(16) My Return
The chains of the rigorous regime which had bound me snapped for good
when I set out from home. On my return I gained an accession of rights.
In my case my very nearness had so long kept me out of mind; now that I
had been out of sight I came back into view.
I got a foretaste of appreciation while still on the return journey.
Travelling alone as I was, with an attendant, brimming with health and
spirits, and conspicuous with my gold-worked cap, all the English people
I came across in the train made much of me.
When I arrived it was not merely a home-coming from travel, it was also
a return from my exile in the servants' quarters to my proper place in
the inner apartments. Whenever the inner household assembled in my
mother's room I now occupied a seat of honour. And she who was then the
youngest bride of our house lavished on me a wealth of affection and
regard.
In infancy the loving care of woman is to be had without the asking,
and, being as much a necessity as light and air, is as simply accepted
without any conscious response; rather does the growing child often
display an eagerness to free itself from the encircling web of woman's
solicitude. But the unfortunate creature who is deprived of this in its
proper season is beggared indeed. This had been my plight. So after
being brought up in the servants' quarters when I suddenly came in for a
profusion of womanly affection, I could hardly remain unconscious of it.
In the days when the inner apartments were as yet far away from me, they
were the elysium of my imagination. The zenana, which from an outside
view is a place of confinement, for me was the abode of all freedom.
Neither school nor Pandit were there; nor, it seemed to me, did anybody
have to do what they did not want to. Its secluded leisure had something
mysterious about it; one played about, or did as one liked and had not
to render an account of one's doings. Specially so with my youngest
sister, to whom, though she attended Nilkamal Pandit's class with us, it
seemed to make no difference in his behaviour whether she did her
lessons well or ill. Then again, while, by ten o'clock, we had to hurry
through our breakfast and be ready for school, she, with her queue
dangling behind, walked unconcernedly away, withinwards, tantalising us
to distraction.
And when the new bride, adorned with her necklace of gold, came into our
house, the mystery of the inner apartments deepened. She, who came from
outside and yet became one of us, who was unknown and yet our own,
attracted me strangely--with her I burned to make friends. But if by
much contriving I managed to draw near, my youngest sister would hustle
me off with: "What d'you boys want here--get away outside." The insult
added to the disappointment cut me to the quick. Through the glass doors
of their cabinets one could catch glimpses of all manner of curious
playthings--creations of porcelain and glass--gorgeous in colouring and
ornamentation. We were not deemed worthy even to touch them, much less
could we muster up courage to ask for any to play with. Nevertheless
these rare and wonderful objects, as they were to us boys, served to
tinge with an additional attraction the lure of the inner apartments.
Thus had I been kept at arm's length with repeated rebuffs. As the outer
world, so, for me, the interior, was unattainable. Wherefore the
impressions of it that I did get appeared to me like pictures.
After nine in the evening, my lessons with Aghore Babu over, I am
retiring within for the night. A murky flickering lantern is hanging in
the long venetian-screened corridor leading from the outer to the inner
apartments. At its end this passage turns into a flight of four or five
steps, to which the light does not reach, and down which I pass into the
galleries running round the first inner quadrangle. A shaft of moonlight
slants from the eastern sky into the western angle of these verandahs,
leaving the rest in darkness. In this patch of light the maids have
gathered and are squatting close together, with legs outstretched,
rolling cotton waste into lamp-wicks, and chatting in undertones of
their village homes. Many such pictures are indelibly printed on my
memory.
Then after our supper, the washing of our hands and feet on the verandah
before stretching ourselves on the ample expanse of our bed; whereupon
one of the nurses Tinkari or Sankari comes and sits by our heads and
softly croons to us the story of the prince travelling on and on over
the lonely moor, and, as it comes to an end, silence falls on the room.
With my face to the wall I gaze at the black and white patches, made by
the plaster of the walls fallen off here and there, showing faintly in
the dim light; and out of these I conjure up many a fantastic image as I
drop off to sleep. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, I hear
through my half-broken sleep the shouts of old Swarup, the watchman,
going his rounds from verandah to verandah.
Then came the new order, when I got in profusion from this inner
unknown dreamland of my fancies the recognition for which I had all
along been pining; when that which naturally should have come day by day
was suddenly made good to me with accumulated arrears. I cannot say that
my head was not turned.
The little traveller was full of the story of his travels, and, with the
strain of each repetition, the narrative got looser and looser till it
utterly refused to fit into the facts. Like everything else, alas, a
story also gets stale and the glory of the teller suffers likewise; that
is why he has to add fresh colouring every time to keep up its
freshness.
After my return from the hills I was the principal speaker at my
mother's open air gatherings on the roof terrace in the evenings. The
temptation to become famous in the eyes of one's mother is as difficult
to resist as such fame is easy to earn. While I was at the Normal
School, when I first came across the information in some reader that the
Sun was hundreds and thousands of times as big as the Earth, I at once
disclosed it to my mother. It served to prove that he who was small to
look at might yet have a considerable amount of bigness about him. I
used also to recite to her the scraps of poetry used as illustrations in
the chapter on prosody or rhetoric of our Bengali grammar. Now I
retailed at her evening gatherings the astronomical tit-bits I had
gleaned from Proctor.
My father's follower Kishori belonged at one time to a band of reciters
of Dasarathi's jingling versions of the Epics. While we were together in
the hills he often said to me: "Oh, my little brother,[28] if I only had
had you in our troupe we could have got up a splendid performance." This
would open up to me a tempting picture of wandering as a minstrel boy
from place to place, reciting and singing. I learnt from him many of the
songs in his repertoire and these were in even greater request than my
talks about the photosphere of the Sun or the many moons of Saturn.
But the achievement of mine which appealed most to my mother was that
while the rest of the inmates of the inner apartments had to be content
with Krittivasa's Bengali rendering of the Ramayana, I had been reading
with my father the original of Maharshi Valmiki himself, Sanscrit metre
and all. "Read me some of that Ramayana, _do_!" she said, overjoyed at
this news which I had given her.
[Illustration: The Servant-maids in the Verandah]
Alas, my reading of Valmiki had been limited to the short extract from
his Ramayana given in my Sanskrit reader, and even that I had not
fully mastered. Moreover, on looking over it now, I found that my
memory had played me false and much of what I thought I knew had become
hazy. But I lacked the courage to plead "I have forgotten" to the eager
mother awaiting the display of her son's marvellous talents; so that, in
the reading I gave, a large divergence occurred between Valmiki's
intention and my explanation. That tender-hearted sage, from his seat in
heaven, must have forgiven the temerity of the boy seeking the glory of
his mother's approbation, but not so Madhusudan,[29] the taker down of
Pride.
