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RainTufu

Oh! She is good, the little rain!And well she knows our needWho cometh in the time of springTo aid the sun-drawn seed;She wanders with a friendly windThrough silent nights unseen,The furrows feel her happy tears,And no! The land is green

Two Nature?By Rabindranath Tagore

Man goes into the noisy crowd to drown his own clamor of silence. Man has a fund of emotional energy which is not all occupied with his self-preservation. This surplus seeks its outlet in the creation of art, for man is civilization is built upon his surplus… In everyday life, when we are mostly moved by our habits, we are economical in our expression, for then our soul-consciousness is at its low level – it has just volume enough to guide on in accustomed grooves. But when our heart is fully awakened in love, or in other great emotions, our personality is in its flood-tide. Man is abiding happiness is not in getting anything but in giving himself up to what is greater than him, to ideas which are larger than his individual life, the idea of his country of humanity, of God.Man is cry is to reach his fullest expression. Men are cruel, but Man is kind. Music fills the infinite between two souls. This has been muffled by the mist of our daily habits. Never be afraid of the moments – thus sings the voice of the ever-lasting. Objects of knowledge maintain an infinite distance from us who are the knower’s. For knowledge is not union. Therefore the further world of freedom awaits us there where we reach truth, not through feeling it by senses or knowing it by reason, but through union of perfect sympathy.

The Prophet

The Coming of the Ship

Almustafa, the chosen and the beloved, who was a dawn onto his own day, had waited twelve years in the city of Orphalese for his ship that was to return and bear him back to the isle of his birth.

And in the twelfth year, on the seventh day of Ielool, the month of reaping, he climbed the hill without the city walls and looked seaward; and he beheld the ship coming with the mist.

Then the gates of his heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the sea. And he closed his eyes and prayed in the silences of his soul.

But he descended the hill, a sadness came upon him, and he thought in his heart: How shall I go in peace and

without sorrow? Nay, not without a wound in the spirit shall I leave this city.

Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret?

Too many fragments of the spirit have I scatterd in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a bruden and an ache.

It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands.

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Nor is it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger and with thirst.

Yet I cannot tarry longer.

The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark.

For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould.

Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall I?

A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that give it wings. Alone must it seek the ether.

And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.

Now when he reached the foot of the hill, he turned again towards the sea, and he saw his ship approaching the harbour, and upon her prow the mariners, the men of his own land.

And his soul cried out to them, and he said:

Sons of my ancient mother, you riders of the tides, How often have you sailed in my dreams. And now you come in my awakening, which is my deeper dream.

Ready am I to go, and my eagerness with sails full set awaits the wind.

Only another breath will I breathe in this still air, only another loving look cast backward,Then I shall stand among you, a seafarer among seafarers.And you, vast sea, sleepless mother,Who alone are peace and freedom to the river and the stream,Only another winding will this stream make, only another murmur in this glade,And then shall I come to you, a boundless drop to a boundless ocean.

And as he walked he saw from afar men and women leaving their fields and their vineyards and hastening towards the city gates.

And he heard their voices calling his name, and shouting from the field to field telling one another of the coming of the ship.

And he said to himself:

Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering?

And shall it be said that my eve was in truth my dawn?

And what shall I give unto him who has left his plough in midfurrow, or to him who has stopped the wheel of his winepress?

Shall my heart become a tree heavy-laden with fruit that I may gather and give unto them?

And shall my desires flow like a fountain that I may fill their cups?

Am I a harp that the hand of the mighty may touch me, or a flute that his breath may pass through me?

A seeker of silences am I, and what treasure have I found in silences that I may dispense with confidence?

If this is my day of harvest, in what fields have I sowed the seed, and in what unrembered seasons?

If this indeed be the our in which I lift up my lantern, it is not my flame that shall burn therein.

Empty and dark shall I raise my lantern,And the guardian of the night shall fill it with oil and he shall light it also.

These things he said in words. But much in his heart remained unsaid. For he himself could not speak his deeper secret.

And when he entered into the city all the people came to meet him, and they were crying out to him as with one voice.

And the elders of the city stood forth and said:

Go not yet away from us.

A noontide have you been in our twilight, and your youth has given us dreams to dream.

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No stranger are you among us, nor a guest, but our son and our dearly beloved.

Suffer not yet our eyes to hunger for your face.

And the priests and the priestesses said unto him:

Let not the waves of the sea separate us now, and the years you have spent in our midst become a memory.

You have walked among us a spirit, and your shadow has been a light upon our facs.

Much have we loved you. But speechless was our love, and with veils has it been veiled.

Yet now it cries aloud unto you, and would stand revealed before you.

And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

And others came also and entreated him.

But he answered them not. He only bent his head; and those who stood near saw his tears falling upon his breast.

And he and the people proceeded towards the great square before the temple.

And there came out of the sanctuary a woman whose name was Almitra. And she was a seeress.

And he looked upon her with exceeding tenderness, for it was she who had first sought and believed in him when he had been but a day in their city.

And she hailed him, saying:

Prophet of God, in quest for the uttermost, long have you searched the distances for your ship.

And now your ship has come, and you must needs go.

Deep is your longing for the land of your memories and the dwelling place of your greater desires; and our love would not bind you nor our needs hold you.

Yet this we ask ere you leave us, that you speak to us and give us of your truth.

And we will give it unto our children, and they unto their children, and it shall not perish.

In your aloneness you have watched with our days, and in your wakefulness you have listened to the weeping and the laughter of our sleep.

Now therefore disclose us to ourselves, and tell us all that has been shown you of that which is between birth and death.

And he answered,

People of Orphalese, of what can I speak save of that which is even now moving your souls?

Love

Then said Almitra, "Speak to us of Love."

And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them.

And with a great voice he said:

When love beckons to you follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you yield to him,

Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

And when he speaks to you believe in him,

Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,

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So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.

He threshes you to make you naked.

He sifts you to free you from your husks.

He grinds you to whiteness.

He kneads you until you are pliant;

And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,

Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,

Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.

Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;

For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, I am in the heart of God."

And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.

But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:

To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;

To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;

To return home at eventide with gratitude;

And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

Marriage

Then Almitra spoke again and said, "And what of Marriage, master?"

And he answered saying:

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.

You shall be together when white wings of death scatter your days.

Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness,

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another but make not a bond of love:

Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.

Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.

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Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,

Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.

For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together, yet not too near together:

For the pillars of the temple stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

Children

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Giving

Then said a rich man, "Speak to us of Giving."

And he answered:

You give but little when you give of your possessions.

It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.

For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow?

And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the overprudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city?

And what is fear of need but need itself?

Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, thirst that is unquenchable?

There are those who give little of the much which they have - and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.

And there are those who have little and give it all.

These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.

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There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward.

And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.

And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;

They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.

Though the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.

It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding;

And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving

And is there aught you would withhold?

All you have shall some day be given;

Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors'.

You often say, "I would give, but only to the deserving."

The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture.

They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.

Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights is worthy of all else from you.

And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream.

And what desert greater shall there be than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving?

And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?

See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.

For in truth it is life that gives unto life - while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.

And you receivers - and you are all receivers - assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.

Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings;

For to be overmindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the free-hearted earth for mother, and God for father.

Eating and Drinking

Then an old man, a keeper of an inn, said, "Speak to us of Eating and Drinking."

And he said:

Would that you could live on the fragerance of the earth, and like an air plant be sustained by the light.

But since you must kill to eat, and rob the young of its mother's milk to quench your thirst, let it then be an act of worship,

And let your board stand an altar on which the pure and the innocent of forest and plain are sacrificed for that which is purer and still more innocent in many.

When you kill a beast say to him in your heart,

"By the same power that slays you, I to am slain; and I too shall be consumed. For the law that delivered you into my hand shall deliver me into a mightier hand.

Your blood and my blood is naught but the sap that feeds the tree of heaven."

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And when you crush an apple with your teeth, say to it in your heart,

"Your seeds shall live in my body,

And the buds of your tomorrow shall blossom in my heart,

And your fragrance shall be my breath,

And together we shall rejoice through all the seasons."

And in the autumn, when you gather the grapes of your vineyard for the winepress, say in you heart,

"I too am a vineyard, and my fruit shall be gathered for the winepress,

And like new wine I shall be kept in eternal vessels."

And in winter, when you draw the wine, let there be in your heart a song for each cup;

And let there be in the song a remembrance for the autumn days, and for the vineyard, and for the winepress.

Work

Then a ploughman said, "Speak to us of Work."

And he answered, saying:

You work that you may keep pace with the earth and the soul of the earth.

For to be idle is to become a stranger unto the seasons, and to step out of life's procession, that marches in majesty and proud submission towards the infinite.

When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music.

Which of you would be a reed, dumb and silent, when all else sings together in unison?

Always you have been told that work is a curse and labour a misfortune.

But I say to you that when you work you fulfil a part of earth's furthest dream, assigned to you when that dream was born,

And in keeping yourself with labour you are in truth loving life,

And to love life through labour is to be intimate with life's inmost secret.

But if you in your pain call birth an affliction and the support of the flesh a curse written upon your brow,

then I answer that naught but the sweat of your brow shall wash away that which is written.

You have been told also life is darkness, and in your weariness you echo what was said by the weary.

And I say that life is indeed darkness save when there is urge,

And all urge is blind save when there is knowledge,

And all knowledge is vain save when there is work,

And all work is empty save when there is love;

And when you work with love you bind yourself to yourself, and to one another, and to God.

And what is it to work with love?

It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your heart, even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth.

It is to build a house with affection, even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house.

It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit.

It is to charge all things you fashion with a breath of your own spirit,

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And to know that all the blessed dead are standing about you and watching.

Often have I heard you say, as if speaking in sleep, "he who works in marble, and finds the shape of his own soul in the stone, is a nobler than he who ploughs the soil.

And he who seizes the rainbow to lay it on a cloth in the likeness of man, is more than he who makes the sandals for our feet."

But I say, not in sleep but in the over-wakefulness of noontide, that the wind speaks not more sweetly to the giant oaks than to the least of all the blades of grass;

And he alone is great who turns the voice of the wind into a song made sweeter by his own loving.

Work is love made visible.

And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy.

For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man's hunger.

And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distils a poison in the wine.

And if you sing though as angels, and love not the singing, you muffle man's ears to the voices of the day and the voices of the night.

Joy and Sorrow

Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow."

And he answered:

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?

And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."

But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.

Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.

When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

Houses

A mason came forth and said, "Speak to us of Houses." And he answered and said:

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Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls.

For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.

Your house is your larger body.

It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless.

Does not your house dream? And dreaming, leave the city for grove or hilltop?

Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.

Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.

