unseen fountains perpetually played and fairy guitars, struck by
invisible fingers, sent forth an eternal harmony, this at any rate was
certain, that I collected duties at the cotton market at Banch, and
earned thereby Rs. 450 per mensem as my salary. I laughed in great glee
at 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 out the
lamp, and lay down on my bed in a small side-room. Through the open
window a radiant star, high above the Avalli hills skirted by the
darkness of their woods, was gazing intently from millions and millions
of miles away in the sky at Mr. Collector lying on a humble camp-
bedstead. I wondered and felt amused at the idea, and do not knew when
I fell asleep or how long I slept; but I suddenly awoke with a start,
though I heard no sound and saw no intruder--only the steady bright star
on the hilltop had set, and the dim light of the new moon was stealthily
entering the room through the open window, as if ashamed of its
intrusion.
I saw nobody, but felt as if some one was gently pushing me. As I awoke
she said not a word, but beckoned me with her five fingers bedecked with
rings to follow her cautiously. I got up noiselessly, and, though not a
soul save myself was there in the countless apartments of that deserted
palace with its slumbering sounds and waiting echoes, I feared at every
step lest any one should wake up. Most of the rooms of the palace were
always kept closed, and I had never entered them.
I followed breathless and with silent steps my invisible guide--I cannot
now say where. What endless dark and narrow passages, what long
corridors, what silent and solemn audience-chambers and close secret
cells I crossed!
Though I could not see my fair guide, her form was not invisible to my
mind's eye, --an Arab girl, her arms, hard and smooth as marble, visible
through her loose sleeves, a thin veil falling on her face from the
fringe of her cap, and a curved dagger at her waist! Methought that one
of the thousand and one Arabian Nights had been wafted to me from the
world of romance, and that at the dead of night I was wending my way
through the dark narrow alleys of slumbering Bagdad to a trysting-place
fraught with peril.
At last my fair guide stopped abruptly before a deep blue screen, and
seemed to point to something below. There was nothing there, but a
sudden dread froze the blood in my heart-methought I saw there on the
floor at the foot of the screen a terrible negro eunuch dressed in rich
brocade, sitting and dozing with outstretched legs, with a naked sword
on his lap. My fair guide lightly tripped over his legs and held up a
fringe of the screen. I could catch a glimpse of a part of the room
spread with a Persian carpet--some one was sitting inside on a bed--I
could not see her, but only caught a glimpse of two exquisite feet in
gold-embroidered slippers, hanging out from loose saffron-coloured
paijamas and placed idly on the orange-coloured velvet carpet. On one
side there was a bluish crystal tray on which a few apples, pears,
oranges, and bunches of grapes in plenty, two small cups and a gold-
tinted decanter were evidently waiting the guest. A fragrant
intoxicating vapour, issuing from a strange sort of incense that burned
within, almost overpowered my senses.
As with trembling heart I made an attempt to step across the
outstretched legs of the eunuch, he woke up suddenly with a start, and
the 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 that camp-
bedstead of mine sweating heavily; and the crescent moon looked pale in
the morning light like a weary sleepless patient at dawn; and our 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 were
yet a thousand nights left.
Then followed a great discord between my days and nights. During the
day I would go to my work worn and tired, cursing the bewitching night
and her empty dreams, but as night came my daily life with its bonds and
shackles of work would appear a petty, false, ludicrous vanity.
After nightfall I was caught and overwhelmed in the snare of a strange
intoxication, I would then be transformed into some unknown personage of
a bygone age, playing my part in unwritten history; and my short English
coat and tight breeches did not suit me in the least. With a red velvet
cap on my head, loose paijamas, an embroidered vest, a long flowing silk
gown, and coloured handkerchiefs scented with attar, I would complete my
elaborate toilet, sit on a high-cushioned chair, and replace my
cigarette with a many-coiled narghileh filled with rose-water, as if in
eager expectation of a strange meeting with the beloved one.
I have no power to describe the marvellous incidents that unfolded
themselves, as the gloom of the night deepened. I felt as if in the
curious apartments of that vast edifice the fragments of a beautiful
story, which I could follow for some distance, but of which I could
never 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 the
whole night long.
Amid the eddy of these dream-fragments, amid the smell of henna and the
twanging of the guitar, amid the waves of air charged with fragrant
spray, I would catch like a flash of lightning the momentary glimpse of
a fair damsel. She it was who had saffron-coloured paijamas, white
ruddy soft feet in gold-embroidered slippers with curved toes, a close-
fitting bodice wrought with gold, a red cap, from which a golden frill
fell on her 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 enchanted
dreamland of the nether world of sleep.
Sometimes in the evening, while arraying myself carefully as a prince of
the blood-royal before a large mirror, with a candle burning on either
side, I would see a sudden reflection of the Persian beauty by the side
of my own. A swift turn of her neck, a quick eager glance of intense
passion and pain glowing in her large dark eyes, just a suspicion of
speech on her dainty red lips, her figure, fair and slim crowned with
youth like a blossoming creeper, quickly uplifted in her graceful
tilting gait, a dazzling flash of pain and craving and ecstasy, a smile
and a glance and a blaze of jewels and silk, and she melted away. A
wild glist of wind, laden with all the fragrance of hills and woods,
would put out my light, and I would fling aside my dress and lie down on
my bed, my eyes closed and my body thrilling with delight, and there
around me in the breeze, amid all the perfume of the woods and hills,
floated through the silent gloom many a caress and many a kiss and many
a tender touch of hands, and gentle murmurs in my ears, and fragrant
breaths on my brow; or a sweetly-perfumed kerchief was wafted again and
again on my cheeks. Then slowly a mysterious serpent would twist her
stupefying coils about me; and heaving a heavy sigh, I would lapse into
insensibility, and then into a profound slumber.
One evening I decided to go out on my horse--I do not know who implored
me to stay-but I would listen to no entreaties that day. My English hat
and coat were resting on a rack, and I was about to take them down when
a sudden whirlwind, crested with the sands of the Susta and the dead
leaves of the Avalli hills, caught them up, and whirled them round and
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 of
sunset.
I could not go out for my ride, and the next day I gave up my queer
English coat and hat for good.
That day again at dead of night I heard the stifled heart-breaking sobs
of some one--as if below the bed, below the floor, below the stony
foundation of that gigantic palace, from the depths of a dark damp
grave, a voice piteously cried and implored me: "Oh, rescue me! Break
through these doors of hard illusion, deathlike slumber and fruitless
dreams, 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 warm
radiance of your sunny rooms above!"
Who am I? Oh, how can I rescue thee? What drowning beauty, what
incarnate passion shall I drag to the shore from this wild eddy of
dreams? O lovely ethereal apparition! Where didst thou flourish and
when?" By what cool spring, under the shade of what date-groves, wast
thou born--in the lap of what homeless wanderer in the desert? What
Bedouin snatched thee from thy mother's arms, an opening bud plucked
from a wild creeper, placed thee on a horse swift as lightning, crossed
the 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 bashful
blossoming youth, paid for thee in gold, placed thee in a golden
palanquin, 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
of anklets, the occasional flash of daggers and the glowing wine of
Shiraz poison, and the piercing flashing glance! What infinite
grandeur, what endless servitude!