My mother, unable to contain her feelings at my extraordinary exploit,
wanted all to share her admiration. "You must read this to Dwijendra,"
(my eldest brother), she said.
"In for it!" thought I, as I put forth all the excuses I could think of,
but my mother would have none of them. She sent for my brother
Dwijendra, and, as soon as he arrived, greeted him, with: "Just hear
Rabi read Valmiki's Ramayan, how splendidly he does it."
It had to be done! But Madhusudan relented and let me off with just a
taste of his pride-reducing power. My brother must have been called away
while busy with some literary work of his own. He showed no anxiety to
hear me render the Sanscrit into Bengali, and as soon as I had read out
a few verses he simply remarked "Very good" and walked away.
After my promotion to the inner apartments I felt it all the more
difficult to resume my school life. I resorted to all manner of
subterfuges to escape the Bengal Academy. Then they tried putting me at
St. Xavier's. But the result was no better.
My elder brothers, after a few spasmodic efforts, gave up all hopes of
me--they even ceased to scold me. One day my eldest sister said: "We had
all hoped Rabi would grow up to be a man, but he has disappointed us the
worst." I felt that my value in the social world was distinctly
depreciating; nevertheless I could not make up my mind to be tied to the
eternal grind of the school mill which, divorced as it was from all life
and beauty, seemed such a hideously cruel combination of hospital and
gaol.
One precious memory of St. Xavier's I still hold fresh and pure--the
memory of its teachers. Not that they were all of the same excellence.
In particular, in those who taught in our class I could discern no
reverential resignation of spirit. They were in nowise above the
teaching-machine variety of school masters. As it is, the educational
engine is remorselessly powerful; when to it is coupled the stone mill
of the outward forms of religion the heart of youth is crushed dry
indeed. This power-propelled grindstone type we had at St. Xavier's.
Yet, as I say, I possess a memory which elevates my impression of the
teachers there to an ideal plane.
This is the memory of Father DePeneranda. He had very little to do with
us--if I remember right he had only for a while taken the place of one
of the masters of our class. He was a Spaniard and seemed to have an
impediment in speaking English. It was perhaps for this reason that the
boys paid but little heed to what he was saying. It seemed to me that
this inattentiveness of his pupils hurt him, but he bore it meekly day
after day. I know not why, but my heart went out to him in sympathy. His
features were not handsome, but his countenance had for me a strange
attraction. Whenever I looked on him his spirit seemed to be in prayer,
a deep peace to pervade him within and without.
We had half-an-hour for writing our copybooks; that was a time when, pen
in hand, I used to become absent-minded and my thoughts wandered hither
and thither. One day Father DePeneranda was in charge of this class. He
was pacing up and down behind our benches. He must have noticed more
than once that my pen was not moving. All of a sudden he stopped behind
my seat. Bending over me he gently laid his hand on my shoulder and
tenderly inquired: "Are you not well, Tagore?" It was only a simple
question, but one I have never been able to forget.
I cannot speak for the other boys but I felt in him the presence of a
great soul, and even to-day the recollection of it seems to give me a
passport into the silent seclusion of the temple of God.
There was another old Father whom all the boys loved. This was Father
Henry. He taught in the higher classes; so I did not know him well. But
one thing about him I remember. He knew Bengali. He once asked Nirada, a
boy in his class, the derivation of his name. Poor Nirada[30] had so
long been supremely easy in mind about himself--the derivation of his
name, in particular, had never troubled him in the least; so that he was
utterly unprepared to answer this question. And yet, with so many
abstruse and unknown words in the dictionary, to be worsted by one's own
name would have been as ridiculous a mishap as getting run over by one's
own carriage, so Nirada unblushingly replied: "_Ni_--privative,
_rode_--sun-rays; thence Nirode--that which causes an absence of the
sun's rays!"
(17) _Home Studies_
Gyan Babu, son of Pandit Vedantavagish, was now our tutor at home. When
he found he could not secure my attention for the school course, he gave
up the attempt as hopeless and went on a different tack. He took me
through Kalidas's "Birth of the War-god," translating it to me as we
went on. He also read Macbeth to me, first explaining the text in
Bengali, and then confining me to the school room till I had rendered
the day's reading into Bengali verse. In this way he got me to translate
the whole play. I was fortunate enough to lose this translation and so
am relieved to that extent of the burden of my _karma_.
It was Pandit Ramsarvaswa's duty to see to the progress of our Sanskrit.
He likewise gave up the fruitless task of teaching grammar to his
unwilling pupil, and read Sakuntala with me instead. One day he took it
into his head to show my translation of Macbeth to Pandit Vidyasagar and
took me over to his house.
Rajkrishna Mukherji had called at the time and was seated with him. My
heart went pit-a-pat as I entered the great Pandit's study, packed full
of books; nor did his austere visage assist in reviving my courage.
Nevertheless, as this was the first time I had had such a distinguished
audience, my desire to win renown was strong within me. I returned home,
I believe, with some reason for an access of enthusiasm. As for
Rajkrishna Babu, he contented himself with admonishing me to be careful
to keep the language and metre of the Witches' parts different from that
of the human characters.
During my boyhood Bengali literature was meagre in body, and I think I
must have finished all the readable and unreadable books that there were
at the time. Juvenile literature in those days had not evolved a
distinct type of its own--but that I am sure did me no harm. The watery
stuff into which literary nectar is now diluted for being served up to
the young takes full account of their childishness, but none of them as
growing human beings. Children's books should be such as can partly be
understood by them and partly not. In our childhood we read every
available book from one end to the other; and both what we understood,
and what we did not, went on working within us. That is how the world
itself reacts on the child consciousness. The child makes its own what
it understands, while that which is beyond leads it on a step forward.
When Dinabandhu Mitra's satires came out I was not of an age for which
they were suitable. A kinswoman of ours was reading a copy, but no
entreaties of mine could induce her to lend it to me. She used to keep
it under lock and key. Its inaccessibility made me want it all the more
and I threw out the challenge that read the book I must and would.
One afternoon she was playing cards, and her keys, tied to a corner of
her _sari_, hung over her shoulder. I had never paid any attention to
cards, in fact I could not stand card games. But my behaviour that day
would hardly have borne this out, so engrossed was I in their playing.
At last, in the excitement of one side being about to make a score, I
seized my opportunity and set about untying the knot which held the
keys. I was not skilful, and moreover excited and hasty and so got
caught. The owner of the _sari_ and of the keys took the fold off her
shoulder with a smile, and laid the keys on her lap as she went on with
the game.