But these things are not yet to be.

In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.

And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?

Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?

Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?

Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?

Tell me, have you these in your houses?

Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and becomes a host, and then a master?

Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.

Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.

It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.

It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.

Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.

But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.

Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.

It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.

You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.

You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.

And though of magnificence and splendor, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.

For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.

Clothes

And the weaver said, "Speak to us of Clothes."

And he answered:

Your clothes conceal much of your beauty, yet they hide not the unbeautiful.

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And though you seek in garments the freedom of privacy you may find in them a harness and a chain.

Would that you could meet the sun and the wind with more of your skin and less of your raiment,

For the breath of life is in the sunlight and the hand of life is in the wind.

Some of you say, "It is the north wind who has woven the clothes to wear."

But shame was his loom, and the softening of the sinews was his thread.

And when his work was done he laughed in the forest.

Forget not that modesty is for a shield against the eye of the unclean.

And when the unclean shall be no more, what were modesty but a fetter and a fouling of the mind?

And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.

Buying and Selling

And a merchant said, "Speak to us of Buying and Selling."

And he answered and said:

To you the earth yields her fruit, and you shall not want if you but know how to fill your hands.

It is in exchanging the gifts of the earth that you shall find abundance and be satisfied.

Yet unless the exchange be in love and kindly justice, it will but lead some to greed and others to hunger.

When in the market place you toilers of the sea and fields and vineyards meet the weavers and the potters and the gatherers of spices, -

Invoke then the master spirit of the earth, to come into your midst and sanctify the scales and the reckoning that weighs value against value.

And suffer not the barren-handed to take part in your transactions, who would sell their words for your labor.

To such men you should say,

"Come with us to the field, or go with our brothers to the sea and cast your net;

For the land and the sea shall be bountiful to you even as to us."

And if there come the singers and the dancers and the flute players, - buy of their gifts also.

For they too are gatherers of fruit and frankincense, and that which they bring, though fashioned of dreams, is raiment and food for your soul.

And before you leave the marketplace, see that no one has gone his way with empty hands.

For the master spirit of the earth shall not sleep peacefully upon the wind till the needs of the least of you are satisfied.

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Crime and Punishment

Then one of the judges of the city stood forth and said, "Speak to us of Crime and Punishment."

And he answered saying:

It is when your spirit goes wandering upon the wind,

That you, alone and unguarded, commit a wrong unto others and therefore unto yourself.

And for that wrong committed must you knock and wait a while unheeded at the gate of the blessed.

Like the ocean is your god-self;

It remains for ever undefiled.

And like the ether it lifts but the winged.

Even like the sun is your god-self;

It knows not the ways of the mole nor seeks it the holes of the serpent.

But your god-self does not dwell alone in your being.

Much in you is still man, and much in you is not yet man,

But a shapeless pigmy that walks asleep in the mist searching for its own awakening.

And of the man in you would I now speak.

For it is he and not your god-self nor the pigmy in the mist, that knows crime and the punishment of crime.

Oftentimes have I heard you speak of one who commits a wrong as though he were not one of you, but a stranger unto you and an intruder upon your world.

But I say that even as the holy and the righteous cannot rise beyond the highest which is in each one of you,

So the wicked and the weak cannot fall lower than the lowest which is in you also.

And as a single leaf turns not yellow but with the silent knowledge of the whole tree,

So the wrong-doer cannot do wrong without the hidden will of you all.

Like a procession you walk together towards your god-self.

You are the way and the wayfarers.

And when one of you falls down he falls for those behind him, a caution against the stumbling stone.

Ay, and he falls for those ahead of him, who though faster and surer of foot, yet removed not the stumbling stone.

And this also, though the word lie heavy upon your hearts:

The murdered is not unaccountable for his own murder,

And the robbed is not blameless in being robbed.

The righteous is not innocent of the deeds of the wicked,

And the white-handed is not clean in the doings of the felon.

Yea, the guilty is oftentimes the victim of the injured,

And still more often the condemned is the burden-bearer for the guiltless and unblamed.

You cannot separate the just from the unjust and the good from the wicked;

For they stand together before the face of the sun even as the black thread and the white are woven together.

And when the black thread breaks, the weaver shall look into the whole cloth, and he shall examine the loom also.

If any of you would bring judgment the unfaithful wife,

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Let him also weight the heart of her husband in scales, and measure his soul with measurements.

And let him who would lash the offender look unto the spirit of the offended.

And if any of you would punish in the name of righteousness and lay the ax unto the evil tree, let him see to its roots;

And verily he will find the roots of the good and the bad, the fruitful and the fruitless, all entwined together in the silent heart of the earth.

And you judges who would be just,

What judgment pronounce you upon him who though honest in the flesh yet is a thief in spirit?

What penalty lay you upon him who slays in the flesh yet is himself slain in the spirit?

And how prosecute you him who in action is a deceiver and an oppressor,

Yet who also is aggrieved and outraged?

And how shall you punish those whose remorse is already greater than their misdeeds?

Is not remorse the justice which is administered by that very law which you would fain serve?

Yet you cannot lay remorse upon the innocent nor lift it from the heart of the guilty.

Unbidden shall it call in the night, that men may wake and gaze upon themselves.

And you who would understand justice, how shall you unless you look upon all deeds in the fullness of light?

Only then shall you know that the erect and the fallen are but one man standing in twilight between the night of his pigmy-self and the day of his god-self,

And that the corner-stone of the temple is not higher than the lowest stone in its foundation.

Laws

Then a lawyer said, "But what of our Laws, master?"

And he answered:

You delight in laying down laws,

Yet you delight more in breaking them.

Like children playing by the ocean who build sand-towers with constancy and then destroy them with laughter.

But while you build your sand-towers the ocean brings more sand to the shore,

And when you destroy them, the ocean laughs with you.

Verily the ocean laughs always with the innocent.

But what of those to whom life is not an ocean, and man-made laws are not sand-towers,

But to whom life is a rock, and the law a chisel with which they would carve it in their own likeness?

What of the cripple who hates dancers?

What of the ox who loves his yoke and deems the elk and deer of the forest stray and vagrant things?

What of the old serpent who cannot shed his skin, and calls all others naked and shameless?

And of him who comes early to the wedding-feast, and when over-fed and tired goes his way saying that all feasts are violation and all feasters law-breakers?

What shall I say of these save that they too stand in the sunlight, but with their backs to the sun?

They see only their shadows, and their shadows are their laws.

And what is the sun to them but a caster of shadows?

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And what is it to acknowledge the laws but to stoop down and trace their shadows upon the earth?

But you who walk facing the sun, what images drawn on the earth can hold you?

You who travel with the wind, what weathervane shall direct your course?

What man's law shall bind you if you break your yoke but upon no man's prison door?

What laws shall you fear if you dance but stumble against no man's iron chains?

And who is he that shall bring you to judgment if you tear off your garment yet leave it in no man's path?

People of Orphalese, you can muffle the drum, and you can loosen the strings of the lyre, but who shall command the skylark not to sing?

Freedom

And an orator said, "Speak to us of Freedom."

And he answered:

At the city gate and by your fireside I have seen you prostrate yourself and worship your own freedom,

Even as slaves humble themselves before a tyrant and praise him though he slays them.

Ay, in the grove of the temple and in the shadow of the citadel I have seen the freest among you wear their freedom as a yoke and a handcuff.

And my heart bled within me; for you can only be free when even the desire of seeking freedom becomes a harness to you, and when you cease to speak of freedom as a goal and a fulfillment.

You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care nor your nights without a want and a grief,

But rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them naked and unbound.

And how shall you rise beyond your days and nights unless you break the chains which you at the dawn of your understanding have fastened around your noon hour?

In truth that which you call freedom is the strongest of these chains, though its links glitter in the sun and dazzle the eyes.

And what is it but fragments of your own self you would discard that you may become free?

If it is an unjust law you would abolish, that law was written with your own hand upon your own forehead.

You cannot erase it by burning your law books nor by washing the foreheads of your judges, though you pour the sea upon them.

And if it is a despot you would dethrone, see first that his throne erected within you is destroyed.

For how can a tyrant rule the free and the proud, but for a tyranny in their own freedom and a shame in their won pride?

And if it is a care you would cast off, that care has been chosen by you rather than imposed upon you.

And if it is a fear you would dispel, the seat of that fear is in your heart and not in the hand of the feared.

Verily all things move within your being in constant half embrace, the desired and the dreaded, the repugnant and the cherished, the pursued and that which you would escape.

These things move within you as lights and shadows in pairs that cling.

And when the shadow fades and is no more, the light that lingers becomes a shadow to another light.

And thus your freedom when it loses its fetters becomes itself the fetter of a greater freedom.

- 14 -

Reason and Passion

And the priestess spoke again and said: "Speak to us of Reason and Passion."

And he answered saying:

Your soul is oftentimes a battlefield, upon which your reason and your judgment wage war against passion and your appetite.

Would that I could be the peacemaker in your soul, that I might turn the discord and the rivalry of your elements into oneness and melody.

But how shall I, unless you yourselves be also the peacemakers, nay, the lovers of all your elements?

Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring soul.

If either your sails or our rudder be broken, you can but toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill in mid-seas.

For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining; and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction.

Therefore let your soul exalt your reason to the height of passion; that it may sing;

And let it direct your passion with reason, that your passion may live through its own daily resurrection, and like the phoenix rise above its own ashes.

I would have you consider your judgment and your appetite even as you would two loved guests in your house.

Surely you would not honour one guest above the other; for he who is more mindful of one loses the love and the faith of both.

Among the hills, when you sit in the cool shade of the white poplars, sharing the peace and serenity of distant fields and meadows - then let your heart say in silence, "God rests in reason."

And when the storm comes, and the mighty wind shakes the forest, and thunder and lightning proclaim the majesty of the sky, - then let your heart say in awe, "God moves in passion."

And since you are a breath In God's sphere, and a leaf in God's forest, you too should rest in reason and move in passion.

Pain

And a woman spoke, saying, "Tell us of Pain."

And he said:

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.

Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.

And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;

And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.

And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

Much of your pain is self-chosen.

It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.

Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:

- 15 -

For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,

And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.

Self-Knowledge

And a man said, "Speak to us of Self-Knowledge."

And he answered, saying:

Your hearts know in silence the secrets of the days and the nights.

But your ears thirst for the sound of your heart's knowledge.

You would know in words that which you have always know in thought.

You would touch with your fingers the naked body of your dreams.

And it is well you should.

The hidden well-spring of your soul must needs rise and run murmuring to the sea;

And the treasure of your infinite depths would be revealed to your eyes.

But let there be no scales to weigh your unknown treasure;

And seek not the depths of your knowledge with staff or sounding line.

