I
Uma-devi was sitting on a heap of yellow wheat, which showed golden
against the silvery surface of her husband's threshing-floor. She was
a tall woman, of about five and twenty, with a fair, fine-cut face,
set in a perfect oval above the massive column of her throat. She was
a Brahmani of the Suruswutee tribe--in other words, a member of
perhaps the most ancient Aryan colony in India, which long ages back
settled down to cultivate the Hurreana, or "green country"; so called,
no doubt, before its sacred river, the Suruswutee, lost itself in the
dry deserts west of Delhi; a member, therefore, of a community older
than Brahmanism itself, and which clings oddly to older faiths, older
ways, and older gods. So Uma-devi, who was on the rack of that
jealousy which comes to most women, whether they be ignorant or
cultured, had the advantage over most of the latter: she could look
back through the ages to a more inspiring and stimulating progenitrix
than Mother Eve. For, despite the pharisaical little hymn of Western
infancy bidding us thank goodness for our birth and inheritance of
knowledge, one can scarcely be grateful for a typical woman simpering
over an apple, or subsequently sighing over the difficulties of dress.
The fact being that our story of Creation only begins when humanity,
fairly started on the Rake's Progress, felt the necessity for
bolstering up its self-respect by the theory of original sin.
But this woman could dimly, through the numb pain of her heart, feel
the influence of a nobler Earth-mother in Uma Him[=a]vutee--Uma her
namesake--Uma of the Himalayas, birthplace of all sacred things--Uma
of the sunny yet snowy peaks, emblem at once of perfect wifehood,
motherhood, and that mystical virginity which, in Eve-ridden faiths,
finds its worship in Mariolatry.
That she could even dimly recognise the beauty of this conception came
partly from the simple yet ascetic teachings of her race; partly
because there are some natures, East and West, which turn
instinctively to Uma Him[=a]vutee, and this woman among yellow corn
was of that goodly company.
Yet a sharp throb of sheer animal jealousy--the jealousy which in most
civilised communities is considered a virtue when sanctified by the
bonds of matrimony--seemed to tear her heart as her hands paused in
her patient darning of gold-coloured silk on dull madder-red stuff,
and her eyes sought the figure of a man outlined against the dull red
horizon.
It was Shiv-deo, her husband, returning from his work in the fields.
She folded up her work methodically, leaving the needle with its
pennant of floss still twined deftly in and out of the threads as a
mark to show where to take up the appointed pattern once more. For
Uma-devi's work was quaintly illustrative of her life, being done from
the back of the stuff and going on laboriously, conscientiously,
trustfully, without reference to the unseen golden diaper slowly
growing to beauty on the other side of the cloth. That remained as a
reward to tired eyes and fingers when the toil was over, and the time
came to piece the whole web into a garment--a wedding veil, perchance,
for her daughter, had she had one. But Uma was childless.
Yet there was no reproach, no discontent in her husband's fine
beardless face as he came up to her; for he happened--despite the
barbarous marriage customs of his race--to love his wife as she loved
him.
They were a handsome pair truly, much of an age, tall, strong, yet of
a type as refined-looking as any in the world. At their feet lay the
heaps of wheat; beyond them, around them, that limitless plain which
once seen holds the imagination captive for ever whether the
recollection be of a sea of corn, or, as now, of stretches of brown
earth bare of all save the dead sources of a gathered harvest. To one
side, a mile or so away, the piled mud village was girdled by a golden
haze of dust which sprang from the feet of the homing cattle.
"I saw one with thee but now," he said, as half-mechanically he
stooped to gather up a handful of the wheat and test it between finger
and thumb. "Gossip Radha by her bulk--and by thy face, wife. What new
crime hath the village committed? What new calamity befallen the
part-owners? Sure, even her tongue could say naught against the
harvest!"
"Naught! thanks be to the Lord!" replied Uma briefly. "Now, since thou
hast come to watch, I will go bring the water and see _Baba-jee_[34]
hath his dinner. I will return ere long and set thee free."
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[Footnote 34: Honorific title for a father.]
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"Thou hast a busy life," he said suddenly as if the fact struck him
newly. "There are too few of us for the work."
The woman turned from him suddenly to look out to the horizon beyond
the level fields.
"Ay! there are too few of us," she echoed with an effort, "but I will
be back ere the light goes."
Too few! Yes, too few. She had known that for some time; and if it
were so in their youth and strength, what would it be in the old age
which must come upon them as it had upon the _Baba-jee_, who, as she
passed in to the wide courtyard in order to fetch the big brazen water
vessel, nodded kindly, asking where his son had lingered.