Then I hit on a stratagem. My kinswoman was fond of _pan_,[31] and I
hastened to place some before her. This entailed her rising later on to
get rid of the chewed _pan_, and, as she did so, her keys fell off her
lap and were replaced over her shoulder. This time they got stolen, the
culprit got off, and the book got read! Its owner tried to scold me,
but the attempt was not a success, we both laughed so.
Dr. Rajendralal Mitra used to edit an illustrated monthly miscellany. My
third brother had a bound annual volume of it in his bookcase. This I
managed to secure and the delight of reading it through, over and over
again, still comes back to me. Many a holiday noontide has passed with
me stretched on my back on my bed, that square volume on my breast,
reading about the Narwhal whale, or the curiosities of justice as
administered by the Kazis of old, or the romantic story of
Krishna-kumari.
Why do we not have such magazines now-a-days? We have philosophical and
scientific articles on the one hand, and insipid stories and travels on
the other, but no such unpretentious miscellanies which the ordinary
person can read in comfort--such as Chambers's or Cassell's or the
Strand in England--which supply the general reader with a simple, but
satisfying fare and are of the greatest use to the greatest number.
I came across another little periodical in my young days called the
_Abodhabandhu_ (ignorant man's friend). I found a collection of its
monthly numbers in my eldest brother's library and devoured them day
after day, seated on the doorsill of his study, facing a bit of terrace
to the South. It was in the pages of this magazine that I made my first
acquaintance with the poetry of Viharilal Chakravarti. His poems
appealed to me the most of all that I read at the time. The artless
flute-strains of his lyrics awoke within me the music of fields and
forest-glades.
Into these same pages I have wept many a tear over a pathetic
translation of Paul and Virginie. That wonderful sea, the breeze-stirred
cocoanut forests on its shore, and the slopes beyond lively with the
gambols of mountain goats,--a delightfully refreshing mirage they
conjured up on that terraced roof in Calcutta. And oh! the romantic
courting that went on in the forest paths of that secluded island,
between the Bengali boy reader and little Virginie with the
many-coloured kerchief round her head!
Then came Bankim's _Bangadarsan_, taking the Bengali heart by storm. It
was bad enough to have to wait till the next monthly number was out, but
to be kept waiting further till my elders had done with it was simply
intolerable! Now he who will may swallow at a mouthful the whole of
_Chandrashekhar_ or _Bishabriksha_ but the process of longing and
anticipating, month after month; of spreading over the long intervals
the concentrated joy of each short reading, revolving every instalment
over and over in the mind while watching and waiting for the next; the
combination of satisfaction with unsatisfied craving, of burning
curiosity with its appeasement; these long drawn out delights of going
through the original serial none will ever taste again.
The compilations from the old poets by Sarada Mitter and Akshay Sarkar
were also of great interest to me. Our elders were subscribers, but not
very regular readers, of these series, so that it was not difficult for
me to get at them. Vidyapati's quaint and corrupt Maithili language
attracted me all the more because of its unintelligibility. I tried to
make out his sense without the help of the compiler's notes, jotting
down in my own note book all the more obscure words with their context
as many times as they occurred. I also noted grammatical peculiarities
according to my lights.
(18) _My Home Environment_
One great advantage which I enjoyed in my younger days was the literary
and artistic atmosphere which pervaded our house. I remember how, when I
was quite a child, I would be leaning against the verandah railings
which overlooked the detached building comprising the reception rooms.
These rooms would be lighted up every evening. Splendid carriages would
draw up under the portico, and visitors would be constantly coming and
going. What was happening I could not very well make out, but would keep
staring at the rows of lighted casements from my place in the darkness.
The intervening space was not great but the gulf between my infant world
and these lights was immense.
My elder cousin Ganendra had just got a drama written by Pandit
Tarkaratna and was having it staged in the house. His enthusiasm for
literature and the fine arts knew no bounds. He was the centre of the
group who seem to have been almost consciously striving to bring about
from every side the renascence which we see to-day. A pronounced
nationalism in dress, literature, music, art and the drama had awakened
in and around him. He was a keen student of the history of different
countries and had begun but could not complete a historical work in
Bengali. He had translated and published the Sanskrit drama,
Vikramorvasi, and many a well-known hymn is his composition. He may be
said to have given us the lead in writing patriotic poems and songs.
This was in the days when the Hindu Mela was an annual institution and
there his song "Ashamed am I to sing of India's glories" used to be
sung.
I was still a child when my cousin Ganendra died in the prime of his
youth, but for those who have once beheld him it is impossible to forget
his handsome, tall and stately figure. He had an irresistible social
influence. He could draw men round him and keep them bound to him; while
his powerful attraction was there, disruption was out of the question.
He was one of those--a type peculiar to our country--who, by their
personal magnetism, easily establish themselves in the centre of their
family or village. In any other country, where large political, social
or commercial groups are being formed, such would as naturally become
national leaders. The power of organising a large number of men into a
corporate group depends on a special kind of genius. Such genius in our
country runs to waste, a waste, as pitiful, it seems to me, as that of
pulling down a star from the firmament for use as a lucifer match.
I remember still better his younger brother, my cousin Gunendra.[32] He
likewise kept the house filled with his personality. His large, gracious
heart embraced alike relatives, friends, guests and dependants. Whether
in his broad south verandah, or on the lawn by the fountain, or at the
tank-edge on the fishing platform, he presided over self-invited
gatherings, like hospitality incarnate. His wide appreciation of art and
talent kept him constantly radiant with enthusiasm. New ideas of
festivity or frolic, theatricals or other entertainments, found in him a
ready patron, and with his help would flourish and find fruition.
We were too young then to take any part in these doings, but the waves
of merriment and life to which they gave rise came and beat at the doors
of our curiosity. I remember how a burlesque composed by my eldest
brother was once being rehearsed in my cousin's big drawing room. From
our place against the verandah railings of our house we could hear,
through the open windows opposite, roars of laughter mixed with the
strains of a comic song, and would also occasionally catch glimpses of
Akshay Mazumdar's extraordinary antics. We could not gather exactly what
the song was about, but lived in hopes of being able to find that out
sometime.
I recall how a trifling circumstance earned for me the special regard of
cousin Gunendra. Never had I got a prize at school except once for good
conduct. Of the three of us my nephew Satya was the best at his lessons.
