24

It had been arranged that Binoy would recite with full expression a musical poem by the English poet Dryden, while the young women, dressed in appropriate costumes upon the stage, would perform a silent tableau of the scenes described in the verse. In addition, the young women would also recite English poems and sing songs.

Baradasundari had given Binoy much encouragement, assuring him that they would prepare him fully in whatever way was needed. She herself had learned very little English. But she placed her confidence in one or two learned gentlemen of her circle.

But when rehearsals commenced, Binoy’s recitation astonished Baradasundari’s circle of scholars. She was denied the pleasure of moulding this person, who stood outside their society. Those who had hitherto not thought much of Binoy found themselves compelled to hold him in secret esteem upon hearing how well he read English. Indeed, even Haranbabu requested him to contribute occasional articles to his newspaper; and Sudhir began urging Binoy to deliver occasional English lectures at their students’ society.

Lalita found herself in a most peculiar situation. That no one had needed to render Binoy any assistance made her glad, and yet it also bred a dissatisfaction within her. The fact that Binoy was not inferior to any of them — that he was in truth better than them all — that he would inwardly feel his own superiority and expect no instruction from any of them — this wounded her. What she wanted of Binoy, what state of affairs would allow her mind to settle into ease, she could not herself make out. Meanwhile her displeasure kept breaking out sharply on small occasions, turning again and again to take Binoy as its mark. She knew that this was neither just nor mannerly towards Binoy; knowing it, she was pained and made sufficient effort to restrain herself, but she could not understand why, suddenly and on the slightest of pretexts, some incongruous inner burning would overstep the governance of restraint and burst forth. Where before she had urged Binoy unceasingly to take part in the affair, she now began to unsettle him by trying to dissuade him from it. But why should Binoy, having overturned all the arrangements, take flight without reason at such a stage? Time was running short; and besides, he had himself become enthusiastic about the work upon discovering in himself a new accomplishment.

At last Lalita said to Baradasundari, “I shall not take part in this.”

Baradasundari knew her second daughter well, and was accordingly much alarmed, asking, “Why?”

Lalita said, “I cannot manage it.”

In truth, from the moment when there had been no longer any way of regarding Binoy as an amateur, Lalita would by no means practise her recitation or her acting in his presence. She would say, ‘I shall practise alone, on my own.’ This obstructed the practice of everyone else, but there was no getting round Lalita. At last, in defeat, they had to carry on their rehearsals by simply leaving Lalita out.

But when at the very end Lalita wished to withdraw altogether, it was as if a thunderbolt had fallen on Baradasundari’s head. She knew that she herself had no power to remedy the situation. She therefore had recourse to Pareshbabu. Pareshbabu never interfered in his daughters’ wishes or refusals in trivial matters. But they had pledged themselves to the Magistrate, the other side had made its arrangements accordingly, and time was very short — weighing all these considerations, Pareshbabu called Lalita to him, placed his hand on her head, and said, “Lalita, it would be wrong of you to abandon this now.”

Lalita said in a voice choked with suppressed weeping, “Father, I cannot. I am not able to do it.”

Pareshbabu said, “If you do not do it well, no blame will attach to you; but if you do not do it at all, that will be a wrong.”

Lalita stood with her face bowed; Pareshbabu said, “My child, having accepted the responsibility, you must see it through. There is no longer time to flee for fear of a blow to your pride. Let the blow come — you must perform your duty in spite of it. Can you not, my dear?”

Lalita raised her face to her father’s and said, “I can.”

That very evening, and with a deliberateness that made Binoy’s presence especially conspicuous, she cleared herself of all hesitation and set about her duty with what seemed an excess of energy, as if in a spirit of defiance. Binoy had not until now heard her recite. When he heard her today, he was astonished. Such clear and vigorous diction, not the faintest awkwardness anywhere, and in the expression of feeling such an unfaltering strength — he was seized with a joy beyond all expectation. The sound of that voice continued ringing in his ears for a long while after.

A skilled reciter of poetry produces in the listener’s mind a peculiar enchantment. The feeling of the poem lends its glory to the one who reads it — it appears as though woven together with the voice, the face, the very character of the reciter. As a flower blooms on the branch of a tree, so the poem blooms within the reciter and bestows upon him or her a singular grace.

So too did Lalita, in Binoy’s eyes, become adorned with poetry. For all these days, Lalita had kept Binoy in a state of continual agitation by her sharpness. As the hand returns again and again to the place that aches, so during these days Binoy had been unable to think of anything but Lalita’s heated words and her keen laughter. Why had Lalita done this, why had she said that — he had had to turn these questions over and over in his mind; the more he had failed to penetrate the mystery of her displeasure, the more his thoughts had laid claim to his mind. He had woken suddenly in the early morning with her on his mind; on his way to Pareshbabu’s house each day a question had risen within him as to what manner Lalita might present herself in today. On the days when Lalita had shown even the slightest trace of good humour, Binoy had felt as though he could breathe again, and he had turned over the question of how to make that state of mind endure — yet he could find no means within his power to bring it about.