For self is a sea boundless and measureless.

Say not, "I have found the truth," but rather, "I have found a truth."

Say not, "I have found the path of the soul." Say rather, "I have met the soul walking upon my path."

For the soul walks upon all paths.

The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed.

The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.

Teaching

Then said a teacher, "Speak to us of Teaching."

And he said:

No man can reveal to you aught but that which already lies half asleep in the dawning of our knowledge.

The teacher who walks in the shadow of the temple, among his followers, gives not of his wisdom but rather of his faith and his lovingness.

If he is indeed wise he does not bid you enter the house of wisdom, but rather leads you to the threshold of your own mind.

The astronomer may speak to you of his understanding of space, but he cannot give you his understanding.

The musician may sing to you of the rhythm which is in all space, but he cannot give you the ear which arrests the rhythm nor the voice that echoes it.

And he who is versed in the science of numbers can tell of the regions of weight and measure, but he cannot conduct you thither.

For the vision of one man lends not its wings to another man.

And even as each one of you stands alone in God's knowledge, so must each one of you be alone in his knowledge of God and in his understanding of the earth.

- 16 -

Friendship

And a youth said, "Speak to us of Friendship."

Your friend is your needs answered.

He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.

And he is your board and your fireside.

For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.

When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the "nay" in your own mind, nor do you withhold the "ay."

And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart;

For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unclaimed.

When you part from your friend, you grieve not;

For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.

And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.

For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.

And let your best be for your friend.

If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.

For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?

Seek him always with hours to live.

For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness.

And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.

For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

Talking

And then a scholar said, "Speak of Talking."

And he answered, saying:

You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts;

And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips, and sound is a diversion and a pastime.

And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered.

For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words many indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly.

There are those among you who seek the talkative through fear of being alone.

The silence of aloneness reveals to their eyes their naked selves and they would escape.

And there are those who talk, and without knowledge or forethought reveal a truth which they themselves do not understand.

And there are those who have the truth within them, but they tell it not in words.

In the bosom of such as these the spirit dwells in rhythmic silence.

- 17 -

When you meet your friend on the roadside or in the market place, let the spirit in you move your lips and direct your tongue.

Let the voice within your voice speak to the ear of his ear;

For his soul will keep the truth of your heart as the taste of the wine is remembered

When the color is forgotten and the vessel is no more.

Time

And an astronomer said, "Master, what of Time?"

And he answered:

You would measure time the measureless and the immeasurable.

You would adjust your conduct and even direct the course of your spirit according to hours and seasons.

Of time you would make a stream upon whose bank you would sit and watch its flowing.

Yet the timeless in you is aware of life's timelessness,

And knows that yesterday is but today's memory and tomorrow is today's dream.

And that that which sings and contemplates in you is still dwelling within the bounds of that first moment which scattered the stars into space.

Who among you does not feel that his power to love is boundless?

And yet who does not feel that very love, though boundless, encompassed within the centre of his being, and moving not form love thought to love thought, nor from love deeds to other love deeds?

And is not time even as love is, undivided and paceless?

But if in you thought you must measure time into seasons, let each season encircle all the other seasons,

And let today embrace the past with remembrance and the future with longing.

Good and Evil

And one of the elders of the city said, "Speak to us of Good and Evil."

And he answered:

Of the good in you I can speak, but not of the evil.

For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst?

Verily when good is hungry it seeks food even in dark caves, and when it thirsts, it drinks even of dead waters.

You are good when you are one with yourself.

Yet when you are not one with yourself you are not evil.

For a divided house is not a den of thieves; it is only a divided house.

And a ship without rudder may wander aimlessly among perilous isles yet sink not to the bottom.

You are good when you strive to give of yourself.

Yet you are not evil when you seek gain for yourself.

For when you strive for gain you are but a root that clings to the earth and sucks at her breast.

Surely the fruit cannot say to the root, "Be like me, ripe and full and ever giving of your abundance."

- 18 -

For to the fruit giving is a need, as receiving is a need to the root.

You are good when you are fully awake in your speech,

Yet you are not evil when you sleep while your tongue staggers without purpose.

And even stumbling speech may strengthen a weak tongue.

You are good when you walk to your goal firmly and with bold steps.

Yet you are not evil when you go thither limping.

Even those who limp go not backward.

But you who are strong and swift, see that you do not limp before the lame, deeming it kindness.

You are good in countless ways, and you are not evil when you are not good,

You are only loitering and sluggard.

Pity that the stags cannot teach swiftness to the turtles.

In your longing for your giant self lies your goodness: and that longing is in all of you.

But in some of you that longing is a torrent rushing with might to the sea, carrying the secrets of the hillsides and the songs of the forest.

And in others it is a flat stream that loses itself in angles and bends and lingers before it reaches the shore.

But let not him who longs much say to him who longs little, "Wherefore are you slow and halting?"

For the truly good ask not the naked, "Where is your garment?" nor the houseless, "What has befallen your house?"

Prayer

Then a priestess said, "Speak to us of Prayer."

And he answered, saying:

You pray in your distress and in your need; would that you might pray also in the fullness of your joy and in your days of abundance.

For what is prayer but the expansion of yourself into the living ether?

And if it is for your comfort to pour your darkness into space, it is also for your delight to pour forth the dawning of your heart.

And if you cannot but weep when your soul summons you to prayer, she should spur you again and yet again, though weeping, until you shall come laughing.

When you pray you rise to meet in the air those who are praying at that very hour, and whom save in prayer you may not meet.

Therefore let your visit to that temple invisible be for naught but ecstasy and sweet communion.

For if you should enter the temple for no other purpose than asking you shall not receive.

And if you should enter into it to humble yourself you shall not be lifted:

Or even if you should enter into it to beg for the good of others you shall not be heard.

It is enough that you enter the temple invisible.

I cannot teach you how to pray in words.

God listens not to your words save when He Himself utters them through your lips.

And I cannot teach you the prayer of the seas and the forests and the mountains.

But you who are born of the mountains and the forests and the seas can find their prayer in your heart,

- 19 -

And if you but listen in the stillness of the night you shall hear them saying in silence,

"Our God, who art our winged self, it is thy will in us that willeth.

It is thy desire in us that desireth.

It is thy urge in us that would turn our nights, which are thine, into days which are thine also.

We cannot ask thee for aught, for thou knowest our needs before they are born in us:

Thou art our need; and in giving us more of thyself thou givest us all."

Pleasure

Then a hermit, who visited the city once a year, came forth and said, "Speak to us of Pleasure."

And he answered, saying:

Pleasure is a freedom song,

But it is not freedom.

It is the blossoming of your desires,

But it is not their fruit.

It is a depth calling unto a height,

But it is not the deep nor the high.

It is the caged taking wing,

But it is not space encompassed.

Ay, in very truth, pleasure is a freedom-song.

And I fain would have you sing it with fullness of heart; yet I would not have you lose your hearts in the singing.

Some of your youth seek pleasure as if it were all, and they are judged and rebuked.

I would not judge nor rebuke them. I would have them seek.

For they shall find pleasure, but not her alone:

Seven are her sisters, and the least of them is more beautiful than pleasure.

Have you not heard of the man who was digging in the earth for roots and found a treasure?

And some of your elders remember pleasures with regret like wrongs committed in drunkenness.

But regret is the beclouding of the mind and not its chastisement.

They should remember their pleasures with gratitude, as they would the harvest of a summer.

Yet if it comforts them to regret, let them be comforted.

And there are among you those who are neither young to seek nor old to remember;

And in their fear of seeking and remembering they shun all pleasures, lest they neglect the spirit or offend against it.

But even in their foregoing is their pleasure.

And thus they too find a treasure though they dig for roots with quivering hands.

But tell me, who is he that can offend the spirit?

Shall the nightingale offend the stillness of the night, or the firefly the stars?

And shall your flame or your smoke burden the wind?

Think you the spirit is a still pool which you can trouble with a staff?

Oftentimes in denying yourself pleasure you do but store the desire in the recesses of your being.

Who knows but that which seems omitted today, waits for tomorrow?

- 20 -

Even your body knows its heritage and its rightful need and will not be deceived.

And your body is the harp of your soul,

And it is yours to bring forth sweet music from it or confused sounds.

And now you ask in your heart, "How shall we distinguish that which is good in pleasure from that which is not good?"

Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower,

But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee.

For to the bee a flower is a fountain of life,

And to the flower a bee is a messenger of love,

And to both, bee and flower, the giving and the receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy.

People of Orphalese, be in your pleasures like the flowers and the bees.

Beauty

And a poet said, "Speak to us of Beauty."

Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide?

And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech?

The aggrieved and the injured say, "Beauty is kind and gentle.

Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us."

And the passionate say, "Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread.

Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us."

The tired and the weary say, "beauty is of soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit.

Her voice yields to our silences like a faint light that quivers in fear of the shadow."

But the restless say, "We have heard her shouting among the mountains,

And with her cries came the sound of hoofs, and the beating of wings and the roaring of lions."

At night the watchmen of the city say, "Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east."

And at noontide the toilers and the wayfarers say, "we have seen her leaning over the earth from the windows of the sunset."

In winter say the snow-bound, "She shall come with the spring leaping upon the hills."

And in the summer heat the reapers say, "We have seen her dancing with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair."

All these things have you said of beauty.

Yet in truth you spoke not of her but of needs unsatisfied,

And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy.

It is not a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth,

But rather a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted.

It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear,

But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears.

- 21 -

It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw,

But rather a garden forever in bloom and a flock of angels for ever in flight.

People of Orphalese, beauty is life when life unveils her holy face.

But you are life and you are the veil.

Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.

But you are eternity and you are the mirror.

Religion

And an old priest said, "Speak to us of Religion."

And he said:

Have I spoken this day of aught else?

Is not religion all deeds and all reflection,

And that which is neither deed nor reflection, but a wonder and a surprise ever springing in the soul, even while the hands hew the stone or tend the loom?

Who can separate his faith from his actions, or his belief from his occupations?

Who can spread his hours before him, saying, "This for God and this for myself; This for my soul, and this other for my body?"

All your hours are wings that beat through space from self to self.

He who wears his morality but as his best garment were better naked.

The wind and the sun will tear no holes in his skin.

And he who defines his conduct by ethics imprisons his song-bird in a cage.

The freest song comes not through bars and wires.

And he to whom worshipping is a window, to open but also to shut, has not yet visited the house of his soul whose windows are from dawn to dawn.

Your daily life is your temple and your religion.

Whenever you enter into it take with you your all.

Take the plough and the forge and the mallet and the lute,

The things you have fashioned in necessity or for delight.