He once did well at some examination and was awarded a prize. As we
came home I jumped off the carriage to give the great news to my cousin
who was in the garden. "Satya has got a prize" I shouted as I ran to
him. He drew me to his knees with a smile. "And have _you_ not got a
prize?" he asked. "No," said I, "not I, it's Satya." My genuine pleasure
at Satya's success seemed to touch my cousin particularly. He turned to
his friends and remarked on it as a very creditable trait. I well
remember how mystified I felt at this, for I had not thought of my
feeling in that light. This prize that I got for not getting a prize did
not do me good. There is no harm in making gifts to children, but they
should not be rewards. It is not healthy for youngsters to be made
self-conscious.
After the mid-day meal cousin Gunendra would attend the estate offices
in our part of the house. The office room of our elders was a sort of
club where laughter and conversation were freely mixed with matters of
business. My cousin would recline on a couch, and I would seize some
opportunity of edging up to him.
[Illustration: My Eldest Brother]
He usually told me stories from Indian History. I still remember the
surprise with which I heard how Clive, after establishing British rule
in India, went back home and cut his own throat. On the one hand new
history being made, on the other a tragic chapter hidden away in the
mysterious darkness of a human heart. How could there be such dismal
failure within and such brilliant success outside? This weighed heavily
on my mind the whole day.
Some days cousin Gunendra would not be allowed to remain in any doubt as
to the contents of my pocket. At the least encouragement out would come
my manuscript book, unabashed. I need hardly state that my cousin was
not a severe critic; in point of fact the opinions he expressed would
have done splendidly as advertisements. None the less, when in any of my
poetry my childishness became too obtrusive, he could not restrain his
hearty "Ha! Ha!"
One day it was a poem on "Mother India" and as at the end of one line
the only rhyme I could think of meant a cart, I had to drag in that cart
in spite of there not being the vestige of a road by which it could
reasonably arrive,--the insistent claims of rhyme would not hear of any
excuses mere reason had to offer. The storm of laughter with which
cousin Gunendra greeted it blew away the cart back over the same
impossible path it had come by, and it has not been heard of since.
My eldest brother was then busy with his masterpiece "The Dream
Journey," his cushion seat placed in the south verandah, a low desk
before him. Cousin Gunendra would come and sit there for a time every
morning. His immense capacity for enjoyment, like the breezes of spring,
helped poetry to sprout. My eldest brother would go on alternately
writing and reading out what he had written, his boisterous mirth at his
own conceits making the verandah tremble. My brother wrote a great deal
more than he finally used in his finished work, so fertile was his
poetic inspiration. Like the superabounding mango flowerets which carpet
the shade of the mango topes in spring time, the rejected pages of his
"Dream Journey" were to be found scattered all over the house. Had
anyone preserved them they would have been to-day a basketful of flowers
adorning our Bengali literature.
Eavesdropping at doors and peeping round corners, we used to get our
full share of this feast of poetry, so plentiful was it, with so much to
spare. My eldest brother was then at the height of his wonderful powers;
and from his pen surged, in untiring wave after wave, a tidal flood of
poetic fancy, rhyme and expression, filling and overflowing its banks
with an exuberantly joyful pæan of triumph. Did we quite understand "The
Dream Journey"? But then did we need absolutely to understand in order
to enjoy it? We might not have got at the wealth in the ocean
depths--what could we have done with it if we had?--but we revelled in
the delights of the waves on the shore; and how gaily, at their
buffettings, did our life-blood course through every vein and artery!
The more I think of that period the more I realise that we have no
longer the thing called a _mujlis_.[33] In our boyhood we beheld the
dying rays of that intimate sociability which was characteristic of the
last generation. Neighbourly feelings were then so strong that the
_mujlis_ was a necessity, and those who could contribute to its
amenities were in great request. People now-a-days call on each other on
business, or as a matter of social duty, but not to foregather by way of
_mujlis_. They have not the time, nor are there the same intimate
relations! What goings and comings we used to see, how merry were the
rooms and verandahs with the hum of conversation and the snatches of
laughter! The faculty our predecessors had of becoming the centre of
groups and gatherings, of starting and keeping up animated and amusing
gossip, has vanished. Men still come and go, but those same verandahs
and rooms seem empty and deserted.
In those days everything from furniture to festivity was designed to be
enjoyed by the many, so that whatever of pomp or magnificence there
might have been did not savour of hauteur. These appendages have since
increased in quantity, but they have become unfeeling, and know not the
art of making high and low alike feel at home. The bare-bodied, the
indigently clad, no longer have the right to use and occupy them,
without a permit, on the strength of their smiling faces alone. Those
whom we now-a-days seek to imitate in our house-building and furnishing,
they have their own society, with its wide hospitality. The mischief
with us is that we have lost what we had, but have not the means of
building up afresh on the European standard, with the result that our
home-life has become joyless. We still meet for business or political
purposes, but never for the pleasure of simply meeting one another. We
have ceased to contrive opportunities to bring men together simply
because we love our fellow-men. I can imagine nothing more ugly than
this social miserliness; and, when I look back on those whose ringing
laughter, coming straight from their hearts, used to lighten for us the
burden of household cares, they seem to have been visitors from some
other world.
(19) _Literary Companions_
There came to me in my boyhood a friend whose help in my literary
progress was invaluable. Akshay Chowdhury was a school-fellow of my
fourth brother. He was an M. A. in English Literature for which his love
was as great as his proficiency therein. On the other hand he had an
equal fondness for our older Bengali authors and Vaishnava Poets. He
knew hundreds of Bengali songs of unknown authorship, and on these he
would launch, with voice uplifted, regardless of tune, or consequence,
or of the express disapproval of his hearers. Nor could anything, within
him or without, prevent his loudly beating time to his own music, for
which the nearest table or book served his nimble fingers to rap a
vigorous tattoo on, to help to enliven the audience.
He was also one of those with an inordinate capacity for extracting
enjoyment from all and sundry. He was as ready to absorb every bit of
goodness in a thing as he was lavish in singing its praises. He had an
extraordinary gift as a lightning composer of lyrics and songs of no
mean merit, but in which he himself had no pride of authorship. He took
no further notice of the heaps of scattered scraps of paper on which his
pencil writings had been indited. He was as indifferent to his powers
as they were prolific.
One of his longer poetic pieces was much appreciated when it appeared in
the _Bangadarsan_, and I have heard his songs sung by many who knew
nothing at all about their composer.
A genuine delight in literature is much rarer than erudition, and it was
this enthusiastic enjoyment in Akshay Babu which used to awaken my own
literary appreciation. He was as liberal in his friendships as in his
literary criticisms. Among strangers he was as a fish out of water, but
among friends discrepancies in wisdom or age made no difference to him.
