My feelings towards the young widow who lived in the next house to
mine were feelings of worship; at least, that is what I told to my
friends and myself. Even my nearest intimate, Nabin, knew nothing of
the real state of my mind. And I had a sort of pride that I could keep
my passion pure by thus concealing it in the inmost recesses of my
heart. She was like a dew-drenched _sephali_-blossom, untimely fallen
to earth. Too radiant and holy for the flower-decked marriage-bed,
she had been dedicated to Heaven.
But passion is like the mountain stream, and refuses to be enclosed in
the place of its birth; it must seek an outlet. That is why I tried to
give expression to my emotions in poems; but my unwilling pen refused
to desecrate the object of my worship.
It happened curiously that just at this time my friend Nabin was
afflicted with a madness of verse. It came upon him like an earthquake.
It was the poor fellow's first attack, and he was equally unprepared
for rhyme and rhythm. Nevertheless he could not refrain, for he
succumbed to the fascination, as a widower to his second wife.
So Nabin sought help from me. The subject of his poems was the old, old
one, which is ever new: his poems were all addressed to the beloved
one. I slapped his back in jest, and asked him: 'Well, old chap, who
is she?'