After these days of inner turbulence, the sweetness of Lalita’s recitation affected Binoy with a particular and powerful force. He was so deeply moved that he could not think how to express his admiration. He dared not say anything good or bad to Lalita’s face — for it was quite possible that the general rule of human nature, whereby a person is pleased when praised, might not hold in Lalita’s case; indeed, it might fail precisely because it was the general rule. For this reason, Binoy, with a heart overflowing, went to Baradasundari and praised Lalita’s ability in the most abundant terms. This only served to deepen Baradasundari’s esteem for Binoy’s own learning and judgement.

There was one more remarkable occurrence. As soon as Lalita perceived for herself that her recitation and her acting had become beyond reproach — as soon as she passed over the difficulty of her duty as a well-built vessel glides upon the crest of waves — from that moment her sharpness towards Binoy also fell away. She made not the slightest further effort to repel him. Her enthusiasm for the work grew, and in the matter of rehearsals her collaboration with Binoy grew closer. Indeed, she had no objection whatsoever to seeking his counsel regarding her recitation or any other matter.

With this change in Lalita, it was as though a great stone had been lifted from Binoy’s chest. So great was his joy that he would go to Anandamayi at any hour and behave with a boy’s playfulness. Many things accumulated within him that he wished to sit and speak of with Sucharita at length, but these days he scarcely saw Sucharita at all. Whenever opportunity arose he would sit and converse with Lalita, but he had to be particularly careful in speaking with her; knowing that Lalita was inwardly and keenly judging him and all his words, his speech in her presence lacked its natural ease. Lalita would say from time to time, “Why do you speak as though you have come having read it out of a book?”

Binoy would reply, “I have spent so many years reading nothing but books, that my mind has become like a printed page.”

Lalita would say, “Do not try to speak beautifully — simply say what you mean, plainly. You say things in such a remarkably fine way that I suspect you are composing in your head what someone else has thought.”

For this reason, when a thought came to Binoy’s mind already well-formed and polished by his natural gift, he had to make a deliberate effort, when speaking it to Lalita, to render it plain and brief. If an ornate phrase came suddenly to his lips, he would find himself embarrassed.

A cloud that had gathered in Lalita’s mind, as it were without cause, now dispersed, and her heart grew bright. Even Baradasundari was astonished to see the change in her. She no longer took objection at every turn and sat aloof as before; she joined in all the work with spirit. All manner of new ideas arose in her mind day by day regarding the costumes and arrangements for the coming performance, and with these she kept everyone in a state of excitement. However keen Baradasundari’s own enthusiasm might be, she could not but think of the cost — so that, just as Lalita’s earlier reluctance to take part in the performance had been a source of anxiety, so now her enthusiasm brought its own complications. Yet Baradasundari dared not wound Lalita’s excited imagination; if any aspect of a work in which she was invested fell even slightly short of completeness, Lalita was entirely deflated, and to take part in it at all became impossible for her.

In this exhilarated state of mind, Lalita had gone eagerly to Sucharita again and again. Sucharita had smiled and conversed, it is true, but Lalita had felt repeatedly a certain resistance in her — and had come away inwardly vexed.

One day she went to Pareshbabu and said, “Father, it will not do for Suchididdi to sit in her corner reading books while the rest of us go and act. She must join us.”

Pareshbabu had himself been thinking for some days that Sucharita seemed to be withdrawing further and further from her companions. He feared that such a state of affairs was not wholesome for her character. Hearing Lalita’s words, it occurred to him today that if Sucharita did not join in the general amusements, this tendency to set herself apart would grow upon her and gain hold. Pareshbabu said to Lalita, “Go and tell your mother.”

Lalita said, “I shall tell Mother; but the task of persuading Suchididdi must be yours to undertake.”

When Pareshbabu spoke to her, Sucharita could raise no objection — she came forward to perform what was her duty.

As soon as Sucharita emerged from her corner, Binoy endeavoured to renew their conversation as in former times, but these past days had brought some change; he could not, somehow, quite reach her. Her face, her gaze, carried something so remote that to approach her was a matter of awkwardness. In earlier days too, amid all the company and activity, there had been a certain detachment in Sucharita; now that quality had become much more plainly visible. Even when she joined the rehearsals, her independence remained unimpaired. She would do precisely as much as the work required of her, and then withdraw. At first Sucharita’s aloofness struck Binoy with considerable force. Binoy was a sociable man; when those with whom he had formed friendships put any sort of barrier between them and him, it was most difficult for him to bear. Within this family, it was from Sucharita above all that he had received especial warmth all this while; now to be suddenly rebuffed without reason was a great pain. But when he understood that this same cause had aroused resentment in Lalita’s mind towards Sucharita as well, Binoy found consolation, and his bond with Lalita grew closer still. He gave Sucharita no opportunity to avoid him — she herself relinquished all intimate association with Binoy, and thus, little by little, Sucharita drifted very far from him.

During these days, Gora’s absence on his travels had allowed Binoy to mix with Pareshbabu’s household in every way, with an ease quite unrestrained. When Binoy’s nature manifested itself thus freely, everyone in Pareshbabu’s house felt a particular satisfaction. Binoy himself, in attaining this unconstrained and natural state of being, experienced a joy such as he had never known before. The very awareness that he was pleasing to all of them served to increase his capacity to please yet further.