With us boys he was a boy. When he took his leave, late in the evening,
from the _mujlis_ of our elders, I would buttonhole and drag him to our
school room. There, with undiminished geniality he would make himself
the life and soul of our little gathering, seated on the top of our
study table. On many such occasions I have listened to him going into a
rapturous dissertation on some English poem; engaged him in some
appreciative discussion, critical inquiry, or hot dispute; or read to
him some of my own writings and been rewarded in return with praise
unsparing.
My fourth brother Jyotirindra was one of the chief helpers in my
literary and emotional training. He was an enthusiast himself and loved
to evoke enthusiasm in others. He did not allow the difference between
our ages to be any bar to my free intellectual and sentimental
intercourse with him. This great boon of freedom which he allowed me,
none else would have dared to do; many even blamed him for it. His
companionship made it possible for me to shake off my shrinking
sensitiveness. It was as necessary for my soul after its rigorous
repression during my infancy as are the monsoon clouds after a fiery
summer.
But for such snapping of my shackles I might have become crippled for
life. Those in authority are never tired of holding forth the
possibility of the abuse of freedom as a reason for withholding it, but
without that possibility freedom would not be really free. And the only
way of learning how to use properly a thing is through its misuse. For
myself, at least, I can truly say that what little mischief resulted
from my freedom always led the way to the means of curing mischief. I
have never been able to make my own anything which they tried to compel
me to swallow by getting hold of me, physically or mentally, by the
ears. Nothing but sorrow have I ever gained except when left freely to
myself.
My brother Jyotirindra unreservedly let me go my own way to
self-knowledge, and only since then could my nature prepare to put
forth its thorns, it may be, but likewise its flowers. This experience
of mine has led me to dread, not so much evil itself, as tyrannical
attempts to create goodness. Of punitive police, political or moral, I
have a wholesome horror. The state of slavery which is thus brought on
is the worst form of cancer to which humanity is subject.
My brother at one time would spend days at his piano engrossed in the
creation of new tunes. Showers of melody would stream from under his
dancing fingers, while Akshay Babu and I, seated on either side, would
be busy fitting words to the tunes as they grew into shape to help to
hold them in our memories.[34] This is how I served my apprenticeship in
the composition of songs.
While we were growing to boyhood music was largely cultivated in our
family. This had the advantage of making it possible for me to imbibe
it, without an effort, into my whole being. It had also the disadvantage
of not giving me that technical mastery which the effort of learning
step by step alone can give. Of what may be called proficiency in music,
therefore, I acquired none.
Ever since my return from the Himalayas it was a case of my getting more
freedom, more and more. The rule of the servants came to an end; I saw
to it with many a device that the bonds of my school life were also
loosened; nor to my home tutors did I give much scope. Gyan Babu, after
taking me through "The Birth of the War-god" and one or two other books
in a desultory fashion, went off to take up a legal career. Then came
Braja Babu. The first day he put me on to translate "The Vicar of
Wakefield." I found that I did not dislike the book; but when this
encouraged him to make more elaborate arrangements for the advancement
of my learning I made myself altogether scarce.
As I have said, my elders gave me up. Neither I nor they were troubled
with any more hopes of my future. So I felt free to devote myself to
filling up my manuscript book. And the writings which thus filled it
were no better than could have been expected. My mind had nothing in it
but hot vapour, and vapour-filled bubbles frothed and eddied round a
vortex of lazy fancy, aimless and unmeaning. No forms were evolved,
there was only the distraction of movement, a bubbling up, a bursting
back into froth. What little of matter there was in it was not mine, but
borrowed from other poets. What was my own was the restlessness, the
seething tension within me. When motion has been born, while yet the
balance of forces has not matured, then is there blind chaos indeed.
My sister-in-law[35] was a great lover of literature. She did not read
simply to kill time, but the Bengali books which she read filled her
whole mind. I was a partner in her literary enterprises. She was a
devoted admirer of "The Dream Journey." So was I; the more particularly
as, having been brought up in the atmosphere of its creation, its
beauties had become intertwined with every fibre of my heart.
Fortunately it was entirely beyond my power of imitation, so it never
occurred to me to attempt anything like it.
"The Dream Journey" may be likened to a superb palace of Allegory, with
innumerable halls, chambers, passages, corners and niches full of
statuary and pictures, of wonderful design and workmanship; and in the
grounds around gardens, bowers, fountains and shady nooks in profusion.
Not only do poetic thought and fancy abound, but the richness and
variety of language and expression is also marvellous. It is not a small
thing, this creative power which can bring into being so magnificent a
structure complete in all its artistic detail, and that is perhaps why
the idea of attempting an imitation never occurred to me.
At this time Viharilal Chakravarti's series of songs called _Sarada
Mangal_ were coming out in the _Arya Darsan_. My sister-in-law was
greatly taken with the sweetness of these lyrics. Most of them she knew
by heart. She used often to invite the poet to our house and had
embroidered for him a cushion-seat with her own hands. This gave me the
opportunity of making friends with him. He came to have a great
affection for me, and I took to dropping in at his house at all times of
the day, morning, noon or evening. His heart was as large as his body,
and a halo of fancy used to surround him like a poetic astral body which
seemed to be his truer image. He was always full of true artistic joy,
and whenever I have been to him I have breathed in my share of it. Often
have I come upon him in his little room on the third storey, in the heat
of noonday, sprawling on the cool polished cement floor, writing his
poems. Mere boy though I was, his welcome was always so genuine and
hearty that I never felt the least awkwardness in approaching him. Then,
wrapt in his inspiration and forgetful of all surroundings, he would
read out his poems or sing his songs to me. Not that he had much of the
gift of song in his voice; but then he was not altogether tuneless, and
one could get a fair idea of the intended melody.[36] When with eyes
closed he raised his rich deep voice, its expressiveness made up for
what it lacked in execution. I still seem to hear some of his songs as
he sang them. I would also sometimes set his words to music and sing
them to him.
He was a great admirer of Valmiki and Kalidas. I remember how once after
reciting a description of the Himalayas from Kalidas with the full
strength of his voice, he said: "The succession of long [=a] sounds here
is not an accident. The poet has deliberately repeated this sound all
the way from _Devatatma_ down to _Nagadhiraja_ as an assistance in
realising the glorious expanse of the Himalayas."