The slave-girls to thy right and left waved the chamar as diamonds
flashed from their bracelets; the Badshah, the king of kings, fell on
his knees at thy snowy feet in bejewelled shoes, and outside the
terrible Abyssinian eunuch, looking like a messenger of death, but
clothed like an angel, stood with a naked sword in his hand! Then, O,
thou flower of the desert, swept away by the blood-stained dazzling
ocean of grandeur, with its foam of jealousy, its rocks and shoals of
intrigue, on what shore of cruel death wast thou cast, or in what other
land 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
that it was already light. My chaprasi came and handed me my letters,
and the cook waited with a salam for my orders.
I said; "No, I can stay here no longer." That very day I packed up, and
moved to my office. Old Karim Khan smiled a little as he saw me. I
felt nettled, but said nothing, and fell to my work.
As evening approached I grew absent-minded; I felt as if I had an
appointment to keep; and the work of examining the cotton accounts
seemed wholly useless; even the Nizamat of the Nizam did not appear to
be of much worth. Whatever belonged to the present, whatever was moving
and acting and working for bread seemed trivial, meaningless, and
contemptible.
I threw my pen down, closed my ledgers, got into my dog-cart, and drove
away. I noticed that it stopped of itself at the gate of the marble
palace just at the hour of twilight. With quick steps I climbed the
stairs, and entered the room.
A heavy silence was reigning within. The dark rooms were looking
sullen as if they had taken offence. My heart was full of contrition,
but there was no one to whom I could lay it bare, or of whom I could ask
forgiveness. I wandered about the dark rooms with a vacant mind. I
wished 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 of
clouds overcast the top of the Avalli hills that day. The gloomy woods
and the sooty waters of the Susta were waiting in terrible suspense and
in an ominous calm. Suddenly land, water, and sky shivered, and a wild
tempest-blast rushed howling through the distant pathless woods, showing
its lightning-teeth like a raving maniac who had broken his chains. The
desolate halls of the palace banged their doors, and moaned in the
bitterness of anguish.
The servants were all in the office, and there was no one to light the
lamps. The night was cloudy and moonless. In the dense gloom within I
could distinctly feel that a woman was lying on her face on the carpet
below the bed--clasping and tearing her long dishevelled hair with
desperate fingers. Blood was tricking down her fair brow, and she was
now laughing a hard, harsh, mirthless laugh, now bursting into violent
wringing sobs, now rending her bodice and striking at her bare bosom, as
the wind roared in through the open window, and the rain poured in
torrents 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. Whom
could I console when no one was by? Whose was this intense agony of
sorrow? Whence arose this inconsolable grief?
And the mad man cried out: "Stand back! Stand back!! All is false!
All is false!!"
I saw that the day had dawned, and Meher Ali was going round and
round the palace with his usual cry in that dreadful weather. Suddenly
it came 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
and round, fascinated by the weird spell cast by the marble demon.
Despite the storm and rain I ran to him and asked: "Ho, Meher Ali, what
is false?"
The man answered nothing, but pushing me aside went round and round with
his frantic cry, like a bird flying fascinated about the jaws of a
snake, and made a desperate effort to warn himself by repeating: "Stand
back! Stand back!! All is false! All is false!!"
I ran like a mad man through the pelting rain to my office, and asked
Karim Khan: "Tell me the meaning of all this!"
What I gathered from that old man was this: That at one time countless
unrequited passions and unsatisfied longings and lurid flames of wild
blazing pleasure raged within that palace, and that the curse of all the
heart-aches and blasted hopes had made its every stone thirsty and
hungry, eager to swallow up like a famished ogress any living man who
might chance to approach. Not one of those who lived there for three
consecutive nights could escape these cruel jaws, save Meher Ali, who
had 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 you
what it is, but first you must hear the history of a young Persian girl
who once lived in that pleasure-dome. A stranger or a more bitterly
heart-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. An
English gentleman, apparently just aroused from slumber, was looking out
of 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-class
carriage, we had no chance of finding out who the man was nor what was
the end of his story.
I said; "The man evidently took us for fools and imposed upon us out of
fun. The story is pure fabrication from start to finish." The
discussion that followed ended in a lifelong rupture between my
theosophist kinsman and myself.
THE VICTORY
She was the Princess Ajita. And the court poet of King Narayan had
never seen her. On the day he recited a new poem to the king he would
raise his voice just to that pitch which could be heard by unseen
hearers in the screened balcony high above the hall. He sent up his
song towards the star-land out of his reach, where, circled with light,
the planet who ruled his destiny shone unknown and out of ken.
He would espy some shadow moving behind the veil. A tinkling sound
would come to his car from afar, and would set him dreaming of the
ankles whose tiny golden bells sang at each step. Ah, the rosy red
tender feet that walked the dust of the earth like God's mercy on the
fallen! The poet had placed them on the altar of his heart, where he
wove his songs to the tune of those golden bells. Doubt never arose in
his mind as to whose shadow it was that moved behind the screen, and
whose anklets they were that sang to the time of his beating heart.
Manjari, the maid of the princess, passed by the poet's house on her way
to the river, and she never missed a day to have a few words with him on
the sly. When she found the road deserted, and the shadow of dusk on
the land, she would boldly enter his room, and sit at the corner of his
carpet. There was a suspicion of an added care in the choice of the
colour of her veil, in the setting of the flower in her hair.
People smiled and whispered at this, and they were not to blame. For
Shekhar the poet never took the trouble to hide the fact that these
meetings were a pure joy to him.
The meaning of her name was the spray of flowers. One must confess that
for an ordinary mortal it was sufficient in its sweetness. But Shekhar
made his own addition to this name, and called her the Spray of Spring
Flowers. And ordinary mortals shook their heads and said, Ah, me!
In the spring songs that the poet sang the praise of the spray of
spring flowers was conspicuously reiterated; and the king winked and
smiled at him when he heard it, and the poet smiled in answer.
The king would put him the question; "Is it the business of the bee
merely to hum in the court of the spring?"
The poet would answer; "No, but also to sip the honey of the spray of
spring flowers."
And they all laughed in the king's hall. And it was rumoured that the
Princess Akita also laughed at her maid's accepting the poet's name for
her, and Manjari felt glad in her heart.
Thus truth and falsehood mingle in life--and to what God builds man adds
his own decoration.
Only those were pure truths which were sung by the poet. The theme was
Krishna, the lover god, and Radha, the beloved, the Eternal Man and the
Eternal Woman, the sorrow that comes from the beginning of time, and the
joy without end. The truth of these songs was tested in his inmost
heart by everybody from the beggar to the king himself. The poet's
songs were on the lips of all. At the merest glimmer of the moon and
the faintest whisper of the summer breeze his songs would break forth in
the land from windows and courtyards, from sailing-boats, from shadows
of the wayside trees, in numberless voices.
Thus passed the days happily. The poet recited, the king listened, the
hearers applauded, Manjari passed and repassed by the poet's room on her
way to the river--the shadow flitted behind the screened balcony, and
the tiny golden bells tinkled from afar.
Just then set forth from his home in the south a poet on his path of
conquest. He came to King Narayan, in the kingdom of Amarapur. He
stood before the throne, and uttered a verse in praise of the king. He
had challenged all the court poets on his way, and his career of victory
had been unbroken.
The king received him with honour, and said: "Poet, I offer you
welcome."
Pundarik, the poet, proudly replied : "Sire, I ask for war."
Shekhar, the court poet of the king did not know how the battle of the
muse was to be waged. He had no sleep at night. The mighty figure of
the famous Pundarik, his sharp nose curved like a scimitar, and his
proud head tilted on one side, haunted the poet's vision in the dark.
With a trembling heart Shekhar entered the arena in the morning. The
theatre was filled with the crowd.
