The Photographs
[Illustration: "THAT THING AGAIN!" (_Page 28._)]
I DO not know how they will strike the critical public, but the photos
are so much better than we dared to expect, that we are grateful and
almost satisfied. Of course, they are insipid as compared with the
lively originals; but the difficulty was to get them of any truthful
sort whatsoever, for the babies regarded the photographer--the kindest
and mildest of men--with the gravest suspicion: and the moment he
appeared, little faces, all animation before, would stiffen into
shyness, and the light would slip out of them, and the naturalness, so
that all the camera saw, and therefore all it could show, was a
succession of blanks.
Then, too, when our artist friend was with us we were in the grasp of an
epidemic of cholera. Morning and evening, and sometimes into the night,
we were tending the sick and dying in the village; and in the interval
between we had little heart for photographs. But the visit of a real
photographer is a rare event in Dohnavur, and we forced ourselves to try
to take advantage of it. Remembering our difficulties, we wonder we got
anything at all; and we hope that stranger eyes will be kind.
[Illustration: PYARIE AND VINEETHA.
"Do smile, you little Turk!"]
Often when we looked at the pretty little reversed picture in the camera,
with its delicate colouring and the grace of movement, we have wished
that we could send it as we saw it, all living and true. The photos were
taken in the open air; underfoot was soft terra-cotta-coloured sand;
overhead, the cloudless blue. In such a setting the baby pictures look
their brightest, something very different from these dull copies in
sepia. An Oriental scene in print always looks sorry for itself, and
quite apologetic. It knows it is almost a farce, and very flat and poor.
Then there were difficulties connected with character. Our photographer
was more accustomed to the dignified ways of mountains than to the
extremely restless habit of children; and he never could understand why
they would not sit for him as the mountains sat, and let him focus them
comfortably. The babies looked at things from an opposite point of view,
and strongly objected to delays and leisureliness of every description.
Sometimes when the focussing process promised to be much prolonged, we
put a child we did not wish to photograph in the place of one upon whom
we had designs, and then at the last moment exchanged her. But the baby
thus beguiled seemed to divine our purpose; and, resenting such
ensnarements, would promptly wriggle out of focus. It was like trying to
observe some active animalculae under a high power. The microscope is
perfect, the creatures are entrapped in a drop of water on the slide;
but the game is not won by any means. Sometimes, after spoiling more
plates than was convenient, our artist almost gave up in despair; but he
never quite gave up, and we owe what we have to his infinite patience.
Pyarie was the most troublesome of these small sitters, though she was
old enough to know better. My mother was with us when she came to us, a
tiny babe and very delicate. She had loved her and helped to nurse
her, and so we wanted a happy photograph for her sake; but nothing was
further from Pyarie's intentions, and instead of smiling, she scowled.
Our first attempt was in the compound, where a bullock-bandy stood.
Pyarie and Vineetha, a little girl of about the same age, were very
pleased to climb over the pole and untwist the rope and play see-saw;
but when the objectionable camera appeared, they stared at it with
aversion, and no amount of coaxing would persuade Pyarie to smile.
"Can't you do something to improve her expression?" inquired the
photographer, emerging from his black hood; then someone said in
desperation: "_Do_ smile, you little Turk!" Vineetha, about whose
expression we were not concerned, obediently smiled; but Pyarie looked
thunderclouds, and turned her head away. She was caught before she
turned, poor dear, so that photograph was a failure.
Once again our kind friend tried. This time he gave her a doll. Pyarie
is most motherly. She is usually tender and loving with dolls, and we
hoped for a sweet expression. But in this we were disappointed. She
accepted the doll--a beautiful thing, with a good constitution and
imperturbable temper; and she looked it straight in the face--a rag face
painted--smiling as we wanted her to smile. Then she smote it, and she
scolded it, and called for a stick and whacked it, and called for a
bigger stick and repeated the performance. Finally she stopped, laid the
doll upon the step, sat down on it, and smiled. But she was hopelessly
out of focus by this time, and it was weary work getting her in. She
smiled during the process in a perfectly exasperating manner, but the
moment all was ready she suddenly wriggled out; and when invited to go
in again, she shook her head decidedly, and pointing to the camera with
its glaring glass eye, covered at that moment with its cloth, she
remarked, "Naughty! Naughty!" and we had to give her up.
[Illustration: "DISGUSTING!" SHE REMARKED IN EXPLICIT YOUNG TAMIL, AND
LOOKED DISGUSTED.]
"Perhaps she would be happier in someone's arms," next suggested the
long-suffering artist; and so one morning, just after her bath, she was
caught up, sweet and smiling, and played with till the peals of merry
laughter assured us of an easy victory. But the camera was no sooner
seen stalking round to the nursery, than suspicions filled Pyarie's
breast. That thing again! And the photograph taken under such
circumstances is left to speak for itself. Why did it follow her
everywhere? Life, haunted by a camera, was not worth living--in which
sentiment some of us heartily concur.
Once an attempt was made when Pyarie and two other little girls were
busily playing on the doorstep. Pyarie soon perceived and expressed her
opinion about the fraud--for the camera's stealthy approach could not be
kept from the children. "Disgusting!" she remarked in explicit young
Tamil, and looked disgusted. The photograph which resulted was perfect
in detail of little rounded limb and curly head, but it was lamentable
as regards expression; so once more our persevering friend tried to
catch her unawares. He showed us the result at breakfast in the shape of
a negative which we recognised as Pyarie. He seemed very pleased. "Look
at the pose!" he said. There was pose certainly, but where was the
smile? Pyarie's one idea had evidently been to ward off something or
someone; and our artist explained it by saying that in despair of
getting her quiet for one second, he had directed his servant to climb
an almost overhanging tree, and the child apparently thought he was
going to tumble on the top of her, and objected. "I got another of her
smiling beautifully, but the plate is cracked," we were told, after the
table had admired the pose. That is a way plates have. The one you most
want cracks.
Poor little Pyarie; we sometimes fear lest her "pose" should be too
true of her. She takes life hardly, and often protests. "_I_ want a
birthday!"--this was only yesterday, when everyone was rejoicing over a
birthday jubilation. Pyarie alone was sorrowful. She stood by her poor
little lonely self, with her head thrown back and her mouth wide open,
and her tears ran into her open mouth as she wailed: "Aiyo! Aiyo! (Alas!
Alas!) _I_ want a birthday!"
[Illustration: "'LOOK AT THE POSE!'
He said. There was pose, certainly, but where was the smile?" (_Page
28._)]
But she is such a loving child, so loyal to her own and so unselfish to
all younger things, that we hope for her more than we fear. And yet
underneath there is a fear; and we ask those who can understand to
remember this little one sometimes, for the world is not always kind to
its poor little foolish Pyaries.
I am writing in the afternoon, and two little people are playing on the
floor. One has a picture-book, and the other is looking eagerly as she
turns the pages and questions: "What is it? What is it?" I notice it is
always Pyarie who asks the question, and Vineetha who answers it: "It is
a cow. It is a cat." "Why don't you let Vineetha ask you what it is?" I
suggest; but Pyarie continues as before: "What is it? What is it?"
varied by "What colour is it? What shape is it? Who made it?" and the
mischief in her eyes (would that our artist could have caught it!)
explains the game. It is decidedly better to be teacher than scholar,
because suitable questions can cover all ignorance. Pyarie has not been
to the kindergarten of late, and has reason to fear Vineetha is somewhat
ahead of her; so she ignores my proposals, and continues her safe
questions. We sometimes think we shall one night be heard talking in our
sleep, and the burden of our conversation will be always--"What is it?
What colour is it? What shape is it? Who made it?"