At the time the height of my ambition was to become a poet like Vihari
Babu. I might have even succeeded in working myself up to the belief
that I was actually writing like him, but for my sister-in-law, his
zealous devotee, who stood in the way. She would keep reminding me of a
Sanskrit saying that the unworthy aspirant after poetic fame departs in
jeers! Very possibly she knew that if my vanity was once allowed to get
the upper hand it would be difficult afterwards to bring it under
control. So neither my poetic abilities nor my powers of song readily
received any praise from her; rather would she never let slip an
opportunity of praising somebody else's singing at my expense; with the
result that I gradually became quite convinced of the defects of my
voice. Misgivings about my poetic powers also assailed me; but, as this
was the only field of activity left in which I had any chance of
retaining my self-respect, I could not allow the judgment of another to
deprive me of all hope; moreover, so insistent was the spur within me
that to stop my poetic adventure was a matter of sheer impossibility.
(20) _Publishing_
My writings so far had been confined to the family circle. Then was
started the monthly called the _Gyanankur_, Sprouting Knowledge, and, as
befitted its name it secured an embryo poet as one of its contributors.
It began to publish all my poetic ravings indiscriminately, and to this
day I have, in a corner of my mind, the fear that, when the day of
judgment comes for me, some enthusiastic literary police-agent will
institute a search in the inmost zenana of forgotten literature,
regardless of the claims of privacy, and bring these out before the
pitiless public gaze.
My first prose writing also saw the light in the pages of the
_Gyanankur_. It was a critical essay and had a bit of a history.
A book of poems had been published entitled _Bhubanmohini Pratibha_.[37]
Akshay Babu in the _Sadharani_ and Bhudeb Babu in the _Education
Gazette_ hailed this new poet with effusive acclamation. A friend of
mine, older than myself, whose friendship dates from then, would come
and show me letters he had received signed _Bhubanmohini_. He was one of
those whom the book had captivated and used frequently to send
reverential offerings of books or cloth[38] to the address of the
reputed authoress.
Some of these poems were so wanting in restraint both of thought and
language that I could not bear the idea of their being written by a
woman. The letters that were shown to me made it still less possible for
me to believe in the womanliness of the writer. But my doubts did not
shake my friend's devotion and he went on with the worship of his idol.
Then I launched into a criticism of the work of this writer. I let
myself go, and eruditely held forth on the distinctive features of
lyrics and other short poems, my great advantage being that printed
matter is so unblushing, so impassively unbetraying of the writer's real
attainments. My friend turned up in a great passion and hurled at me the
threat that a B.A. was writing a reply. A B.A.! I was struck
speechless. I felt the same as in my younger days when my nephew Satya
had shouted for a policeman. I could see the triumphal pillar of
argument, erected upon my nice distinctions, crumbling before my eyes at
the merciless assaults of authoritative quotations; and the door
effectually barred against my ever showing my face to the reading public
again. Alas, my critique, under what evil star wert thou born! I spent
day after day in the direst suspense. But, like Satya's policeman, the
B.A. failed to appear.
(21) _Bhanu Singha_
As I have said I was a keen student of the series of old Vaishnava poems
which were being collected and published by Babus Akshay Sarkar and
Saroda Mitter. Their language, largely mixed with Maithili, I found
difficult to understand; but for that very reason I took all the more
pains to get at their meaning. My feeling towards them was that same
eager curiosity with which I regarded the ungerminated sprout within
the seed, or the undiscovered mystery under the dust covering of the
earth. My enthusiasm was kept up with the hope of bringing to light some
unknown poetical gems as I went deeper and deeper into the unexplored
darkness of this treasure-house.
While I was so engaged, the idea got hold of me of enfolding my own
writings in just such a wrapping of mystery. I had heard from Akshay
Chowdhury the story of the English boy-poet Chatterton. What his poetry
was like I had no idea, nor perhaps had Akshay Babu himself. Had we
known, the story might have lost its charm. As it happened the
melodramatic element in it fired my imagination; for had not so many
been deceived by his successful imitation of the classics? And at last
the unfortunate youth had died by his own hand. Leaving aside the
suicide part I girded up my loins to emulate young Chatterton's
exploits.
One noon the clouds had gathered thickly. Rejoicing in the grateful
shade of the cloudy midday rest-hour, I lay prone on the bed in my inner
room and wrote on a slate the imitation _Maithili_ poem _Gahana kusuma
kunja majhe_. I was greatly pleased with it and lost no time in reading
it out to the first one I came across; of whose understanding a word of
it there happened to be not the slightest danger, and who consequently
could not but gravely nod and say, "Good, very good indeed!"
To my friend mentioned a while ago I said one day: "A tattered old
manuscript has been discovered while rummaging in the _Adi Brahma Samaj_
library and from this I have copied some poems by an old Vaishnava Poet
named Bhanu Singha;"[39] with which I read some of my imitation poems to
him. He was profoundly stirred. "These could not have been written even
by _Vidyapati_ or _Chandidas_!" he rapturously exclaimed. "I really must
have that MS. to make over to Akshay Babu for publication."
Then I showed him my manuscript book and conclusively proved that the
poems could not have been written by either _Vidyapati_ or _Chandidas_
because the author happened to be myself. My friend's face fell as he
muttered, "Yes, yes, they're not half bad."
When these Bhanu Singha poems were coming out in the _Bharati_, Dr.
Nishikanta Chatterjee was in Germany. He wrote a thesis on the lyric
poetry of our country comparing it with that of Europe. Bhanu Singha was
given a place of honour as one of the old poets such as no modern writer
could have aspired to. This was the thesis on which Nishikanta
Chatterjee got his Ph. D.!
Whoever Bhanu Singha might have been, had his writings fallen into the
hands of latter-day me, I swear I would not have been deceived. The
language might have passed muster; for that which the old poets wrote in
was not their mother tongue, but an artificial language varying in the
hands of different poets. But there was nothing artificial about their
sentiments. Any attempt to test Bhanu Singha's poetry by its ring would
have shown up the base metal. It had none of the ravishing melody of our
ancient pipes, but only the tinkle of a modern, foreign barrel organ.
(22) _Patriotism_
From an outside point of view many a foreign custom would appear to have
gained entry into our family, but at its heart flames a national pride
which has never flickered. The genuine regard which my father had for
his country never forsook him through all the revolutionary vicissitudes
of his life, and this in his descendants has taken shape as a strong
patriotic feeling. Love of country was, however, by no means a
characteristic of the times of which I am writing. Our educated men then
kept at arms' length both the language and thought of their native
land. Nevertheless my elder brothers had always cultivated Bengali
literature. When on one occasion some new connection by marriage wrote
my father an English letter it was promptly returned to the writer.