The poet greeted his rival with a smile and a bow. Pundarik returned it
with a slight toss of his head, and turned his face towards his circle
of adoring followers with a meaning smile. Shekhar cast his glance
towards the screened balcony high above, and saluted his lady in his
mind, saying! "If I am the winner at the combat to-day, my lady, thy
victorious name shall be glorified."
The trumpet sounded. The great crowd stood up, shouting victory to the
king. The king, dressed in an ample robe of white, slowly came into the
hall like a floating cloud of autumn, and sat on his throne.
Pundarik stood up, and the vast hall became still. With his head raised
high and chest expanded, he began in his thundering voice to recite the
praise of King Narayan. His words burst upon the walls of the hall like
breakers of the sea, and seemed to rattle against the ribs of the
listening crowd. The skill with which he gave varied meanings to the
name Narayan, and wove each letter of it through the web of his verses
in all mariner of combinations, took away the breath of his amazed
hearers.
For some minutes after he took his seat his voice continued to vibrate
among the numberless pillars of the king's court and in thousands of
speechless hearts. The learned professors who had come from distant
lands raised their right hands, and cried, Bravo !
The king threw a glance on Shekhar's face, and Shekhar in answer raised
for a moment his eyes full of pain towards his master, and then stood up
like a stricken deer at bay. His face was pale, his bashfulness was
almost that of a woman, his slight youthful figure, delicate in its
outline, seemed like a tensely strung vina ready to break out in music
at the least touch.
His head was bent, his voice was low, when he began. The first few
verses were almost inaudible. Then he slowly raised his head, and his
clear sweet voice rose into the sky like a quivering flame of fire. He
began with the ancient legend of the kingly line lost in the haze of
the past, and brought it down through its long course of heroism and
matchless generosity to the present age. He fixed his gaze on the
king's face, and all the vast and unexpressed love of the people for the
royal house rose like incense in his song, and enwreathed the throne on
all sides. These were his last words when, trembling, he took his seat:
"My master, 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 with
cries of victory.
Mocking this popular outburst of feeling, with an august shake of his
head and a contemptuous sneer, Pundarik stood up, and flung this
question to the assembly; "What is there superior to words?" In a
moment the hall lapsed into silence again.
Then with a marvellous display of learning, he proved that the Word was
in the beginning, that the Word was God. He piled up quotations from
scriptures, and built a high altar for the Word to be seated above all
that there is in heaven and in earth. He repeated that question in his
mighty voice: "What is there superior to words?"
Proudly he looked around him. None dared to accept his challenge, and
he slowly took his seat like a lion who had just made a full meal of its
victim. The pandits shouted, Bravo ! The king remained silent with
wonder, and the poet Shekhar felt himself of no account by the side of
this stupendous learning. The assembly broke up for that day.
Next day Shekhar began his song. It was of that day when the pipings of
love's flute startled for the first time the hushed air of the Vrinda
forest. The shepherd women did not know who was the player or whence
came the music. Sometimes it seemed to come from the heart of the south
wind, and sometimes from the straying clouds of the hilltops. It came
with a message of tryst from the land of the sunrise, and it floated
from the verge of sunset with its sigh of sorrow. The stars seemed to
be the stops of the instrument that flooded the dreams of the night with
melody. The music seemed to burst all at once from all sides, from
fields and groves, from the shady lanes and lonely roads, from the
melting blue of the sky, from the shimmering green of the grass. They
neither knew its meaning nor could they find words to give utterance to
the desire of their hearts. Tears filled their eyes, and their life
seemed to long for a death that would be its consummation.
Shekhar forgot his audience, forgot the trial of his strength with a
rival. He stood alone amid his thoughts that rustled and quivered round
him like leaves in a summer breeze, and sang the Song of the Flute. He
had in his mind the vision of an image that had taken its shape from a
shadow, and the echo of a faint tinkling sound of a distant footstep.
He took his seat. His hearers trembled with the sadness of an
indefinable delight, immense and vague, and they forgot to
applaud him. As this feeling died away Pundarik stood up before the
throne and challenged his rival to define who was this Lover and who was
the Beloved. He arrogantly looked around him, he smiled at his
followers and then put the question again : "Who is Krishna, the lover,
and who is Radha, the beloved?"
Then he began to analyse the roots of those names,--and various
interpretations of their meanings. He brought before the bewildered
audience all the intricacies of the different schools of metaphysics
with consummate skill. Each letter of those names he divided from its
fellow, and then pursued them with a relentless logic till they fell to
the dust in confusion, to be caught up again and restored to a meaning
never before imagined by the subtlest of word-mongers.
The pandits were in ecstasy; they applauded vociferously ; and the crowd
followed them, deluded into the certainty that they had witnessed, that
day, the last shred of the curtains of Truth torn to pieces before their
eyes by a prodigy of intellect. The performance of his tremendous feat
so delighted them that they forgot to ask themselves if there was any
truth behind it after all.
The king's mind was overwhelmed with wonder. The atmosphere was
completely cleared of all illusion of music, and the vision of the world
around seemed to be changed from its freshness of tender green to the
solidity of a high road levelled and made hard with crushed stones.
To the people assembled their own poet appeared a mere boy in comparison
with this giant, who walked with such case, knocking down difficulties
at each step in the world of words and thoughts. It became evident to
them for the first time that the poems Shekhar wrote were absurdly
simple, and it must be a mere accident that they did not write them
themselves. They were neither new, nor difficult, nor instructive, nor
necessary.
The king tried to goad his poet with keen glances, silently inciting him
to make a final effort. But Shekhar took no notice, and remained fixed
to his seat.
The king in anger came down from his throne--took off his pearl chain
and put it on Pundarik's head. Everybody in the hall cheered. From the
upper balcony came a slight sound of the movements of rustling robes and
waist-chains hung with golden bells. Shekhar rose from his seat and
left the 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 contained
his earliest writings, which he had almost forgotten. He turned over
the pages, reading passages here and there. They all seemed to him poor
and trivial--mere words and childish rhymes!
One by one he tore his books to fragments, and threw them into a vessel
containing fire, and said : "To thee, to thee, O my beauty, my fire!
Thou hast been burning in my heart all these futile years. If my life
were a piece of gold it would come out of its trial brighter, but it is
a trodden turf of grass, and nothing remains of it but this handful of
ashes."
The night wore on. Shekhar opened wide his windows. He spread upon his
bed the white flowers that he loved, the jasmines, tuberoses and
chrysanthemums, and brought into his bedroom all the lamps he had in his
house and lighted them. Then mixing with honey the juice of some
poisonous root he drank it and lay down on his bed.
Golden anklets tinkled in the passage outside the door, and a subtle
perfume came into the room with the breeze.
The poet, with his eyes shut, said; "My lady, have you taken pity upon
your 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 made
of a shadow that he had ever kept throned in the secret shrine of his
heart had come into the outer world in his last moment to gaze upon his
face.
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 you with the crown of victory."
She took the garland of flowers from her own neck, and put it on his
hair, 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 the
fairy story was. It didn't matter whether he was called Shiladitya or
Shaliban, whether he lived at Kashi or Kanauj. The thing that made a
seven-year-old boy's heart go thump, thump with delight was this one
sovereign 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 and
suspicious. They apply the searchlight of science to its legendary haze
and ask: "Which king? "
The story-tellers have become more precise in their turn. They are no
longer content with the old indefinite, "There was a king," but assume
instead a look of profound learning, and begin: "Once there was a king
named Ajatasatru,"
The modern reader's curiosity, however, is not so easily satisfied. He
blinks at the author through his scientific spectacles, and asks again:
"Which Ajatasatru? "
"Every schoolboy knows," the author proceeds, "that there were three
Ajatasatrus. The first was born in the twentieth century B.C., and died
at the tender age of two years and eight months, I deeply regret that
it is impossible to find, from any trustworthy source, a detailed
account of his reign. The second Ajatasatru is better known to
historians. If you refer to the new Encyclopedia of History. . . ."