During this outward expansion of his nature, on these days when he felt himself as an independent force, Sucharita withdrew far from him. At another time such a loss, such a blow, might have been unbearable; but now he passed over it with relative ease. What was remarkable was that Lalita, taking note of Sucharita’s change in disposition, did not express the resentment towards her that she would once have shown. Had enthusiasm for the recitation and the performance claimed her so completely?

Meanwhile, upon seeing Sucharita join the performance, Haranbabu suddenly grew enthusiastic as well. He himself proposed that he would recite a passage from Paradise Lost, and would deliver a brief address on the enchanting power of music, as a preface to the recitation of Dryden’s poem. At this, Baradasundari was inwardly much put out, and Lalita was no less displeased. Haranbabu had himself gone to see the Magistrate beforehand and settled the matter firmly. When Lalita remarked that extending the programme to such a length might draw the Magistrate’s objection, Haranbabu produced from his pocket a letter of gratitude from the Magistrate and handed it to her, leaving her with no reply.

Gora had set out on his travels without any particular purpose, and no one knew when he might return. Although Sucharita had resolved to give no thought to this matter, each day a hope would arise within her that perhaps today Gora would come. This hope she could by no means suppress from her mind. When she was feeling most keenly the pain of Gora’s indifference and the insubordination of her own heart — when her mind was growing desperate to tear through this snare and flee — it was at this very time that Haranbabu came to Pareshbabu once again and, invoking God’s name with particular solemnity, pressed him to formalise his connection with Sucharita. Pareshbabu said, “Marriage is still some way off; is it wise to bind oneself so soon?”

Haranbabu said, “I believe it to be particularly necessary, for the ripening of both their minds, that they should spend some time in this bound state before marriage. Between the first acquaintance and the marriage, such a spiritual bond — one that carries no worldly responsibility, yet binds — is especially beneficial.”

Pareshbabu said, “Very well — let me first ask Sucharita.”

Haranbabu said, “She has already given her consent.”

Pareshbabu still had doubts regarding the true state of Sucharita’s feelings for Haranbabu, and so he called Sucharita himself and laid Haranbabu’s proposal before her. Sucharita felt that if she could surrender her vacillating life finally and wholly to some fixed point, she would be delivered — and so she gave her consent so immediately and so decidedly that all Pareshbabu’s doubts were dispelled. He asked her to consider carefully whether it was right to be bound so long before the marriage — even so, Sucharita raised not the slightest objection to the proposal.

It was settled that after Mr Brownlow’s dinner engagement had been concluded, everyone would be called together on a particular day to formalise the bond between the future couple.

For a brief moment Sucharita felt as though her mind had been freed from the grip of the eclipse. She resolved inwardly that she would steel herself to marry Haranbabu and devote herself to the work of the Brahmo Samaj. She determined that she would read English books on religious matters, a little each day, under Haranbabu’s guidance, and follow his direction entirely. By resolving to embrace precisely what was most difficult for her — indeed, what was most unwelcome — she felt a great swelling of resolve within herself.

For some time she had not read the English paper edited by Haranbabu. Today, the moment it was printed, it arrived in her hands. Haranbabu had most probably sent it especially.

Sucharita took the paper to her room, sat herself down in composure, and began reading from the very first line, as though performing a solemn duty. With a reverential mind, regarding herself as a pupil, she proceeded to receive instruction from its pages.

The ship, sailing on under full sail, struck a rock and lurched over. In this issue there was an essay entitled ‘Possessed by the Past,’ which attacked those who, though living in the present age, still turned their faces towards former times. The arguments were not without foundation — indeed, Sucharita had been searching for just such arguments — but the moment she read the essay she understood that its target was Gora. Yet his name was nowhere mentioned, nor was any reference made to anything he had written. Just as a soldier takes pleasure in killing a man with each bullet, so in each sentence of this essay a living creature appeared to be pierced, and a kind of joy in violence seemed to rise to the surface.

The essay became unbearable to Sucharita. She felt a desire to tear each of its arguments to shreds with refutation. She said to herself that if Gourmohonbabu so wished, he could bring this essay to dust at his feet. Gora’s brilliant face rose luminous before her eyes, and his powerful voice resonated within her very chest. In the face of that extraordinary visage and those extraordinary words, the pettiness of this essay and its author appeared so contemptible that Sucharita cast the paper down upon the floor.

After a long while, it was Sucharita herself who came and sat down beside Binoy that day, and said to him in the course of conversation, “Now then — you had said you would bring me to read those papers in which your articles had appeared. Why have you not done so?”

Binoy did not say that, seeing the change in Sucharita of late, he had not dared to fulfil his promise; he said only, “I have gathered them all together — I shall bring them tomorrow.”

The next day Binoy came and left Sucharita a parcel of pamphlets and newspapers. On receiving them, she read no further, but put them away in her box. It was precisely because she wished most earnestly to read them that she did not. Having resolved that she would on no account allow her mind to be scattered, she surrendered her rebellious spirit once again to Haranbabu’s governance, and experienced once more a measure of peace.