The _Hindu Mela_ was an annual fair which had been instituted with the
assistance of our house. Babu Nabagopal Mitter was appointed its
manager. This was perhaps the first attempt at a reverential realisation
of India as our motherland. My second brother's popular national anthem
"_Bharater Jaya_," was composed, then. The singing of songs glorifying
the motherland, the recitation of poems of the love of country, the
exhibition of indigenous arts and crafts and the encouragement of
national talent and skill were the features of this _Mela_.
On the occasion of Lord Curzon's Delhi durbar I wrote a prose-paper--at
the time of Lord Lytton's it was a poem. The British Government of those
days feared the Russians it is true, but not the pen of a 14-year old
poet. So, though my poem lacked none of the fiery sentiments appropriate
to my age, there were no signs of any consternation in the ranks of the
authorities from Commander-in-chief down to Commissioner of Police. Nor
did any lachrymose letter in the _Times_ predict a speedy downfall of
the Empire for this apathy of its local guardians. I recited my poem
under a tree at the Hindu Mela and one of my hearers was Nabin Sen, the
poet. He reminded me of this after I had grown up.
My fourth brother, Jyotirindra, was responsible for a political
association of which old Rajnarain Bose was the president. It held its
sittings in a tumbledown building in an obscure Calcutta lane. Its
proceedings were enshrouded in mystery. This mystery was its only claim
to be awe-inspiring, for as a matter of fact there was nothing in our
deliberations or doings of which government or people need have been
afraid. The rest of our family had no idea where we were spending our
afternoons. Our front door would be locked, the meeting room in
darkness, the watchword a Vedic _mantra_, our talk in whispers. These
alone provided us with enough of a thrill, and we wanted nothing more.
Mere child as I was, I also was a member. We surrounded ourselves with
such an atmosphere of pure frenzy that we always seemed to be soaring
aloft on the wings of our enthusiasm. Of bashfulness, diffidence or fear
we had none, our main object being to bask in the heat of our own
fervour.
Bravery may sometimes have its drawbacks; but it has always maintained a
deep hold on the reverence of mankind. In the literature of all
countries we find an unflagging endeavour to keep alive this reverence.
So in whatever state a particular set of men in a particular locality
may be, they cannot escape the constant impact of these stimulating
shocks. We had to be content with responding to such shocks, as best we
could, by letting loose our imagination, coming together, talking tall
and singing fervently.
There can be no doubt that closing up all outlets and barring all
openings to a faculty so deep-seated in the nature of man, and moreover
so prized by him, creates an unnatural condition favourable to
degenerate activity. It is not enough to keep open only the avenues to
clerical employment in any comprehensive scheme of Imperial
Government--if no road be left for adventurous daring the soul of man
will pine for deliverance, and secret passages still be sought, of which
the pathways are tortuous and the end unthinkable. I firmly believe that
if in those days Government had paraded a frightfulness born of
suspicion, then the comedy which the youthful members of this
association had been at might have turned into grim tragedy. The play,
however, is over, not a brick of Fort-William is any the worse, and we
are now smiling at its memory.
My brother Jyotirindra began to busy himself with a national costume
for all India, and submitted various designs to the association. The
_Dhoti_ was not deemed business-like; trousers were too foreign; so he
hit upon a compromise which considerably detracted from the dhoti while
failing to improve the trousers. That is to say, the trousers were
decorated with the addition of a false dhoti-fold in front and behind.
The fearsome thing that resulted from combining a turban with a
_Sola-topee_ our most enthusiastic member would not have had the
temerity to call ornamental. No person of ordinary courage could have
dared it, but my brother unflinchingly wore the complete suit in broad
day-light, passing through the house of an afternoon to the carriage
waiting outside, indifferent alike to the stare of relation or friend,
door-keeper or coachman. There may be many a brave Indian ready to die
for his country, but there are but few, I am sure, who even for the good
of the nation would face the public streets in such pan-Indian garb.
Every Sunday my brother would get up a _Shikar_ party. Many of those who
joined in it, uninvited, we did not even know. There was a carpenter, a
smith and others from all ranks of society. Bloodshed was the only thing
lacking in this _shikar_, at least I cannot recall any. Its other
appendages were so abundant and satisfying that we felt the absence of
dead or wounded game to be a trifling circumstance of no account. As we
were out from early morning, my sister-in-law furnished us with a
plentiful supply of _luchis_ with appropriate accompaniments; and as
these did not depend upon the fortunes of our chase we never had to
return empty.
The neighbourhood of Maniktola is not wanting in Villa-gardens. We would
turn into any one of these at the end, and high-and low-born alike,
seated on the bathing platform of a tank, would fling ourselves on the
_luchis_ in right good earnest, all that was left of them being the
vessels they were brought in.
Braja Babu was one of the most enthusiastic of these blood-thirstless
_shikaris_. He was the Superintendent of the Metropolitan Institution
and had also been our private tutor for a time. One day he had the happy
idea of accosting the _mali_ (gardener) of a villa-garden into which we
had thus trespassed with: "Hallo, has uncle been here lately!" The
_mali_ lost no time in saluting him respectfully before he replied: "No,
Sir, the master hasn't been lately." "All right, get us some green
cocoanuts off the trees." We had a fine drink after our _luchis_ that
day.
A Zamindar in a small way was among our party. He owned a villa on the
river side. One day we had a picnic there together, in defiance of caste
rules. In the afternoon there was a tremendous storm. We stood on the
river-side stairs leading into the water and shouted out songs to its
accompaniment. I cannot truthfully assert that all the seven notes of
the scale could properly be distinguished in Rajnarain Babu's singing,
nevertheless he sent forth his voice and, as in the old Sanskrit works
the text is drowned by the notes, so in Rajnarain Babu's musical efforts
the vigorous play of his limbs and features overwhelmed his feebler
vocal performance; his head swung from side to side marking time, while
the storm played havoc with his flowing beard. It was late in the night
when we turned homewards in a hackney carriage. By that time the storm
clouds had dispersed and the stars twinkled forth. The darkness had
become intense, the atmosphere silent, the village roads deserted, and
the thickets on either side filled with fireflies like a carnival of
sparks scattered in some noiseless revelry.
One of the objects of our association was to encourage the manufacture
of lucifer matches, and similar small industries. For this purpose each
member had to contribute a tenth of his income. Matches had to be made,
but matchwood was difficult to get; for though we all know with what
fiery energy a bundle of _khangras_[40] can be wielded in capable hands,
the thing that burns at its touch is not a lamp wick. After many
experiments we succeeded in making a boxful of matches. The patriotic
enthusiasm which was thus evidenced did not constitute their only value,
for the money that was spent in their making might have served to light
the family hearth for the space of a year. Another little defect was
that these matches could not be got to burn unless there was a light
handy to touch them up with. If they could only have inherited some of
the patriotic flame of which they were born they might have been
marketable even to-day.