By this time the modem reader's suspicions are dissolved. He feels he
may safely trust his author. He says to himself: "Now we shall have a
story that is both improving and instructive."
Ah! how we all love to be deluded! We have a secret dread of being
thought ignorant. And we end by being ignorant after all, only we have
done it in a long and roundabout way.
There is an English proverb ; "Ask me no questions, and I will tell you
no lies." The boy of seven who is listening to a fairy story
understands that perfectly well; he withholds his questions, while the
story is being told. So the pure and beautiful falsehood of it all
remains naked and innocent as a babe; transparent as truth itself;
limpid as afresh bubbling spring. But the ponderous and learned lie of
our moderns has to keep its true character draped and veiled. And if
there is discovered anywhere the least little peep-hole of deception,
the reader turns away with a prudish disgust, and the author is
discredited.
When we were young, we understood all sweet things; and we could detect
the sweets of a fairy story by an unerring science of our own. We never
cared for such useless things as knowledge. We only cared for truth.
And our unsophisticated little hearts knew well where the Crystal Palace
of Truth lay and how to reach it. But to-day we are expected to write
pages of 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 was
flooded. The water was knee-deep in our lane. I had a straining hope,
which was almost a certainty, that my tutor would be prevented from
coming that evening. I sat on the stool in the far corner of the
veranda looking down the lane, with a heart beating faster and faster.
Every minute I kept my eye on the rain, and when it began to grow less I
prayed with all my might; "Please, God, send some more rain till half-
past seven is over." For I was quite ready to believe that there was no
other need for rain except to protect one helpless boy one evening 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 law
of 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 approaching
umbrella. The great bubble of hope burst in my breast, and my heart
collapsed. 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's
room. My mother and my grandmother were sitting opposite one another
playing cards by the light of a lamp. I ran into the room, and flung
myself 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 for
schools. For what I did was dreadfully bad, and I received no
punishment whatever. 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, as
she went on with her game as before, and took no further notice. And I
also, burying my head in the pillow, laughed to my heart's content. We
perfectly understood one another, my mother and I.
But every one must know how hard it is for a boy of seven years old to
keep up the illusion of illness for a long time. After about a minute I
got 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
tell me a story." I told Mother she could finish her game to-morrow,
but she must let Grannie tell me a story there and then.
At last Mother threw down the cards and said: "You had better do what he
wants. I can't manage him." Perhaps she had it in her mind that she
would have no tiresome tutor on the morrow, while I should be obliged to
be back to those stupid lessons.
As soon as ever Mother had given way, I rushed at Grannie. I got hold
of her hand, and, dancing with delight, dragged her inside my mosquito
curtain on to the bed. I clutched hold of the bolster with both hands
in my excitement, and jumped up and down with joy, and when I had got a
little quieter, said: "Now, Grannie, let' s have the story!"
Grannie went on: "And the king had a queen." That was good to begin
with. He had only one.
It is usual for kings in fairy stories to be extravagant in queens. And
whenever 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 I
didn't think there was any need to bother if a man had had no son. He
might only have been in the way. Nor are we greatly excited when we
hear that the king has gone away into the forest to practise austerities
in order to get a son. There was only one thing that would have made me
go into 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 a
beautiful princess.
Twelve years pass away, and the king goes on practising austerities, and
never thinks all this while of his beautiful daughter. The princess has
reached the full bloom of her youth. The age of marriage has passed,
but the 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 is mine."
Then the queen sent men to the king to entreat him earnestly to come
back for a single night and take one meal in the palace. And the king
consented.
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 arranged the
food in plates of gold and cups of silver. The princess stood behind
with the peacock-tail fan in her hand. The king, after twelve years'
absence, came into the house, and the princess waved the fan, lighting
up 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 shines
as the gold image of the goddess? Whose daughter is she?"
The queen beat her forehead, and cried: "Ah, how evil is my fate
! Do you not know your own daughter?"
The king was struck with amazement. He said at last; "My tiny daughter
has grown to be a woman."
"What else? " the queen said with a sigh. "Do you not know
that twelve years 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
suitable husband?"
The king became vehement with excitement. "The first man I see
to-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
king finished his meal.
The next morning, as the king came out of his palace, he saw the son of
a Brahman gathering sticks in the forest outside the palace gates. His
age 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,
and the 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
myself for that fortunate wood-gatherer of seven years old. The
night was resonant with the patter of rain. The earthen lamp by
my bedside was burning low. My grandmother's voice droned on as she
told the story. And all these things served to create in a corner of my
credulous heart the belief that I had been gathering sticks in the dawn
of some indefinite time in the kingdom of some unknown king, and in a
moment garlands had been exchanged between me and the princess,
beautiful as the Goddess of Grace. 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 round her waist, and a pair of golden anklets
tinkled above her feet.
If my grandmother were an author how many explanations she would have to
offer for this little story! First of all, every one would ask why the
king remained twelve years in the forest? Secondly, why should the
king's daughter remain unmarried all that while? This would be regarded
as absurd.
Even if she could have got so far without a quarrel, still there would
have been a great hue and cry about the marriage itself. First, it
never happened. Secondly, how could there be a marriage between a
princess of the Warrior Caste and a boy of the priestly Brahman Caste?
Her readers would have imagined at once that the writer was preaching
against our social customs in an underhand way. And they would write
letters to the papers.
So I pray with all my heart that my grandmother may be born a
grandmother again, and not through some cursed fate take birth as her
luckless 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
in great distress, and built a large palace with seven wings, and
began to cherish her husband with great care.
I jumped up and down in my bed and clutched at the bolster more
tightly than ever and said: "What then?"
Grannie continued : The little boy went to school and learnt many
lessons from 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 the seven wings? " The Brahman's son was eager to know who she
was. He could only remember how one day he had been gathering sticks,
and a great disturbance arose. But all that was so long ago, that he
had no clear recollection.
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
the Brahman's son would come back from school and sadly tell the
princess: "My school companions always ask me who is that beautiful lady
in the palace 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 other
day." And every day the Brahman's son would ask; "Who are you? " and
the princess would reply: "Let it pass to-day. I will tell you some
other day." In this manner four or five more years passed away.
At last the Brahman's son became very impatient, and said: "If you do
not tell me to-day who you are, O beautiful lady, I will leave this
palace with the seven wings." Then the princess said: "I will certainly
tell 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
you after supper, when you are in bed."
The Brahman's son said : "Very well " ; and he began to count the hours
in expectation of the night. And the princess, on her side, spread
white flowers 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 his meal,
too excited almost to eat, and had gone to the golden bed in the bed-
chamber strewn with flowers, he said to himself: "To-night I shall
surely know who this beautiful lady is in the palace with the seven
wings."
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 the
question, which was the beautiful lady who lived in the palace with
the seven wings. And as she went up to the bed to tell him she found a
serpent 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 in
death.
My heart suddenly ceased to throb, and I asked with choking voice: "What
then? "
Grannie said; "Then . . ."
But what is the use of going on any further with the story? It would
only lead on to what was more and more impossible. The boy of seven did
not know that, if there were some "What then? " after death, no
grandmother of a grandmother could tell us all about it.