For in revery you cannot rise above your achievements nor fall lower than your failures.

And take with you all men:

For in adoration you cannot fly higher than their hopes nor humble yourself lower than their despair.

And if you would know God be not therefore a solver of riddles.

Rather look about you and you shall see Him playing with your children.

And look into space; you shall see Him walking in the cloud, outstretching His arms in the lightning and descending in rain.

You shall see Him smiling in flowers, then rising and waving His hands in trees.

The Farewell

And now it was evening.

And Almitra the seeress said, "Blessed be this day and this place and your spirit that has spoken."

And he answered, Was it I who spoke? Was I not also a listener?

Then he descended the steps of the Temple and all the people followed him. And he reached his ship and stood upon the deck.

And facing the people again, he raised his voice and said:

People of Orphalese, the wind bids me leave you.

Less hasty am I than the wind, yet I must go.

We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us.

Even while the earth sleeps we travel.

We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are scattered.

Brief were my days among you, and briefer still the words I have spoken.

But should my voice fade in your ears, and my love vanish in your memory, then I will come again,

And with a richer heart and lips more yielding to the spirit will I speak.

Yea, I shall return with the tide,

And though death may hide me, and the greater silence enfold me, yet again will I seek your understanding.

And not in vain will I seek.

If aught I have said is truth, that truth shall reveal itself in a clearer voice, and in words more kin to your thoughts.

I go with the wind, people of Orphalese, but not down into emptiness;

And if this day is not a fulfillment of your needs and my love, then let it be a promise till another day. Know therefore, that from the greater silence I shall return.

The mist that drifts away at dawn, leaving but dew in the fields, shall rise and gather into a cloud and then fall down in rain.

And not unlike the mist have I been.

In the stillness of the night I have walked in your streets, and my spirit has entered your houses,

And your heart-beats were in my heart, and your breath was upon my face, and I knew you all.

Ay, I knew your joy and your pain, and in your sleep your dreams were my dreams.

And oftentimes I was among you a lake among the mountains.

I mirrored the summits in you and the bending slopes, and even the passing flocks of your thoughts and your desires.

And to my silence came the laughter of your children in streams, and the longing of your youths in rivers.

And when they reached my depth the streams and the rivers ceased not yet to sing.

But sweeter still than laughter and greater than longing came to me.

It was boundless in you;

The vast man in whom you are all but cells and sinews;

He in whose chant all your singing is but a soundless throbbing.

It is in the vast man that you are vast,

And in beholding him that I beheld you and loved you.

For what distances can love reach that are not in that vast sphere?

What visions, what expectations and what presumptions can outsoar that flight?

Like a giant oak tree covered with apple blossoms is the vast man in you.

His mind binds you to the earth, his fragrance lifts you into space, and in his durability you are deathless.

You have been told that, even like a chain, you are as weak as your weakest link.

This is but half the truth. You are also as strong as your strongest link.

To measure you by your smallest deed is to reckon the power of ocean by the frailty of its foam.

To judge you by your failures is to cast blame upon the seasons for their inconsistency.

Ay, you are like an ocean,

And though heavy-grounded ships await the tide upon your shores, yet, even like an ocean, you cannot hasten your tides.

And like the seasons you are also,

And though in your winter you deny your spring,

Yet spring, reposing within you, smiles in her drowsiness and is not offended.

Think not I say these things in order that you may say the one to the other, "He praised us well. He saw but the good in us."

I only speak to you in words of that which you yourselves know in thought.

And what is word knowledge but a shadow of wordless knowledge?

Your thoughts and my words are waves from a sealed memory that keeps records of our yesterdays,

And of the ancient days when the earth knew not us nor herself,

And of nights when earth was upwrought with confusion,

Wise men have come to you to give you of their wisdom. I came to take of your wisdom:

And behold I have found that which is greater than wisdom.

It is a flame spirit in you ever gathering more of itself,

While you, heedless of its expansion, bewail the withering of your days.

It is life in quest of life in bodies that fear the grave.

There are no graves here.

Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

Edward FitzGerald's Translation.

1Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of NightHas flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caughtThe Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

2Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the SkyI heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup"Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."

3And, as the Cock crew, those who stood beforeThe Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!"You know how little while we have to stay,"And, once departed, may return no more."

4Now the New Year reviving old Desires,The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the BoughPuts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

*****

5Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose,And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,And still a Garden by the Water blows.

6And David's Lips are lock't; but in divineHigh piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!"Red Wine!"---the Nightingale cries to the Rose

That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.

7Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of SpringThe Winter Garment of Repentance fling:The Bird of Time has but a little wayTo fly---and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

8And look---a thousand Blossoms with the DayWoke---and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:And this first Summer Month that brings the RoseShall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.

*****

9But come with old Khayyam, and leave the LotOf Kaikobad and Kaikhosru forgot!Let Rustum lay about him as he will,Or Hatim Tai cry Supper---heed them not.

10With me along some Strip of Herbage strownThat just divides the desert from the sown,Where name of Slave and Sultan scarce is known,And pity Sultan Mahmud on his Throne.

11Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse---and ThouBeside me singing in the Wilderness---And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

12"How sweet is mortal Sovranty!"---think some:

Others---"How blest the Paradise to come!"Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!

*****

13Look to the Rose that blows about us---"Lo,"Laughing," she says, "into the World I blow:"At once the silken Tassel of my Purse"Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."

14The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts uponTurns Ashes---or it prospers; and anon,Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty FaceLighting a little Hour or two---is gone.

15And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'dAs, buried once, Men want dug up again.

16Think, in this batter'd CaravanseraiWhose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,How Sultan after Sultan with his PompAbode his Hour or two, and went his way.

*****

17They say the Lion and the Lizard keepThe Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep;And Bahram, that great Hunter---the Wild AssStamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.

18I sometimes think that never so redThe Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;That every Hyacinth the Garden wearsDropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.

19And this delightful Herb whose tender GreenFledges the River's Lip on which we lean---

Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knowsFrom what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

20Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clearsTO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears---To-morrow?---Why, To-morrow I may beMyself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.

*****

21Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and bestThat Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,And one by one crept silently to Rest.

22And we, that now make merry in the RoomThey left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom,Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of EarthDescend, ourselves to make a Couch---for whom?

23Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,Before we too into the Dust descend;Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and---sans End!

24Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare,And those that after a TO-MORROW stare,A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!"

*****

25Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'dOf the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrustLike foolish Prophets forth; their Words to ScornAre scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.

26Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the WiseTo talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;

One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

27Myself when young did eagerly frequentDoctor and Saint, and heard great ArgumentAbout it and about: but evermoreCame out by the same Door as in I went.

28With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,And with my own hand labour'd it to grow:And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd---"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."

*****

29Into this Universe, and why not knowing,Nor whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing:And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.

30What, without asking, hither hurried whence?And, without asking, whither hurried hence!Another and another Cup to drownThe Memory of this Impertinence!

31Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh GateI rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,And many Knots unravel'd by the Road;But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate.

32There was a Door to which I found no Key:There was a Veil past which I could not see:Some little Talk awhile of ME and THEEThere seemed---and then no more of THEE and ME.

*****

33Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried,Asking, "What Lamp had Destiny to guide

"Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?"And---"A blind Understanding!" Heav'n replied.

34Then to this earthen Bowl did I adjournMy Lip the secret Well of Life to learn:And Lip to Lip it murmur'd---"While you live"Drink!---for once dead you never shall return."

35I think the Vessel, that with fugitiveArticulation answer'd, once did live,And merry-make; and the cold Lip I kiss'dHow many Kisses might it take---and give!

36For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay:And with its all obliterated TongueIt murmur'd---"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"

*****

37Ah, fill the Cup:---what boots it to repeatHow Time is slipping underneath our Feet:Unborn TO-MORROW, and dead YESTERDAY,Why fret about them if TO-DAY be sweet!

38One Moment in Annihilation's Waste,One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste---The Stars are setting and the CaravanStarts for the Dawn of Nothing---Oh, make haste!

39How long, how long, in infinite PursuitOf This and That endeavour and dispute?Better be merry with the fruitful GrapeThan sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

40You know, my Friends, how long since in my HouseFor a new Marriage I did make Carouse:Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.

*****

41For "IS" and "IS-NOT" though with Rule and Line,And "UP-AND-DOWN" without, I could define,I yet in all I only cared to know,Was never deep in anything but---Wine.

42And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel ShapeBearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; andHe bid me taste of it; and 'twas---the Grape!

43The Grape that can with Logic absoluteThe Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:The subtle Alchemist that in a TriceLife's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.

44The mighty Mahmud, the victorious Lord,That all the misbelieving and black HordeOf Fears and Sorrows that infest the SoulScatters and slays with his enchanted Sword.

*****

45But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with meThe Quarrel of the Universe let be:And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.

46For in and out, above, about, below,'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

47And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,End in the Nothing all Things end in ---Yes---Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but whatThou shalt be---Nothing---Thou shalt not be less.

48

While the Rose blows along the River Brink,With old Khayyam the Ruby Vintage drink:And when the Angel with his darker DraughtDraws up to Thee---take that, and do not shrink.

*****

49'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and DaysWhere Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,And one by one back in the Closet lays.

50The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes,But Right or Left, as strikes the Player goes;And He that toss'd Thee down into the Field,*He* knows about it all---He knows---HE knows!

51The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor WitShall lure it back to cancel half a Line,Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

52And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,Lift not thy hands to *It* for help---for ItRolls impotently on as Thou or I.

*****

53With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man's knead,And then of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:Yea, the first Morning of Creation wroteWhat the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

54I tell Thee this---When, starting from the Goal,Over the shoulders of the flaming FoalOf Heav'n Parvin and Mushtara they flung,In my predestin'd Plot of Dust and Soul

55

The Vine had struck a Fibre; which aboutIf clings my Being---let the Sufi flout;Of my Base Metal may be filed a Key,That shall unlock the Door he howls without

56And this I know: whether the one True Light,Kindle to Love, or Wrathconsume me quite,One Glimpse of It within the Tavern caughtBetter than in the Temple lost outright.

*****

57Oh, Thou, who didst with Pitfall and with GinBeset the Road I was to wander in,Thou wilt not with Predestination roundEnmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin?

58Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,And who with Eden didst devise the Snake;For all the Sin wherewith the Face of ManIs blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give---and take!

KUZA-NAMA ("Book of Pots.")

59Listen again. One Evening at the CloseOf Ramazan, ere the better Moon arose,In that old Potter's Shop I stood aloneWith the clay Population round in Rows.

60And, strange to tell, among that Earthen LotSome could articulate, while others not:And suddenly one more impatient cried---"Who *is* the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"

*****

61Then said another---"Surely not in vain"My Substance from the common Earth was ta'en,"That He who subtly wrought me into Shape"Should stamp me back to common Earth again."