News came to us that some young student was trying to make a power loom.
Off we went to see it. None of us had the knowledge with which to test
its practical usefulness, but in our capacity for believing and hoping
we were inferior to none. The poor fellow had got into a bit of debt
over the cost of his machine which we repaid for him. Then one day we
found Braja Babu coming over to our house with a flimsy country towel
tied round his head. "Made in our loom!" he shouted as with hands
uplifted he executed a war-dance. The outside of Braja Babu's head had
then already begun to ripen into grey!
At last some worldly-wise people came and joined our society, made us
taste of the fruit of knowledge, and broke up our little paradise.
When I first knew Rajnarain Babu, I was not old enough to appreciate his
many-sidedness. In him were combined many opposites. In spite of his
hoary hair and beard he was as young as the youngest of us, his
venerable exterior serving only as a white mantle for keeping his youth
perpetually fresh. Even his extensive learning had not been able to do
him any damage, for it left him absolutely simple. To the end of his
life the incessant flow of his hearty laughter suffered no check,
neither from the gravity of age, nor ill-health, nor domestic
affliction, nor profundity of thought, nor variety of knowledge, all of
which had been his in ample measure. He had been a favourite pupil of
Richardson and brought up in an atmosphere of English learning,
nevertheless he flung aside all obstacles due to his early habit and
gave himself up lovingly and devotedly to Bengali literature. Though the
meekest of men, he was full of fire which flamed its fiercest in his
patriotism, as though to burn to ashes the shortcomings and destitution
of his country. The memory of this smile-sweetened fervour-illumined
lifelong-youthful saint is one that is worth cherishing by our
countrymen.
(23) _The Bharati_
On the whole the period of which I am writing was for me one of ecstatic
excitement. Many a night have I spent without sleep, not for any
particular reason but from a mere desire to do the reverse of the
obvious. I would keep up reading in the dim light of our school room all
alone; the distant church clock would chime every quarter as if each
passing hour was being put up to auction; and the loud _Haribols_ of the
bearers of the dead, passing along Chitpore Road on their way to the
Nimtollah cremation ground, would now and then resound. Through some
summer moonlight nights I would be wandering about like an unquiet
spirit among the lights and shadows of the tubs and pots on the garden
of the roof-terrace.
Those who would dismiss this as sheer poetising would be wrong. The very
earth in spite of its having aged considerably surprises us occasionally
by its departure from sober stability; in the days of its youth, when
it had not become hardened and crusty, it was effusively volcanic and
indulged in many a wild escapade. In the days of man's first youth the
same sort of thing happens. So long as the materials which go to form
his life have not taken on their final shape they are apt to be
turbulent in the process of their formation.
This was the time when my brother Jyotirindra decided to start the
_Bharati_ with our eldest brother as editor, giving us fresh food for
enthusiasm. I was then just sixteen, but I was not left out of the
editorial staff. A short time before, in all the insolence of my
youthful vanity, I had written a criticism of the _Meghanadabadha_. As
acidity is characteristic of the unripe mango so is abuse of the
immature critic. When other powers are lacking, the power of pricking
seems to be at its sharpest. I had thus sought immortality by leaving my
scratches on that immortal epic. This impudent criticism was my first
contribution to the Bharati.
In the first volume I also published a long poem called _Kavikahini_,
The Poet's Story. It was the product of an age when the writer had seen
practically nothing of the world except an exaggerated image of his own
nebulous self. So the hero of the story was naturally a poet, not the
writer as he was, but as he imagined or desired himself to seem. It
would hardly be correct to say that he desired to _be_ what he
portrayed; that represented more what he thought was expected of him,
what would make the world admiringly nod and say: "Yes, a poet indeed,
quite the correct thing." In it was a great parade of universal love,
that pet subject of the budding poet, which sounds as big as it is easy
to talk about. While yet any truth has not dawned upon one's own mind,
and others' words are one's only stock-in-trade, simplicity and
restraint in expression are not possible. Then, in the endeavour to
display magnified that which is really big in itself, it becomes
impossible to avoid a grotesque and ridiculous exhibition.
When I blush to read these effusions of my boyhood I am also struck with
the fear that very possibly in my later writings the same distortion,
wrought by straining after effect, lurks in a less obvious form. The
loudness of my voice, I doubt not, often drowns the thing I would say;
and some day or other Time will find me out.
The _Kavikahini_ was the first work of mine to appear in book form. When
I went with my second brother to Ahmedabad, some enthusiastic friend of
mine took me by surprise by printing and publishing it and sending me a
copy. I cannot say that he did well, but the feeling that was roused in
me at the time did not resemble that of an indignant judge. He got his
punishment, however, not from the author, but from the public who hold
the purse strings. I have heard that the dead load of the books lay, for
many a long day, heavy on the shelves of the booksellers and the mind of
the luckless publisher.
Writings of the age at which I began to contribute to the _Bharati_
cannot possibly be fit for publication. There is no better way of
ensuring repentance at maturity than to rush into print too early. But
it has one redeeming feature: the irresistible impulse to see one's
writings in print exhausts itself during early life. Who are the
readers, what do they say, what printers' errors have remained
uncorrected, these and the like worries run their course as infantile
maladies and leave one leisure in later life to attend to one's literary
work in a healthier frame of mind.
Bengali literature is not old enough to have elaborated those internal
checks which can serve to control its votaries. As experience in writing
is gained the Bengali writer has to evolve the restraining force from
within himself. This makes it impossible for him to avoid the creation
of a great deal of rubbish during a considerable length of time. The
ambition to work wonders with the modest gifts at one's disposal is
bound to be an obsession in the beginning, so that the effort to
transcend at every step one's natural powers, and therewith the bounds
of truth and beauty, is always visible in early writings. To recover
one's normal self, to learn to respect one's powers as they are, is a
matter of time.
However that may be, I have left much of youthful folly to be ashamed
of, besmirching the pages of the _Bharati_; and this shames me not for
its literary defects alone but for its atrocious impudence, its
extravagant excesses and its high-sounding artificiality. At the same
time I am free to recognise that the writings of that period were
pervaded with an enthusiasm the value of which cannot be small. It was a
period to which, if error was natural, so was the boyish faculty of
hoping, believing and rejoicing. And if the fuel of error was necessary
for feeding the flame of enthusiasm then while that which was fit to be
reduced to ashes will have become ash, the good work done by the flame
will not have been in vain in my life.