But the child's faith never admits defeat, and it would snatch at the
mantle of death itself to turn him back. It would be outrageous for him
to think that such a story of one teacherless evening could so suddenly
come to a stop. Therefore the grandmother had to call back her story
from 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
night and in the dim light of a lamp death loses all its horror in the
mind of the 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. Thus it is that we send the little body of the child floating on
the back of sleep over the still water of time, and then in the morning
read a few verses 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 new
mischief got into his head. There was a heavy log lying on the mud-flat
of the river waiting to be shaped into a mast for a boat. He decided
that they should all work together to shift the log by main force from
its place and roll it away. The owner of the log would be angry and
surprised, and they would all enjoy the fun. Every one seconded the
proposal, and it was carried unanimously.
But just as the fun was about to begin, Makhan, Phatik's younger
brother, sauntered up, and sat down on the log in front of them all
without 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 remained
quite unconcerned. He appeared like a young philosopher meditating on
the futility of games. Phatik was furious. "Makhan," he cried, "if you
don'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 was
clear he ought to carry out his threat. But his courage failed him at
the crisis. His fertile brain, however, rapidly seized upon a new
manoeuvre which would discomfit his brother and afford his followers an
added amusement. He gave the word of command to roll the log and Makhan
over together. Makhan heard the order, and made it a point of honour to
stick on. But he overlooked the fact, like those who attempt earthly
fame 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 went
Makhan's philosophy, glory and all.
All the other boys shouted themselves hoarse with delight. But Phatik
was a little frightened. He knew what was coming. And, sure enough,
Makhan rose from Mother Earth blind as Fate and screaming like the
Furies. He rushed at Phatik and scratched his face and beat him and
kicked him, and then went crying home. The first act of the drama was
over.
Phatik wiped his face, and sat down on the edge of a sunken barge on the
river bank, and began to chew a piece of grass. A boat came up to the
landing, and a middle-aged man, with grey hair and dark moustache,
stepped on shore. He saw the boy sitting there doing nothing, and asked
him where the Chakravortis lived. Phatik went on chewing the grass, and
said: "Over there," but it was quite impossible to tell where he
pointed. The stranger asked him again. He swung his legs to and fro on
the side of the barge, and said; "Go and find out," and continued to
chew the grass as before.
But now a servant came down from the house, and told Phatik his mother
wanted him. Phatik refused to move. But the servant was the master on
this occasion. He took Phatik up roughly, and carried him, kicking and
struggling in impotent rage.
When Phatik came into the house, his mother saw him. She called out
angrily: "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!"
But Makhan 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 this
injustice. 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 shouted
out: "What I you little villain! would you hit your own mother?"
It was just at this critical juncture that the grey-haired stranger
arrived. He asked what was the matter. Phatik looked sheepish and
ashamed.
But when his mother stepped back and looked at the stranger, her anger
was changed to surprise. For she recognised her brother, and cried:
"Why, Dada! Where have you come from? "As she said these words, she
bowed to the ground and touched his feet. Her brother had gone away
soon after she had married, and he had started business in Bombay. His
sister had lost her husband while he was In Bombay. Bishamber had now
come back to Calcutta, and had at once made enquiries about his sister.
He had then 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 the
education of the two boys. He was told by his sister that Phatik was a
perpetual nuisance. He was lazy, disobedient, and wild. But Makhan was
as good as gold, as quiet as a lamb, and very fond of reading,
Bishamber kindly offered to take Phatik off his sister's hands, and
educate him with 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 that made it quite clear that he meant it.
It was an immense relief to the mother to get rid of Phatik. She had a
prejudice against the boy, and no love was lost between the two
brothers. She was in daily fear that he would either drown Makhan some
day in the river, or break his head in a fight, or run him into some
danger or other. At the same time she was somewhat distressed to see
Phatik's extreme eagerness to get away.
Phatik, as soon as all was settled, kept asking his uncle every minute
when they were to start. He was on pins and needles all day long with
excitement, and lay awake most of the night. He bequeathed to Makhan,
in perpetuity, his fishing-rod, his big kite and his marbles. Indeed,
at this time of departure his generosity towards Makhan
was unbounded.
When they reached Calcutta, Phatik made the acquaintance of his aunt for
the first time. She was by no means pleased with this unnecessary
addition to her family. She found her own three boys quite enough to
manage without taking any one else. And to bring a village lad of
fourteen into their midst was terribly upsetting. Bishamber should
really have thought twice before committing such an indiscretion.
In this world of human affairs there is no worse nuisance than a boy at
the age of fourteen. He is neither ornamental, nor useful. It is
impossible to shower affection on him as on a little boy; and he is
always getting in the way. If he talks with a childish lisp he is
called a 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 the unattractive, growing age. He grows out of his clothes with
indecent haste; his voice grows hoarse and breaks and quavers; his face
grows suddenly angular and unsightly. It is easy to excuse the
shortcomings of early childhood, but it is hard to tolerate even
unavoidable lapses in a boy of fourteen. The lad himself becomes
painfully self-conscious. When he talks with elderly people he is
either unduly forward, or else so unduly 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 most
craves for recognition and love; and he becomes the devoted slave of any
one who shows him consideration. But none dare openly love him, for
that would be regarded as undue indulgence, and therefore bad for the
boy. So, what with scolding and chiding, he becomes very much like a
stray dog that has lost his master.
For a boy of fourteen his own home is the only Paradise. To live in a
strange house with strange people is little short of torture, while the
height of bliss is to receive the kind looks of women, and never to be
slighted 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 she
ever asked him to do anything for her, he would be so overjoyed that he
would overdo it; and then she would tell him not to be so stupid, but to
get on with his lessons.
The cramped atmosphere of neglect in his aunt's house oppressed Phatik
so much that he felt that he could hardly breathe. He wanted to go out
into the open country and fill his lungs and breathe freely. But there
was no open country to go to. Surrounded on all sides by Calcutta houses
and walls, be would dream night after night of his village home, and
long to be back there. He remembered the glorious meadow where he used
to By his kite all day long; the broad river-banks where he would wander
about the livelong day singing and shouting for joy; the narrow
brook where he could go and dive and swim at any time he liked. He
thought of his band of boy companions over whom he was despot; and,
above all, the memory of that tyrant mother of his, who had such a
prejudice against him, occupied him day and night. A kind of physical
love like that of animals; a longing to be in the presence of the one
who is loved; an inexpressible wistfulness during absence; a silent cry
of the inmost heart for the mother, like the lowing of a calf in the
twilight;-this love, which was almost an animal instinct, agitated the
shy, nervous, lean, uncouth and ugly boy. No one could understand it,
but it preyed upon his mind continually.
There was no more backward boy in the whole school than Phatik. He gaped
and remained silent when the teacher asked him a question, and like an
overladen ass patiently suffered all the blows that came down on his
back. When other boys were out at play, he stood wistfully by the
window and gazed at the roofs of the distant houses. And if by chance
he espied children playing on the open terrace of any roof, his heart
would ache with 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 would
not 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 he had
found it very difficult indeed to prepare his lesson. Now it was
impossible. Day after day the teacher would cane him unmercifully. His
condition became so abjectly miserable that even his cousins were
ashamed to own him. They began to jeer and insult him more than the
other boys. He went to his aunt at last, and told her that he bad lost
his 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
books five times a month?"
