I felt I could no longer keep my vow. I was
about to move on towards the sitting-room, when I
found my sister-in-law behind me. “O Lord,
this beats everything!” she ejaculated, as she
glided away. I could not proceed to the outer
apartments.
The next morning when my maid came calling, “Rani
Mother, it is getting late for giving out the stores,”
I flung the keys to her, saying, “Tell Harimati
to see to it,” and went on with some embroidery
of English pattern on which I was engaged, seated near
the window.
Then came a servant with a letter. “From
Sandip Babu,” said he. What unbounded boldness!
What must the messenger have thought? There
was a tremor within my breast as I opened the envelope.
There was no address on the letter, only the words:
__An urgent matter—touching the Cause.
Sandip__.
I flung aside the embroidery. I was up on my
feet in a moment, giving a touch or two to my hair
by the mirror. I kept the __sari__ I had on,
changing only my jacket—for one of my jackets
had its associations.
I had to pass through one of the verandahs, where
my sister-in-law used to sit in the morning slicing
betel-nut. I refused to feel awkward.
“Whither away, Chota Rani?” she cried.
“To the sitting-room outside.”
“So early! A matinee, eh?”
And, as I passed on without further reply, she hummed
after me a flippant song.
When I was about to enter the sitting-room, I saw
Sandip immersed in an illustrated catalogue of British
Academy pictures, with his back to the door.
He has a great notion of himself as an expert in
matters of Art.
One day my husband said to him: “If the
artists ever want a teacher, they need never lack
for one so long as you are there.” It had
not been my husband’s habit to speak cuttingly,
but latterly there has been a change and he never
spares Sandip.
“What makes you suppose that artists need no
teachers?” Sandip retorted.
“Art is a creation,” my husband replied.
“So we should humbly be content to receive
our lessons about Art from the work of the artist.”
Sandip laughed at this modesty, saying: “You
think that meekness is a kind of capital which increases
your wealth the more you use it. It is my conviction
that those who lack pride only float about like water
reeds which have no roots in the soil.”
My mind used to be full of contradictions when they
talked thus. On the one hand I was eager that
my husband should win in argument and that Sandip’s
pride should be shamed. Yet, on the other, it
was Sandip’s unabashed pride which attracted
me so. It shone like a precious diamond, which
knows no diffidence, and sparkles in the face of the
sun itself.
I entered the room. I knew Sandip could hear
my footsteps as I went forward, but he pretended not
to, and kept his eyes on the book.