62Another said---"Why, ne'er a peevish Boy,"Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy;"Shall He that *made* the Vessel in pure Love"And Fancy, in an after Rage destroy!"

63None answer'd this; but after Silence spakeA Vessel of a more ungainly Make:"They sneer at me for learning all awry;"What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"

64Said one---"Folk of a surly Tapster tell"And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell;"They talk of some strict Testing of us---Pish!"He's a Good Fellow, and 't will all be well."

*****

65Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh,"My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:"But, fill me with the old familiar Juice,"Methinks I might recover by-and-bye!"

66So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,One spied the little Crescent all were seeking:And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!"Hark to the Porter's Shoulder-knot a-creaking!"

67Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,And wash my Body whence the Life has died,And in the Windingsheet of Vine-leaf wrapt,So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.

68That ev'n my buried Ashes such a SnareOf Perfume shall fling up into the Air,As not a True Believer passing byBut shall be overtaken unaware.

*****

69

Indeed the Idols I have loved so longHave done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong:Have drown'd my Honour in a shallow Cup,And sold my Reputation for a Song.

70Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft beforeI swore---but was I sober when I swore?And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-handMy thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.

71And much as Wine has play'd the InfidelAnd robb'd me of my Robe of Honour---well,I often wonder what the Vintners buyOne half so precious as the Goods they sell.

72Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

*****

73Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspireTo grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,Would not we shatter it to bits---and thenRe-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

74Ah, Moon of my Delight who Know'st no waneThe Moon of Heav'n is rising once again:How oft hereafter rising shall she lookThrough this same Garden after me---in vain!

75And when Thyself with shining Foot shall passAmong the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,And in thy joyous Errand reach the SpotWhere I made one---turn down an empty Glass

TAMAD SHUD (Its complicated)

And now the modified and added version which is the Text of the Fifth Edition(1889)

1Wake! For the Sun, who scatter’d into flight.The Stars before him from the Field of Night,Drives Night along with them from Heav’n and strikesThe Sultan’s Turret with a Shaft of Light.

*****

2Before the phantom of False morning died,Me thought a Voice within the tavern cried,“When all the Temple is prepared within,“Why nods the drowsy Worshiper outside?”

3And, as the Cock crew, those who stood beforeThe Tavern shouted---“Open the Door!“You know how little while we have to stay.“and, once departed, may return no more.”

4Now the New Year reviving old Desires,The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the BoughPuts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

5Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,And Jamshyd’s Sev’n-ting’d Cup where no one knows;But still a Ruby kindles in the VineAnd many a Garden by the Water blows

*****

6And David’s Lips are lockt: but in divineHigh-piping Pehlevi, with “Wine! Wine! Wine!“Red Wine!---the Nightingale cried to the RoseThat sallow cheek of hers to incarnadine.7Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of SpringYour Winter-garment of Repentance fling:The Bird of Time has but a little wayTo flutter---and the Bird is on the Wing.

8Whether at Naishapur or BabylonWhether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,The Leaves of Like keeps failing one by one.

9Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say:Yes, but where leaves the Rose of yesterday?And this first summer month that brings the RoseShall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.

*****

It is us, the wine, the music, and this run-down corner;Our flesh and heart, the wine glass, and our cloths,All filled with the desire for wine:

Free from the hope of forgiveness and free from theFear of punishment and painFree from dirty wind, fire, and water.

Gabriela Mistral: Tiny Feet (1992)

A child's tiny feet, Blue, blue with cold, How can they see and not protect you? Oh, my God!

Tiny wounded feet, Bruised all over by pebbles, Abused by snow and soil!

Man, being blind, ignores that where you step, you leave A blossom of bright light, 

that where you have placed your bleeding little soles a redolent tuberose grows.

Since, however, you walk through the streets so straight, you are courageous, without fault.

Child's tiny feet, Two suffering little gems, How can the people pass, unseeing.Translated by Mary Gallwey

Telephone Conversationby Wole Soyinka

The price seemed reasonable, locationIndifferent. The landlady swore she livedOff premises. Nothing remainedBut self-confession. "Madam," I warned,"I hate a wasted journey—I am African."Silence. Silenced transmission ofPressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,Lipstick coated, long gold rolledCigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully."HOW DARK?" . . . I had not misheard . . . "ARE YOU LIGHTOR VERY DARK?" Button B, Button A.* StenchOf rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tieredOmnibus squelching tar. It was real! ShamedBy ill-mannered silence, surrenderPushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.Considerate she was, varying the emphasis--"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came.

"You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?"Her assent was clinical, crushing in its lightImpersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,I chose. "West African sepia"--and as afterthought,"Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopicFlight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accentHard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?" conceding"DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette.""THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether.Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should seeThe rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feetAre a peroxide blond. Friction, caused--Foolishly, madam--by sitting down, has turnedMy bottom raven black--One moment, madam!"--sensingHer receiver rearing on the thunderclapAbout my ears--"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you ratherSee for yourself?"

The Road Not Takenby Robert Frost 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claimBecause it was grassy and wanted wear,Though as for that the passing thereHad worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden black.Oh, I marked the first for another day!Yet knowing how way leads on to wayI doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,I took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the difference. 

Break, Break, BreakAlfred, Lord Tennyson

Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!O, well for the sailor lad,That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.

If - An Inspirational Poem

by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head

when all about you men are losing theirsand blaming it on you,If you can trust yourself when all men doubt youbut make allowances for their doubting, too.If you can wait but not be tired of waiting,or being lied about, don't deal in lies,Or being hated, don't give way to hating,and yet don't look too good nor talk too wise,

If you can dream but not make dreams your master,

if you can think and not make thoughts your aim,If you can meet with triumph and disaster,and treat those two imposters just the same,If you can bear to hear the truth you've spokentwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,and stoop and build them up with worn-out tools,If you can make one heap of all your winningsand risk it on one turn of pitch and toss,and lose and start again at your beginningsand never breathe a word about your loss,

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

to serve your turn long after they are gone,and to hold on when there is nothing in youbut the will that says to them "hold on,"If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,or walk with kings nor lose the common touch,If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,if all men count with you but none too much,If you can fill the unforgiving minutewith 60 seconds worth of distance run,Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,and which is more, you'll be a man, my son.

My Lord, The BabyRabindranath Tagore

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 neighborhood, 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 END-

“The Handsomest Drowned Man In The World”by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

The first children who saw the dark and slinky bulge approaching through the sea let themselves think it was an

enemy ship. Then they saw it had no flags or masts and they thought it was a whale. But when it washed up on the

beach, they removed the clumps of seaweed, the jellyfish tentacles, and the remains of fish and flotsam, and only

then did they see that it was a drowned man. They had been playing with him all afternoon, burying him in the sand

and digging him up again, when someone chanced to see them and spread the alarm in the village. The men who

carried him to the nearest house noticed that he weighed more than any dead man they had ever known, almost as

much as a horse, and they said to each other that maybe he'd been floating too long and the water had got into his

bones. When they laid him on the floor they said he'd been taller than all other men because there was barely

enough room for him in the house, but they thought that maybe the ability to keep on growing after death was part

of the nature of certain drowned men. He had the smell of the sea about him and only his shape gave one to suppose

that it was the corpse of a human being, because the skin was covered with a crust of mud and scales. They did not

even have to clean off his face to know that the dead man was a stranger. The village was made up of only twenty-

odd wooden houses that had stone courtyards with no flowers and which were spread about on the end of a desert

like cape. There was so little land that mothers always went about with the fear that the wind would carry off their

children and the few dead that the years had caused among them had to be thrown off the cliffs. But the sea was

calm and bountiful and all the men fitted into seven boats. So when they found the drowned man they simply had to

look at one another to see that they were all there. That night they did not go out to work at sea. While the men

went to find out if anyone was missing in neighboring villages, the women stayed behind to care for the drowned

man. They took the mud off with grass swabs, they removed the underwater stones entangled in his hair, and they

scraped the crust off with tools used for scaling fish. As they were doing that they noticed that the vegetation on

him came from faraway oceans and deep water and that his clothes were in tatters, as if he had sailed through

labyrinths of coral. They noticed too that he bore his death with pride, for he did not have the lonely look of other

drowned men who came out of the sea or that haggard, needy look of men who drowned in rivers. But only when

they finished cleaning him off did they become aware of the kind of man he was and it left them breathless. Not

only was he the tallest, strongest, most virile, and best built man they had ever seen, but even though they were

looking at him there was no room for him in their imagination. They could not find a bed in the village large

enough to lay him on nor was there a table solid enough to use for his wake. The tallest men's holiday pants would

not fit him, nor the fattest ones' Sunday shirts, nor the shoes of the one with the biggest feet. Fascinated by his huge

size and his beauty, the women then decided to make him some pants from a large piece of sail and a shirt from

some bridal linen so that he could continue through his death with dignity. As they sewed, sitting in a circle and

gazing at the corpse between stitches, it seemed to them that the wind had never been so steady nor the sea so

restless as on that night and they supposed that the change had something to do with the dead man. They thought

that if that magnificent man had lived in the village, his house would have had the widest doors, the highest ceiling,

and the strongest floor, his bedstead would have been made from a midship frame held together by iron bolts, and

his wife would have been the happiest woman. They thought that he would have had so much authority that he

could have drawn fish out of the sea simply by calling their names and that he would have put so much work into

his land that springs would have burst forth from among the rocks so that he would have been able to plant flowers

on the cliffs. They secretly compared him to their own men, thinking that for all their lives theirs were incapable of

doing what he could do in one night, and they ended up dismissing them deep in their hearts as the weakest,

meanest and most useless creatures on earth. They were wandering through that maze of fantasy when the oldest

woman, who as the oldest had looked upon the drowned man with more compassion than passion, sighed: 'He has

the face of someone called Esteban.' It was true. Most of them had only to take another look at him to see that he

could not have any other name. The more stubborn among them, who were the youngest, still lived for a few hours

with the illusion that when they put his clothes on and he lay among the flowers in patent leather shoes his name

might be Lautaro. But it was a vain illusion. There had not been enough canvas, the poorly cut and worse sewn

pants were too tight, and the hidden strength of his heart popped the buttons on his shirt. After midnight the

whistling of the wind died down and the sea fell into its Wednesday drowsiness. The silence put an end to any last

doubts: he was Esteban. The women who had dressed him, who had combed his hair, had cut his nails and shaved

him were unable to hold back a shudder of pity when they had to resign themselves to his being dragged along the

ground. It was then that they understood how unhappy he must have been with that huge body since it bothered him

even after death. They could see him in life, condemned to going through doors sideways, cracking his head on

crossbeams, remaining on his feet during visits, not knowing what to do with his soft, pink, sea lion hands while the

lady of the house looked for her most resistant chair and begged him, frightened to death, sit here, Esteban, please,

and he, leaning against the wall, smiling, don't bother, ma'am, I'm fine where I am, his heels raw and his back

roasted from having done the same thing so many times whenever he paid a visit, don't bother, ma'am, I'm fine

where I am, just to avoid the embarrassment of breaking up the chair, and never knowing perhaps that the ones who

said don't go, Esteban, at least wait till the coffee's ready, were the ones who later on would whisper the big boob

finally left, how nice, the handsome fool has gone. That was what the women were thinking beside the body a little

before dawn. Later, when they covered his face with a handkerchief so that the light would not bother him, he

looked so forever dead, so defenseless, so much like their men that the first furrows of tears opened in their hearts.