That night, on his way back from school, Phatik had a bad headache with
a fit of shivering. He felt he was going to have an attack of malarial
fever. 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 the
neighbourhood proved futile. The rain had been pouring in torrents all
night, and those who went out in search of the boy got drenched through
to 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
constables brought out Phatik in their arms and placed him before
Bishamber. He was wet through from head to foot, muddy all over, his
face and eyes flushed red with fever, and his limbs all trembling.
Bishamber carried him in his 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 you better send him home ?"
Phatik heard her words, and sobbed out loud: "Uncle, I was just
going home; 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 with
fever, and looked up to the ceiling, and said vacantly: "Uncle, have the
holidays come yet? May I go home?"
Bishamber wiped the tears from his own eyes, and took Phatik's lean and
burning hands in his own, and sat by him through the night. The boy
began again to mutter. At last his voice became excited: "Mother," he
cried, "don't beat me like that! Mother! I am telling the truth!"
The next day Phatik became conscious for a short time. He turned his
eyes about the room, as if expecting some one to come. At last, with an
air of disappointment, his head sank back on the pillow. He turned his
face 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
said in a troubled voice that the boy's condition was very critical.
Phatik began to cry out; "By the mark! --three fathoms. By the mark--
four fathoms. By the mark-." He had heard the sailor on the river-
steamer calling out the mark on the plumb-line. Now he was himself
plumbing an unfathomable 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 ceased
beating 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's
house. He belonged to the same caste as his master, and was given his
master's little son to nurse. As time went on the boy left Raicharan's
arms to go to school. From school he went on to college, and after
college 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
masters instead of one. All his former influence passed to the new
mistress. This was compensated for by a fresh arrival. Anukul had a
son born to him, and Raicharan by his unsparing attentions soon got a
complete hold over the child. He used to toss him up in his arms, call
to him in absurd baby language, put his face close to the baby's and
draw it away again with a grin.
Presently the child was able to crawl and cross the doorway. When
Raicharan went to catch him, he would scream with mischievous laughter
and make for safety. Raicharan was amazed at the profound skill and
exact judgment the baby showed when pursued. He would say to his
mistress with a look of awe and mystery: "Your son will be a judge some
day."
New wonders came in their turn. When the baby began to toddle, that was
to Raicharan an epoch in human history. When he called his father Ba-ba
and his mother Ma-ma and Raicharan Chan-na, then Raicharan's ecstasy
knew 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 reins
between his teeth and prancing with his feet. He had also to wrestle
with his little charge, and if he could not, by a wrestler's trick, fall
on his back defeated at the end, a great outcry was certain.
About this time Anukul was transferred to a district on the banks of the
Padma. 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 some
gold bracelets and anklets. Raicharan was wont to take these out, and
put them on his little charge with ceremonial pride, whenever they went
for a walk.
Then came the rainy season, and day after day the rain poured down in
torrents. The hungry river, like an enormous serpent, swallowed down
terraces, villages, cornfields, and covered with its flood the tall
grasses and wild casuarinas on the sand-banks. From time to time there
was a deep thud, as the river-banks crumbled. The unceasing roar of the
rain current could be beard from far away. Masses of foam, carried
swiftly 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 fine
afternoon. His lordship climbed into the go-cart. Raicharan, between
the shafts, dragged him slowly along till he reached the rice-fields on
the banks of the river. There was no one in the fields, and no boat on
the stream. Across the water, on the farther side, the clouds were
rifted in the west. The silent ceremonial of the setting sun was
revealed in all its glowing splendour. In the midst of that stillness
the child, all of a sudden, pointed with his finger in front of him and
cried: "Chan-nal Pitty fow."
Close by on a mud-flat stood a large Kadamba tree in full flower. My
lord, the baby, looked at it with greedy eyes, and Raicharan knew his
meaning. Only a short time before he had made, out of these very flower
balls, a small go-cart; and the child had been so entirely happy
dragging it about with a string, that for the whole day Raicharan was
not made to put on the reins at all. He was promoted from a horse into
a groom.
But Raicharan had no wish that evening to go splashing knee-deep through
the mud to reach the flowers. So he quickly pointed his finger in the
opposite direction, calling out: "Oh, look, baby, look! Look at the
bird." And with all sorts of curious noises he pushed the go-cart
rapidly away from the tree.
But a child, destined to be a judge, cannot be put off so easily. And
besides, there was at the time nothing to attract his eyes. And you
cannot 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, and
I'll go and get you the pretty flower. Only mind you don't go near the
water."
As he said this, he made his legs bare to the knee, and waded
through the oozing mud towards the tree.
The moment Raicharan had gone, his little Master went off at racing
speed to the forbidden water. The baby saw the river rushing by,
splashing and gurgling as it went. It seemed as though the disobedient
wavelets themselves were running away from some greater Raicharan with
the laughter of a thousand children. At the sight of their mischief,
the heart of the human child grew excited and restless. He got down
stealthily from the go-cart and toddled off towards the river. On his
way he picked up a small stick, and leant over the bank of the stream
pretending to fish. The mischievous fairies of the river with their
mysterious voices seemed inviting him into their play-house.
Raicharan had plucked a handful of flowers from the tree, and was
carrying them back in the end of his cloth, with his face wreathed in
smiles. But when he reached the go-cart, there was no one there. He
looked on all sides and there was no one there. He looked back at the
cart and there was no one there.
In that first terrible moment his blood froze within him. Before his
eyes the whole universe swam round like a dark mist. From the depth of
his broken heart he gave one piercing cry; "Master, Master, little
Master."
But no voice answered "Chan-na." No child laughed mischievously back;
no scream of baby delight welcomed his return. Only the river ran on,
with its splashing, gurgling noise as before,--as though it knew nothing
at all, and had no time to attend to such a tiny human event as the
death of a child.
As the evening passed by Raicharan's mistress became very anxious. She
sent men out on all sides to search. They went with lanterns in their
hands, and reached at last the banks of the Padma. There they found
Raicharan rushing up and down the fields, like a stormy wind, shouting
the cry of despair: "Master, Master, little Master!"
When they got Raicharan home at last, he fell prostrate at his
mistress's feet. They shook him, and questioned him, and asked him
repeatedly where he had left the child; but all he could say was, that
he knew nothing.
Though every one held the opinion that the Padma had swallowed the
child, there was a lurking doubt left in the mind. For a band of
gipsies had been noticed outside the village that afternoon, and some
suspicion rested on them. The mother went so far in her wild grief as
to think it possible that Raicharan himself had stolen the child. She
called him aside 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 me back my child!"
Raicharan only beat his forehead in reply. His mistress ordered him out
of 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. Who
knows?"
It was impossible to reason with her after that.
II
Raicharan went back to his own village. Up to this time he had had no
son, and there was no hope that any child would now be born to him. But
it came about before the end of a year that his wife gave birth to a son
and died.
All overwhelming resentment at first grew up in Raicharan's heart at the
sight of this new baby. At the back of his mind was resentful suspicion
that it had come as a usurper in place of the little Master. He also
thought it would be a grave offence to be happy with a son of his own
after what had happened to his master's little child. Indeed, if it had
not been for a widowed sister, who mothered the new baby, it would not
have lived long.