It was one of the younger ones who began the weeping. The others, coming to, went from sighs to wails, and the

more they sobbed the more they felt like weeping, because the drowned man was becoming all the more Esteban

for them, and so they wept so much, for he was the more destitute, most peaceful, and most obliging man on earth,

poor Esteban. So when the men returned with the news that the drowned man was not from the neighboring villages

either, the women felt an opening of jubilation in the midst of their tears. 'Praise the Lord,' they sighed, 'he's ours!'

The men thought the fuss was only womanish frivolity. Fatigued because of the difficult night-time inquiries, all

they wanted was to get rid of the bother of the newcomer once and for all before the sun grew strong on that arid,

windless day. They improvised a litter with the remains of foremasts and gaffs, tying it together with rigging so that

it would bear the weight of the body until they reached the cliffs. They wanted to tie the anchor from a cargo ship to

him so that he would sink easily into the deepest waves, where fish are blind and divers die of nostalgia, and bad

currents would not bring him back to shore, as had happened with other bodies. But the more they hurried, the more

the women thought of ways to waste time. They walked about like startled hens, pecking with the sea charms on

their breasts, some interfering on one side to put a scapular of the good wind on the drowned man, some on the

other side to put a wrist compass on him , and after a great deal of get away from there, woman, stay out of the way,

look, you almost made me fall on top of the dead man, the men began to feel mistrust in their livers and started

grumbling about why so many main-altar decorations for a stranger, because no matter how many nails and holy-

water jars he had on him, the sharks would chew him all the same, but the women kept piling on their junk relics,

running back and forth, stumbling, while they released in sighs what they did not in tears, so that the men finally

exploded with since when has there ever been such a fuss over a drifting corpse, a drowned nobody, a piece of cold

Wednesday meat. One of the women, mortified by so much lack of care, then removed the handkerchief from the

dead man's face and the men were left breathless too. He was Esteban. It was not necessary to repeat it for them to

recognize him. If they had been told Sir Walter Raleigh, even they might have been impressed with his gringo

accent, the macaw on his shoulder, his cannibal-killing blunderbuss, but there could be only one Esteban in the

world and there he was, stretched out like a sperm whale, shoeless, wearing the pants of an undersized child, and

with those stony nails that had to be cut with a knife. They only had to take the handkerchief off his face to see that

he was ashamed, that it was not his fault that he was so big or so heavy or so handsome, and if he had known that

this was going to happen, he would have looked for a more discreet place to drown in, seriously, I even would have

tied the anchor off a galleon around my neck and staggered off a cliff like someone who doesn't like things in order

not to be upsetting people now with this Wednesday dead body, as you people say, in order not to be bothering

anyone with this filthy piece of cold meat that doesn't have anything to do with me. There was so much truth in his

manner that even the most mistrustful men, the ones who felt the bitterness of endless nights at sea fearing that their

women would tire of dreaming about them and begin to dream of drowned men, even they and others who were

harder still shuddered in the marrow of their bones at Esteban's sincerity. That was how they came to hold the most

splendid funeral they could ever conceive of for an abandoned drowned man. Some women who had gone to get

flowers in the neighboring villages returned with other women who could not believe what they had been told, and

those women went back for more flowers when they saw the dead man, and they brought more and more until there

were so many flowers and so many people that it was hard to walk about. At the final moment it pained them to

return him to the waters as an orphan and they chose a father and mother from among the best people, and aunts

and uncles and cousins, so that through him all the inhabitants of the village became kinsmen. Some sailors who

heard the weeping from a distance went off course and people heard of one who had himself tied to the mainmast,

remembering ancient fables about sirens. While they fought for the privilege of carrying him on their shoulders

along the steep escarpment by the cliffs, men and women became aware for the first time of the desolation of their

streets, the dryness of their courtyards, the narrowness of their dreams as they faced the splendor and beauty of their

drowned man. They let him go without an anchor so that he could come back if he wished and whenever he wished,

and they all held their breath for the fraction of centuries the body took to fall into the abyss. They did not need to

look at one another to realize that they were no longer all present, that they would never be. But they also knew that

everything would be different from then on, that their houses would have wider doors, higher ceilings, and stronger

floors so that Esteban's memory could go everywhere without bumping into beams and so that no one in the future

would dare whisper the big boob finally died, too bad, the handsome fool has finally died, because they were going

to paint their house fronts gay colors to make Esteban's memory eternal and they were going to break their backs

digging for springs among the stones and planting flowers on the cliffs so that in future years at dawn the

passengers on great liners would awaken, suffocated by the smell of gardens on the high seas, and the captain

would have to come down from the bridge in his dress uniform, with his astrolabe, his pole star, and his row of war

medals and, pointing to the promontory of roses on the horizon, he would say in fourteen languages, look there,

where the wind is so peaceful now that it's gone to sleep beneath the beds, over there, where the sun's so bright that

the sunflowers don't know which way to turn, yes, over there, that's Esteban's village.

The Doll's House

by Katherine Mansfield 

When dear old Mrs. Hay went back to town after staying with the Burnells she sent the children a doll's house. It was so big that the carter and Pat carried it into the courtyard, and there it stayed, propped up on two wooden boxes beside the feed-room door. No harm could come of it; it was summer. And perhaps the smell of paint would have gone off by the time it had to be taken in. For, really, the smell of paint coming from that doll's house ("Sweet of old Mrs. Hay, of course; most sweet and generous!") -- but the smell of paint was quite enough to make any one seriously ill, in Aunt Beryl's opinion. Even before the sacking was taken off. And when it was . . . There stood the doll's house, a dark, oily, spinach green, picked out with bright yellow. Its two solid little chimneys, glued on to the roof, were painted red and white, and the door, gleaming with yellow varnish, was like a little slab of toffee. Four windows, real windows, were divided into panes by a broad streak of green. There was actually a tiny porch, too, painted yellow, with big lumps of congealed paint hanging along the edge.But perfect, perfect little house! Who could possibly mind the smell? It was part of the joy, part of the newness."Open it quickly, some one!"The hook at the side was stuck fast. Pat pried it open with his pen- knife, and the whole house-front swung back, and-there you were, gazing at one and the same moment into the drawing-room and dining-room, the kitchen and two bedrooms. That is the way for a house to open! Why don't all houses open like that? How much more exciting than peering through the slit of a door into a mean little hall with a hat-stand and two umbrellas! That is-isn't it? -- what you long to know about a house when you put your hand on the knocker. Perhaps it is the way God opens houses at dead of night when He is taking a quiet turn with an angel. . . ."Oh-oh!" The Burnell children sounded as though they were in despair. It was too marvellous; it was too much for them. They had never seen anything like it in their lives. All the rooms were papered. There were pictures on the walls, painted on the paper, with gold frames complete. Red carpet covered all the floors except the kitchen; red plush chairs in the drawing-room, green in the dining-room; tables, beds with real bedclothes, a cradle, a stove, a dresser with tiny plates and one big jug. But what Kezia liked more than anything, what she liked frightfully, was the lamp. It stood in the middle of the dining-room table, an exquisite little amber lamp with a white globe. It was even filled all ready for lighting, though, of course, you couldn't light it. But there was something inside that looked like oil, and that moved when you shook it.The father and mother dolls, who sprawled very stiff as though they had fainted in the drawing-room, and their two little children asleep upstairs, were really too big for the doll's house. They didn't look as though they belonged. But the lamp was perfect. It seemed to smile to Kezia, to say, "I live here." The lamp was real.The Burnell children could hardly walk to school fast enough the next morning. They burned to tell everybody, to describe, to-well-to boast about their doll's house before the school-bell rang."I'm to tell," said Isabel, "because I'm the eldest. And you two can join in after. But I'm to tell first."There was nothing to answer. Isabel was bossy, but she was always right, and Lottie and Kezia knew too well the powers that went with being eldest. They brushed through the thick buttercups at the road edge and said nothing."And I'm to choose who's to come and see it first. Mother said I might."For it had been arranged that while the doll's house stood in the courtyard they might ask the girls at school, two at a time, to come and look. Not to stay to tea, of course, or to come traipsing through the house. But just to stand quietly in the courtyard while Isabel pointed out the beauties, and Lottie and Kezia looked pleased. . . .But hurry as they might, by the time they had reached the tarred palings of the boys' playground the bell had begun to jangle. They only just had time to whip off their hats and fall into line before the roll was called. Never mind. Isabel tried to make up for it by looking very important and mysterious and by whispering behind her hand to the girls near her, "Got something to tell you at playtime."Playtime came and Isabel was surrounded. The girls of her class nearly fought to put their arms round her, to walk away with her, to beam flatteringly, to be her special friend. She held quite a court under the huge pine trees at the side of the playground. Nudging, giggling together, the little girls pressed up close. And the only two who stayed outside the ring were the two who were always outside, the little Kelveys. They knew better than to come anywhere

near the Burnells.For the fact was, the school the Burnell children went to was not at all the kind of place their parents would have chosen if there had been any choice. But there was none. It was the only school for miles. And the consequence was all the children in the neighborhood, the judge's little girls, the doctor's daughters, the store-keeper's children, the milkman's, were forced to mix together. Not to speak of there being an equal number of rude, rough little boys as well. But the line had to be drawn somewhere. It was drawn at the Kelveys. Many of the children, including the Burnells, were not allowed even to speak to them. They walked past the Kelveys with their heads in the air, and as they set the fashion in all matters of behaviour, the Kelveys were shunned by everybody. Even the teacher had a special voice for them, and a special smile for the other children when Lil Kelvey came up to her desk with a bunch of dreadfully common-looking flowers.They were the daughters of a spry, hardworking little washerwoman, who went about from house to house by the day. This was awful enough. But where was Mr. Kelvey? Nobody knew for certain. But everybody said he was in prison. So they were the daughters of a washerwoman and a gaolbird. Very nice company for other people's children! And they looked it. Why Mrs. Kelvey made them so conspicuous was hard to understand. The truth was they were dressed in "bits" given to her by the people for whom she worked. Lil, for instance, who was a stout, plain child, with big freckles, came to school in a dress made from a green art-serge table-cloth of the Burnells', with red plush sleeves from the Logans' curtains. Her hat, perched on top of her high forehead, was a grown-up woman's hat, once the property of Miss Lecky, the postmistress. It was turned up at the back and trimmed with a large scarlet quill. What a little guy she looked! It was impossible not to laugh. And her little sister, our Else, wore a long white dress, rather like a nightgown, and a pair of little boy's boots. But whatever our Else wore she would have looked strange. She was a tiny wishbone of a child, with cropped hair and enormous solemn eyes-a little white owl. Nobody had ever seen her smile; she scarcely ever spoke. She went through life holding on to Lil, with a piece of Lil's skirt screwed up in her hand. Where Lil went our Else followed. In the playground, on the road going to and from school, there was Lil marching in front and our Else holding on behind. Only when she wanted anything, or when she was out of breath, our Else gave Lil a tug, a twitch, and Lil stopped and turned round. The Kelveys never failed to understand each other.Now they hovered at the edge; you couldn't stop them listening. When the little girls turned round and sneered, Lil, as usual, gave her silly, shamefaced smile, but our Else only looked.And Isabel's voice, so very proud, went on telling. The carpet made a great sensation, but so did the beds with real bedclothes, and the stove with an oven door.When she finished Kezia broke in. "You've forgotten the lamp, Isabel.""Oh, yes," said Isabel, "and there's a teeny little lamp, all made of yellow glass, with a white globe that stands on the dining-room table. You couldn't tell it from a real one.""The lamp's best of all," cried Kezia. She thought Isabel wasn't making half enough of the little lamp. But nobody paid any attention. Isabel was choosing the two who were to come back with them that afternoon and see it. She chose Emmie Cole and Lena Logan. But when the others knew they were all to have a chance, they couldn't be nice enough to Isabel. One by one they put their arms round Isabel's waist and walked her off. They had something to whisper to her, a secret. "Isabel's my friend."Only the little Kelveys moved away forgotten; there was nothing more for them to hear.Days passed, and as more children saw the doll's house, the fame of it spread. It became the one subject, the rage. The one question was, "Have you seen Burnells' doll's house?" "Oh, ain't it lovely!" "Haven't you seen it? Oh, I say!"Even the dinner hour was given up to talking about it. The little girls sat under the pines eating their thick mutton sandwiches and big slabs of johnny cake spread with butter. While always, as near as they could get, sat the Kelveys, our Else holding on to Lil, listening too, while they chewed their jam sandwiches out of a newspaper soaked with large red blobs."Mother," said Kezia, "can't I ask the Kelveys just once?"

"Certainly not, Kezia.""But why not?""Run away, Kezia; you know quite well why not."

At last everybody had seen it except them. On that day the subject rather flagged. It was the dinner hour. The children stood together under the pine trees, and suddenly, as they looked at the Kelveys eating out of their paper, always by themselves, always listening, they wanted to be horrid to them. Emmie Cole started the whisper."Lil Kelvey's going to be a servant when she grows up.""O-oh, how awful!" said Isabel Burnell, and she made eyes at Emmie.Emmie swallowed in a very meaning way and nodded to Isabel as she'd seen her mother do on those occasions."It's true-it's true-it's true," she said.Then Lena Logan's little eyes snapped. "Shall I ask her?" she whispered."Bet you don't," said Jessie May."Pooh, I'm not frightened," said Lena. Suddenly she gave a little squeal and danced in front of the other girls. "Watch! Watch me! Watch me now!" said Lena. And sliding, gliding, dragging one foot, giggling behind her hand, Lena went over to the Kelveys.Lil looked up from her dinner. She wrapped the rest quickly away. Our Else stopped chewing. What was coming now?"Is it true you're going to be a servant when you grow up, Lil Kelvey?" shrilled Lena.Dead silence. But instead of answering, Lil only gave her silly, shame-faced smile. She didn't seem to mind the question at all. What a sell for Lena! The girls began to titter.Lena couldn't stand that. She put her hands on her hips; she shot forward. "Yah, yer father's in prison!" she hissed, spitefully.This was such a marvellous thing to have said that the little girls rushed away in a body, deeply, deeply excited, wild with joy. Someone found a long rope, and they began skipping. And never did they skip so high, run in and out so fast, or do such daring things as on that morning.In the afternoon Pat called for the Burnell children with the buggy and they drove home. There were visitors. Isabel and Lottie, who liked visitors, went upstairs to change their pinafores. But Kezia thieved out at the back. Nobody was about; she began to swing on the big white gates of the courtyard. Presently, looking along the road, she saw two little dots. They grew bigger, they were coming towards her. Now she could see that one was in front and one close behind. Now she could see that they were the Kelveys. Kezia stopped swinging. She slipped off the gate as if she was going to run away. Then she hesitated. The Kelveys came nearer, and beside them walked their shadows, very long, stretching right across the road with their heads in the buttercups. Kezia clambered back on the gate; she had made up her mind; she swung out."Hullo," she said to the passing Kelveys.They were so astounded that they stopped. Lil gave her silly smile. Our Else stared."You can come and see our doll's house if you want to," said Kezia, and she dragged one toe on the ground. But at that Lil turned red and shook her head quickly."Why not?" asked Kezia.Lil gasped, then she said, "Your ma told our ma you wasn't to speak to us.""Oh, well," said Kezia. She didn't know what to reply. "It doesn't matter. You can come and see our doll's house all the same. Come on. Nobody's looking."But Lil shook her head still harder."Don't you want to?" asked Kezia.Suddenly there was a twitch, a tug at Lil's skirt. She turned round. Our Else was looking at her with big, imploring eyes; she was frowning; she wanted to go. For a moment Lil looked at our Else very doubtfully. But then our Else twitched her skirt again. She started forward. Kezia led the way. Like two little stray cats they followed across the

courtyard to where the doll's house stood."There it is," said Kezia.There was a pause. Lil breathed loudly, almost snorted; our Else was still as a stone."I'll open it for you," said Kezia kindly. She undid the hook and they looked inside."There's the drawing-room and the dining-room, and that's the-""Kezia!"Oh, what a start they gave!"Kezia!"It was Aunt Beryl's voice. They turned round. At the back door stood Aunt Beryl, staring as if she couldn't believe what she saw."How dare you ask the little Kelveys into the courtyard?" said her cold, furious voice. "You know as well as I do, you're not allowed to talk to them. Run away, children, run away at once. And don't come back again," said Aunt Beryl. And she stepped into the yard and shooed them out as if they were chickens."Off you go immediately!" she called, cold and proud.They did not need telling twice. Burning with shame, shrinking together, Lil huddling along like her mother, our Else dazed, somehow they crossed the big courtyard and squeezed through the white gate."Wicked, disobedient little girl!" said Aunt Beryl bitterly to Kezia, and she slammed the doll's house to.The afternoon had been awful. A letter had come from Willie Brent, a terrifying, threatening letter, saying if she did not meet him that evening in Pulman's Bush, he'd come to the front door and ask the reason why! But now that she had frightened those little rats of Kelveys and given Kezia a good scolding, her heart felt lighter. That ghastly pressure was gone. She went back to the house humming.When the Kelveys were well out of sight of Burnells', they sat down to rest on a big red drain-pipe by the side of the road. Lil's cheeks were still burning; she took off the hat with the quill and held it on her knee. Dreamily they looked over the hay paddocks, past the creek, to the group of wattles where Logan's cows stood waiting to be milked. What were their thoughts?Presently our Else nudged up close to her sister. But now she had forgotten the cross lady. She put out a finger and stroked her sister's quill; she smiled her rare smile."I seen the little lamp," she said, softly.Then both were silent once more.

The NecklaceGuy de Maupassant

She was one of those pretty and charming girls born, as though fate had blundered over her, into a family of

artisans. She had no marriage portion, no expectations, no means of getting known, understood, loved, and wedded

by a man of wealth and distinction; and she let herself be married off to a little clerk in the Ministry of Education.

Her tastes were simple because she had never been able to afford any other, but she was as unhappy as though she

had married beneath her; for women have no caste or class, their beauty, grace, and charm serving them for birth or

family, their natural delicacy, their instinctive elegance, their nimbleness of wit, are their only mark of rank, and put

the slum girl on a level with the highest lady in the land.

     She suffered endlessly, feeling herself born for every delicacy and luxury. She suffered from the poorness of her

house, from its mean walls, worn chairs, and ugly curtains. All these things, of which other women of her class

would not even have been aware, tormented and insulted her. The sight of the little Breton girl who came to do the

work in her little house aroused heart-broken regrets and hopeless dreams in her mind. She imagined silent

antechambers, heavy with Oriental tapestries, lit by torches in lofty bronze sockets, with two tall footmen in knee-

breeches sleeping in large arm-chairs, overcome by the heavy warmth of the stove. She imagined vast saloons hung

with antique silks, exquisite pieces of furniture supporting priceless ornaments, and small, charming, perfumed

rooms, created just for little parties of intimate friends, men who were famous and sought after, whose homage

roused every other woman's envious longings.

     When she sat down for dinner at the round table covered with a three-days-old cloth, opposite her husband, who

took the cover off the soup-tureen, exclaiming delightedly: "Aha! Scotch broth! What could be better?" she

imagined delicate meals, gleaming silver, tapestries peopling the walls with folk of a past age and strange birds in

faery forests; she imagined delicate food served in marvellous dishes, murmured gallantries, listened to with an

inscrutable smile as one trifled with the rosy flesh of trout or wings of asparagus chicken.

     She had no clothes, no jewels, nothing. And these were the only things she loved; she felt that she was made for

them. She had longed so eagerly to charm, to be desired, to be wildly attractive and sought after.

     She had a rich friend, an old school friend whom she refused to visit, because she suffered so keenly when she

returned home. She would weep whole days, with grief, regret, despair, and misery.

*

One evening her husband came home with an exultant air, holding a large envelope in his hand.

     "Here's something for you," he said.

     Swiftly she tore the paper and drew out a printed card on which were these words:

     "The Minister of Education and Madame Ramponneau request the pleasure of the company of Monsieur and

Madame Loisel at the Ministry on the evening of Monday, January the 18th."

     Instead of being delighted, as her husband hoped, she flung the invitation petulantly across the table, murmuring:

     "What do you want me to do with this?"