But a change gradually came over Raicharan's mind. A wonderful thing
happened. This new baby in turn began to crawl about, and cross the
doorway with mischief in its face. It also showed an amusing cleverness
in making its escape to safety. Its voice, its sounds of laughter and
tears, its gestures, were those of the little Master. On some days,
when Raicharan listened to its crying, his heart suddenly began
thumping wildly against his ribs, and it seemed to him that his former
little Master was crying somewhere in the unknown land of death because
he had lost 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
became clear. 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 beyond
dispute:
(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 birth
to 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 the
mother. "Ah," he said to himself with amazement, "the mother's heart was
right. She knew I had stolen her child." When once he had come to this
conclusion, he was filled with remorse for his past neglect. He now
gave himself over, body and soul, to the new baby, and became its
devoted attendant. 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-
embroidered cap. He melted down the ornaments of his dead wife, and
made gold bangles and anklets. He refused to let the little child play
with any one of the neighbourhood, and became himself its sole companion
day and night. As the baby grew up to boyhood, he was so petted and
spoilt and clad in such finery that the village children would call him
"Your Lordship," and jeer at him; and older people regarded Raicharan as
unaccountably crazy about the child.
At last the time came for the boy to go to school. Raicharan sold his
small piece of land, and went to Calcutta. There he got employment with
great difficulty as a servant, and sent Phailna to school. He spared no
pains 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 in
secret: "Ah! my little Master, my dear little Master, you loved me so
much that you came back to my house. You shall never suffer from any
neglect of mine."
Twelve years passed away in this manner. The boy was able to read and
write well. He was bright and healthy and good-looking. He paid a
great deal of attention to his personal appearance, and was specially
careful in parting his hair. He was inclined to extravagance and
finery, and spent 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 that himself was the father of the child.
The students of the hostel, where Phailna was a boarder, were greatly
amused by Raicharan's country manners, and I have to confess that behind
his father's back Phailna joined in their fun. But, in the bottom of
their hearts, all the students loved the innocent and tender-hearted
old man, 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 finding
fault with him for his incompetent work. He had been starving himself
for the boy's sake. So he had grown physically weak, and no longer up
to his 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
would not brook excuses. The money that Raicharan had brought with him
from the sale of his land was exhausted. The boy was continually
grumbling about his clothes, and asking for more money.
Raicharan made up his mind. He gave up the situation where he was
working as a servant, and left some money with Phailna and said: "I have
some 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's
wife 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
wife was buying, at an exorbitant price, a herb from a mendicant quack,
which was said to ensure the birth of a child. A voice of greeting was
heard in the courtyard. Anukul went out to see who was there. It was
Raicharan. Anukul's heart was softened when he saw his old servant. He
asked him many questions, and offered to take him back into service.
Raicharan smiled faintly, and said in reply; "I want to make obeisance
to my mistress."
Anukul went with Raicharan into the house, where the mistress did not
receive him as warmly as his old master. Raicharan took no notice of
this, but folded his hands, and said: "It was not the Padma that stole
your 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
and wife were looking expectantly along the road, waiting from early
morning for Raicharan's appearance. At ten o'clock he came, leading
Phailna by the hand.
Anukul's wife, without a question, took the boy into her lap, and was
wild with excitement, sometimes laughing, sometimes weeping, touching
him, kissing his hair and his forehead, and gazing into his face with
hungry, eager eyes. The boy was very good-looking and dressed like a
gentleman's son. The heart of Anukul brimmed over with a sudden rush of
affection.
Nevertheless the magistrate in him asked: "Have you any proofs?
"Raicharan said: "How could there be any proof of such a deed? God
alone knows that I stole your boy, and no one else in the world."
When Anukul saw how eagerly his wife was clinging to the boy, he
realised the futility of asking for proofs. It would be wiser to
believe. And then--where could an old man like Raicharan get such a boy
from? 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, folding
his 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 forgive
him."
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," he
cried, "let me stay. It was not I who did it. It was God."
Anukul's conscience was worse stricken than ever, when Raicharan tried
to put the blame on God's shoulders.
"No," he said, "I could not allow it. I cannot trust you any more. You
have 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 remained
obdurate.
When Phailna saw that he was the wealthy magistrate's son, and not
Raicharan's, be was angry at first, thinking that he had been cheated
all this time of his birthright. But seeing Raicharan in distress, he
generously said to his father: "Father, forgive him. Even if you don't
let him live with us, let him have a small monthly pension."
After hearing this, Raicharan did not utter another word. He looked for
the last time on the face of his son; he made obeisance to his old
master and mistress. Then he went out, and was mingled with the
numberless people of the world.
At the end of the month Anukul sent him some money to his village. But
the 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
lived the 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. The
fourth Caste was made up of a mixture of the lower Cards. The Twos and
Threes were lowest of all. These inferior Cards were never allowed to
sit 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 time
immemorial. Every one had his own appointed work, and never did
anything else. An unseen hand appeared to be directing them wherever
they went, --according to the Rules.
No one in the Kingdom of Cards had any occasion to think: no one had any
need to come to any decision: no one was ever required to debate any new
subject. The citizens all moved along in a listless groove without
speech. When they fell, they made no noise. They lay down on their
backs, and gazed upward at the sky with each prim feature firmly fixed
for ever.
There was a remarkable stillness in the Kingdom of Cards. Satisfaction
and contentment were complete in all their rounded wholeness. There was
never any uproar or violence. There was never any excitement or
enthusiasm.
The great ocean, crooning its lullaby with one unceasing melody, lapped
the island to sleep with a thousand soft touches of its wave's white
hands. The vast sky, like the outspread azure wings of the brooding
mother-bird, nestled the island round with its downy plume. For on the
distant horizon a deep blue line betokened another shore. But no sound
of quarrel or strife could reach the Island of Cards, to break its calm
repose.
II
In that far-off foreign land. across the sea, there lived a young
Prince whose mother was a sorrowing queen. This queen had fallen from
favour, and was living with her only son on the seashore. The Prince
passed his childhood alone and forlorn, sitting by his forlorn mother,
weaving the net 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, or to find where the Princess Beauty was sleeping in the
Ogre's castle over the thirteen rivers and across the seven seas.
>From the Son of the Merchant at school the young Prince learnt the
stories of foreign kingdoms. From the Son of the Kotwal he learnt the
adventures of the Two Genii of the Lamp. And when the rain came beating
down, and the clouds covered the sky, he would sit on the threshold
facing the sea, and say to his sorrowing mother: "Tell me, mother, a
story of some very far-off land."
And his mother would tell him an endless tale she had heard in her
childhood of a wonderful country beyond the sea where dwelt the Princess
Beauty. And the heart of the young Prince would become sick with
longing, as he sat on the threshold, looking out on the ocean, listening
to his mother's wonderful story, while the rain outside came beating
down 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 to
seek 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 will
not leave me behind. I also will be your companion."
Then the young Prince said to his sorrowing mother; "Mother, I am now
setting out on my travels to seek my fortune. When I come back once
more, I shall surely have found some way to remove all your sorrow."
So the Three Companions set out on their travels together. In the
harbour were anchored the twelve ships of the merchant, and the Three
Companions got on board. The south wind was blowing, and the twelve
ships sailed away, as fast as the desires which rose in the Prince's
breast.
At the Conch Shell Island they filled one ship with conchs. At the
Sandal Wood Island they filled a second ship with sandal-wood, and at
the 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
ships were all of them sunk, with their cloves and nutmeg, and musk and
ivory, and coral and sandal-wood and conchs. But the ship with the
Three Companions struck on an island reef, buried them safe ashore, and
itself broke in pieces.
This was the famous Island of Cards, where lived the Ace and King and
Queen and Knave, with the Nines and Tens and all the other Members--
according to the Rules.
III
Up till now there had been nothing to disturb that island stillness. No
new thing had ever happened. No discussion had ever been held.
And then, of a sudden, the Three Companions appeared, thrown up by the
sea,--and the Great Debate began. There were three main points of
dispute.