     "Why, darling, I thought you'd be pleased. You never go out, and this is a great occasion. I had tremendous

trouble to get it. Every one wants one; it's very select, and very few go to the clerks. You'll see all the really big

people there."

     She looked at him out of furious eyes, and said impatiently: "And what do you suppose I am to wear at such an

affair?"

     He had not thought about it; he stammered:

     "Why, the dress you go to the theatre in. It looks very nice, to me . . ."

     He stopped, stupefied and utterly at a loss when he saw that his wife was beginning to cry. Two large tears ran

slowly down from the corners of her eyes towards the corners of her mouth.

     "What's the matter with you? What's the matter with you?" he faltered.

     But with a violent effort she overcame her grief and replied in a calm voice, wiping her wet cheeks:

     "Nothing. Only I haven't a dress and so I can't go to this party. Give your invitation to some friend of yours

whose wife will be turned out better than I shall."

     He was heart-broken.

     "Look here, Mathilde," he persisted. "What would be the cost of a suitable dress, which you could use on other

occasions as well, something very simple?"

     She thought for several seconds, reckoning up prices and also wondering for how large a sum she could ask

without bringing upon herself an immediate refusal and an exclamation of horror from the careful-minded clerk.

     At last she replied with some hesitation:

     "I don't know exactly, but I think I could do it on four hundred francs."

     He grew slightly pale, for this was exactly the amount he had been saving for a gun, intending to get a little

shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre with some friends who went lark-shooting there on Sundays.

     Nevertheless he said: "Very well. I'll give you four hundred francs. But try and get a really nice dress with the

money."

     The day of the party drew near, and Madame Loisel seemed sad, uneasy and anxious. Her dress was ready,

however. One evening her husband said to her:

     "What's the matter with you? You've been very odd for the last three days."

     "I'm utterly miserable at not having any jewels, not a single stone, to wear," she replied. "I shall look absolutely

no one. I would almost rather not go to the party."

     "Wear flowers," he said. "They're very smart at this time of the year. For ten francs you could get two or three

gorgeous roses."

     She was not convinced.

     "No . . . there's nothing so humiliating as looking poor in the middle of a lot of rich women."

     "How stupid you are!" exclaimed her husband. "Go and see Madame Forestier and ask her to lend you some

jewels. You know her quite well enough for that."

     She uttered a cry of delight.

     "That's true. I never thought of it."

     Next day she went to see her friend and told her her trouble.

     Madame Forestier went to her dressing-table, took up a large box, brought it to Madame Loisel, opened it, and

said:

     "Choose, my dear."

     First she saw some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian cross in gold and gems, of exquisite

workmanship. She tried the effect of the jewels before the mirror, hesitating, unable to make up her mind to leave

them, to give them up. She kept on asking:

     "Haven't you anything else?"

     "Yes. Look for yourself. I don't know what you would like best."

     Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin case, a superb diamond necklace; her heart began to beat covetously.

Her hands trembled as she lifted it. She fastened it round her neck, upon her high dress, and remained in ecstasy at

sight of herself.

     Then, with hesitation, she asked in anguish:

     "Could you lend me this, just this alone?"

     "Yes, of course."

     She flung herself on her friend's breast, embraced her frenziedly, and went away with her treasure. The day of

the party arrived. Madame Loisel was a success. She was the prettiest woman present, elegant, graceful, smiling,

and quite above herself with happiness. All the men stared at her, inquired her name, and asked to be introduced to

her. All the Under-Secretaries of State were eager to waltz with her. The Minister noticed her.

     She danced madly, ecstatically, drunk with pleasure, with no thought for anything, in the triumph of her beauty,

in the pride of her success, in a cloud of happiness made up of this universal homage and admiration, of the desires

she had aroused, of the completeness of a victory so dear to her feminine heart.

     She left about four o'clock in the morning. Since midnight her husband had been dozing in a deserted little room,

in company with three other men whose wives were having a good time. He threw over her shoulders the garments

he had brought for them to go home in, modest everyday clothes, whose poverty clashed with the beauty of the ball-

dress. She was conscious of this and was anxious to hurry away, so that she should not be noticed by the other

women putting on their costly furs.

     Loisel restrained her.

     "Wait a little. You'll catch cold in the open. I'm going to fetch a cab."

     But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the staircase. When they were out in the street they could not

find a cab; they began to look for one, shouting at the drivers whom they saw passing in the distance.

     They walked down towards the Seine, desperate and shivering. At last they found on the quay one of those old

nightprowling carriages which are only to be seen in Paris after dark, as though they were ashamed of their

shabbiness in the daylight.

     It brought them to their door in the Rue des Martyrs, and sadly they walked up to their own apartment. It was the

end, for her. As for him, he was thinking that he must be at the office at ten.

     She took off the garments in which she had wrapped her shoulders, so as to see herself in all her glory before the

mirror. But suddenly she uttered a cry. The necklace was no longer round her neck!

     "What's the matter with you?" asked her husband, already half undressed.

     She turned towards him in the utmost distress.

     "I . . . I . . . I've no longer got Madame Forestier's necklace. . . ."

     He started with astonishment.

     "What! . . . Impossible!"

     They searched in the folds of her dress, in the folds of the coat, in the pockets, everywhere. They could not find

it.

     "Are you sure that you still had it on when you came away from the ball?" he asked.

     "Yes, I touched it in the hall at the Ministry."

     "But if you had lost it in the street, we should have heard it fall."

     "Yes. Probably we should. Did you take the number of the cab?"

     "No. You didn't notice it, did you?"

     "No."

     They stared at one another, dumbfounded. At last Loisel put on his clothes again.

     "I'll go over all the ground we walked," he said, "and see if I can't find it."

     And he went out. She remained in her evening clothes, lacking strength to get into bed, huddled on a chair,

without volition or power of thought.

     Her husband returned about seven. He had found nothing.

     He went to the police station, to the newspapers, to offer a reward, to the cab companies, everywhere that a ray

of hope impelled him.

     She waited all day long, in the same state of bewilderment at this fearful catastrophe.

     Loisel came home at night, his face lined and pale; he had discovered nothing.

     "You must write to your friend," he said, "and tell her that you've broken the clasp of her necklace and are

getting it mended. That will give us time to look about us."

     She wrote at his dictation.

*

By the end of a week they had lost all hope.

     Loisel, who had aged five years, declared:

     "We must see about replacing the diamonds."

     Next day they took the box which had held the necklace and went to the jewelers whose name was inside. He

consulted his books.

     "It was not I who sold this necklace, Madame; I must have merely supplied the clasp."

     Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for another necklace like the first, consulting their memories,

both ill with remorse and anguish of mind.

     In a shop at the Palais-Royal they found a string of diamonds which seemed to them exactly like the one they

were looking for. It was worth forty thousand francs. They were allowed to have it for thirty-six thousand.

     They begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days. And they arranged matters on the understanding that it

would be taken back for thirty-four thousand francs, if the first one were found before the end of February.

     Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs left to him by his father. He intended to borrow the rest.

     He did borrow it, getting a thousand from one man, five hundred from another, five louis here, three louis there.

He gave notes of hand, entered into ruinous agreements, did business with usurers and the whole tribe of money-

lenders. He mortgaged the whole remaining years of his existence, risked his signature without even knowing if he

could honour it, and, appalled at the agonising face of the future, at the black misery about to fall upon him, at the

prospect of every possible physical privation and moral torture, he went to get the new necklace and put down upon

the jeweller's counter thirty-six thousand francs.

     When Madame Loisel took back the necklace to Madame Forestier, the latter said to her in a chilly voice:

     "You ought to have brought it back sooner; I might have needed it."

     She did not, as her friend had feared, open the case. If she had noticed the substitution, what would she have

thought? What would she have said? Would she not have taken her for a thief?

*

Madame Loisel came to know the ghastly life of abject poverty. From the very first she played her part heroically.

This fearful debt must be paid off. She would pay it. The servant was dismissed. They changed their flat; they took

a garret under the roof.

     She came to know the heavy work of the house, the hateful duties of the kitchen. She washed the plates, wearing

out her pink nails on the coarse pottery and the bottoms of pans. She washed the dirty linen, the shirts and dish-

cloths, and hung them out to dry on a string; every morning she took the dustbin down into the street and carried up

the water, stopping on each landing to get her breath. And, clad like a poor woman, she went to the fruiterer, to the

grocer, to the butcher, a basket on her arm, haggling, insulted, fighting for every wretched halfpenny of her money.

     Every month notes had to be paid off, others renewed, time gained.

     Her husband worked in the evenings at putting straight a merchant's accounts, and often at night he did copying

at two pence-halfpenny a page.

     And this life lasted ten years.

     At the end of ten years everything was paid off, everything, the usurer's charges and the accumulation of

superimposed interest.

     Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become like all the other strong, hard, coarse women of poor

households. Her hair was badly done, her skirts were awry, her hands were red. She spoke in a shrill voice, and the

water slopped all over the floor when she scrubbed it. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she sat

down by the window and thought of that evening long ago, of the ball at which she had been so beautiful and so

much admired.

     What would have happened if she had never lost those jewels. Who knows? Who knows? How strange life is,

how fickle! How little is needed to ruin or to save!

     One Sunday, as she had gone for a walk along the Champs-Elysees to freshen herself after the labors of the

week, she caught sight suddenly of a woman who was taking a child out for a walk. It was Madame Forestier, still

young, still beautiful, still attractive.

     Madame Loisel was conscious of some emotion. Should she speak to her? Yes, certainly. And now that she had

paid, she would tell her all. Why not?

     She went up to her.

     "Good morning, Jeanne."

     The other did not recognize her, and was surprised at being thus familiarly addressed by a poor woman.

     "But . . . Madame . . ." she stammered. "I don't know . . . you must be making a mistake."

     "No . . . I am Mathilde Loisel."

     Her friend uttered a cry.

     "Oh! . . . my poor Mathilde, how you have changed! . . ."

     "Yes, I've had some hard times since I saw you last; and many sorrows . . . and all on your account."

     "On my account! . . . How was that?"

     "You remember the diamond necklace you lent me for the ball at the Ministry?"

     "Yes. Well?"

     "Well, I lost it."

     "How could you? Why, you brought it back."

     "I brought you another one just like it. And for the last ten years we have been paying for it. You realise it wasn't

easy for us; we had no money. . . . Well, it's paid for at last, and I'm glad indeed."

     Madame Forestier had halted.

     "You say you bought a diamond necklace to replace mine?"

     "Yes. You hadn't noticed it? They were very much alike."

     And she smiled in proud and innocent happiness.

     Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took her two hands.

     "Oh, my poor Mathilde! But mine was imitation. It was worth at the very most five hundred francs! . . . "