First, to what caste should these unclassed strangers belong?
Should they 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 to decide this weighty question.
Secondly, what was their clan? Had they the fairer hue and bright
complexion of the Hearts, or was theirs the darker complexion of the
Clubs? Over this question there were interminable disputes. The whole
marriage system of the island, with its intricate regulations, would
depend on its nice adjustment.
Thirdly, what food should they take? With whom should they live and
sleep ? And should their heads be placed south-west, north-west, or
only north-east? In all the Kingdom of Cards a series of problems so
vital and critical had never been debated before.
But the Three Companions grew desperately hungry. They had to get food
in some way or other. So while this debate went on, with its
interminable silence and pauses, and while the Aces called their own
meeting, and formed themselves into a Committee, to find some obsolete
dealing with the question, the Three Companions themselves were eating
all they could find, and drinking out of every vessel, and breaking all
regulations.
Even the Twos and Threes were shocked at this outrageous behaviour. The
Threes said; "Brother Twos, these people are openly shameless!" And the
Twos said: "Brother Threes, they are evidently of lower caste than
ourselves! "After their meal was over, the Three Companions went for a
stroll in the city.
When they saw the ponderous people moving in their dismal processions
with prim and solemn faces, then the Prince turned to the Son of the
Merchant and the Son of the Kotwal, and threw back his head, and gave
one stupendous laugh.
Down Royal Street and across Ace Square and along the Knave Embankment
ran 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 through
to the bone by the ghost-like stillness around them. They turned to
the Prince, and said: "Comrade, let us away. Let us not stop for a
moment in this awful land of ghosts."
But the Prince said: "Comrades, these people resemble men, so I am going
to find out, by shaking them upside down and outside in, whether they
have 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 went
on almost without a ripple. The Three Companions obeyed no rules nor
regulations. They never did anything correctly either in sitting or
standing or turning themselves round or lying on their back. On the
contrary, wherever they saw these things going on precisely and exactly
according to the Rules, they gave way to inordinate laughter. They
remained unimpressed altogether by the eternal gravity of those eternal
regulations.
One day the great Court Cards came to the Son of the Kotwal and the Son
of 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 slowly
awakening from an age-long dream, said together: "Ich-cha! And pray who
is Ich-cha?"
They could not understand who Ichcha was then, but the whole island was
to understand it by-and-by. The first glimmer of light passed the
threshold of their minds when they found out, through watching the
actions of the Prince, that they might move in a straight line in an
opposite direction from the one in which they had always gone before.
Then they made another startling discovery, that there was another
side to the Cards which they had never yet noticed with attention. This
was the beginning of the change.
Now that the change had begun, the Three Companions were able to
initiate them more and more deeply into the mysteries of Ichcha. The
Cards gradually became aware that life was not bound by regulations.
They began to feel a secret satisfaction in the kingly power of choosing
for themselves.
But with this first impact of Ichcha the whole pack of cards began to
totter slowly, and then tumble down to the ground. The scene was like
that of some huge python awaking from a long sleep, as it slowly unfolds
its numberless coils with a quiver that runs through its whole frame.
V
Hitherto the Queens of Spades and Clubs and Diamonds and Hearts had
remained behind curtains with eyes that gazed vacantly into space, or
else remained fixed upon the ground.
And now, all of a sudden, on an afternoon in spring the Queen of Hearts
from the balcony raised her dark eyebrows for a moment, and cast a
single 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 said in
a meditative voice; "My comrades ! There is a charm about these ladies
that 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
the first 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, for
instance, her place in the row was beside the Knave, she suddenly found
herself quite accidentally standing beside the Prince instead. At this,
the Knave, with motionless face and solemn voice, would say: "Queen, you
have made a mistake."
And the poor Queen of Hearts' red cheeks would get redder than ever.
But the Prince would come gallantly to her rescue and say: "No! There
is no mistake. From to-day I am going to be Knave!"
Now it came to pass that, while every one was trying to correct the
improprieties of the guilty Queen of Hearts, they began to make mistakes
themselves. The Aces found themselves elbowed out by the Kings. The
Kings got muddled up with the Knaves. The Nines and Tens assumed airs
as though they belonged to the Great Court Cards. The Twos and Threes
were found secretly taking the places specially resented for the Fours
and Fives. Confusion had never been so confounded before.
Many spring seasons had come and gone in that Island of Cards. The
Kokil, the bird of Spring, had sung its song year after year. But it
had never stirred the blood as it stirred it now. In days gone by the
sea had sung its tireless melody. But, then, it had proclaimed only
the inflexible 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 wild
with regrets. Here is a mind racked sore with doubts. Music and
sighing, and smiles and tears, are filling the air. Life is throbbing;
hearts are breaking; passions are kindling.
Every one is now thinking of his own appearance, and comparing himself
with others. The Ace of Clubs is musing to himself, that the King of
Spades may be just passably good-looking. "But," says he, "when I walk
down 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 always
straining his neck and strutting about like a peacock? He imagines all
the Queens are dying of love for him, while the real fact is --"Here he
pauses, and examines his face in the glass.
But the Queens were the worst of all. They began to spend all their
time in dressing themselves up to the Nines. And the Nines would become
their hopeless and abject slaves. But their cutting remarks about one
another were 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 young
maidens, dressed in pale-blue robes, would come walking accidentally to
the same shade of the same forest by the same trees, and turn their eyes
as though they saw no one there, and look as though they came out to see
nothing at all. And then one young man more forward than the rest in a
fit of madness would dare to go near to a maiden in blue. But, as he
drew near, speech would forsake him. He would stand there tongue-tied
and foolish, and the favourable moment would pass.
The Kokil birds were singing in the boughs overhead. The mischievous
South wind was blowing; it disarrayed the hair, it whispered in the ear,
and stirred the music in the blood. The leaves of the trees were
murmuring with rustling delight. And the ceaseless sound of the ocean
made all the mute longings of the heart of man and maid surge backwards
and forwards on the full springtide of love.
The Three Companions had brought into the dried-up channels of the
Kingdom of Cards the full flood-tide of a new life.
VII
And, though the tide was full, there -was a pause as though the
rising waters would not break into foam but remain suspended for
ever. There were no outspoken words, only a cautious going forward one
step and receding two. All seemed busy heaping up their unfulfilled
desires like castles in the air, or fortresses of sand. They were pale
and speechless, their eyes were burning, their lips trembling with
unspoken secrets.
The Prince saw what was wrong. He summoned every one on the Island and
said: "Bring hither the flutes and the cymbals, the pipes and drums.
Let all be played together, and raise loud shouts of rejoicing. For the
Queen of Hearts this very night is going to choose her Mate !"
So the Tens and Nines began to blow on their flutes and pipes; the
Eights and Sevens played on their sackbuts and viols; and even the Twos
and Threes began to beat madly on their drums.
When this tumultous gust of music came, it swept away at one blast all
those sighings and mopings. And then what a torrent of laughter and
words poured forth! There were daring proposals and locking refusals,
and gossip and chatter, and jests and merriment. It was like the
swaying and shaking, and rustling and soughing, in a summer gale, of a
million leaves and branches in the depth of the primeval forest.
But the Queen of Hearts, in a rose-red robe, sat silent in the shadow of
her secret bower, and listened to the great uproarious sound of music
and mirth, that came floating towards her. She shut her eyes, and
dreamt her dream of lore. And when she opened them she found the Prince
seated on the ground before her gazing up at her face. And she covered
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