"He watchas the corn heaps till I return. It must be so, since there
are so few of us."
The nod changed to a shake, and the cheerful old voice trembled a
little over the echo.
"Ay! there are few of us."
All the way down to the shallow tank, set, as it were, in a
crackle-edge of a sun-baked mud, the phrase re-echoed again and again
in Uma-devi's brain till it seemed written large through her own eyes
in the faces of the village women passing to and fro with their
water-pots. They knew it also; they said it to themselves, though as
yet none had dared--save Mai Radha, with her cowardly hints--to say to
_her_ that the time had come when the few ought to be made more. Ah!
if Shiv-deo's younger brother had not died before his child-wife was
of age to be brought home, this need not have been. Though, even then,
a virtuous woman for her husband's sake ought----
Uma-devi, down by the water-edge, as if to escape from her own
thoughts, turned hastily to spread the corner of her veil over the
wide mouth of the brazen pot and with a smaller cup began to ladle the
muddy water on to the strainer. But the thought was passionate,
insistent. Ought! What was the use of prating about ought? She could
not, she would not let Shivo take another woman by the hand. How could
they ask her, still young, still beautiful, still beloved, to give him
another bride? Why, it would be her part to lift the veil from the new
beauty, as she lifted it from the now brimming water-pot--so----
Uma Him[=a]vutee! what did she see? Her own face reflected in the
brass-ringed water, as in a mirror set in a golden frame! Clear as in
any mirror her own beauty--the lips Shivo had kissed--the eyes which
held him so dear; all, all, unchanged. Ah! but it was impossible! That
was what the pious old folk preached--what the pious young folk
pretended. She poised the brazen vessel on her head, telling herself
passionately it was impossible. Yet the sight of the wide courtyard,
empty save for _Baba-jee_ creeping about to feed the milch kine and do
what he could of woman's work, revived that refrain of self-reproach,
"There are too few of us." Shivo himself had said it--for the first
time it is true, but would it be the last? Wherefore? since it was
true. She set down the water-pot and began to rekindle the ashes on
the hearth, thinking stupidly of that reflection of her own face. But
water was like a man's heart; it could hold more faces than one.
"_Ari, hai!_ sister," called Mai Radha, pausing at the open doorway to
look in and see the house-mistress clapping unleavened bread between
her palms with the hot haste of one hard pressed for time. "Thou hast
no rest; but one woman is lost in these courts. I mind when thy
mother-in-law lived and there were young things growing up in each
corner. That is as it should be."
A slow flush darkened Uma's face. "Young things come quick enough when
folks will," she retorted passionately. "Give me but a year's grace,
gossip, and I, Uma-devi, will fill the yard too--if I wish it filled.
Ay! and without asking thy help either."
It was intolerable that this woman with her yearly, endless babies
should come and crow over the childless hearth. Yet she was right; and
again the old sickening sense of failure replaced the flash of
indignant forgetfulness.
"Heed not my food, daughter," came the cheerful contented old voice.
"I can cook mine own and Shivo must need his after the day's toil. If
thou take it to him at the threshing-floor 'twill save time; when
hands are few the minutes are as jewels and it grows dark already.
Thou wilt need a cresset for safety from the snakes."
Once more the woman winced. That was true also; yet had she been doing
her duty and bringing sons to the hearth it would not have been so,
for the glory of coming motherhood would have driven the serpents from
her path.[35]
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[Footnote 35: A common belief in India.]
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She paused at the doorstep to give a backward glance, to see the old
man already at his woman's work, and her heart smote her again. Was it
seemly work for the most learned man in the village who had taught his
son to be so good, so kind? Yet Shivo of himself would never say the
word, neither would the old man. That was the worst of it; for it
would have been easier to have kicked against the pricks.
She passed swiftly to the fields, the brass platter--glittering under
the flicker of the cresset and piled with dough cakes and a green leaf
of curds--poised gracefully on her right palm, the brass _lotah_ of
drinking water hanging from her left hand, the heavy folds of her gold
and madder draperies swaying as she walked. It was not yet quite dark.
A streak of red light lingered in the horizon, though overhead the
stars began to twinkle, matched in the dim stretch of shadowy plain
by the twinkling lights showing one by one from the threshing-floors.
But Shiv-deo's was still dark, because there had been no one to bring
him a lamp. She gave an angry laugh, set her teeth and stepped
quicker. If it came to that, she had better speak at once; speak
now--to-night--before Mai Radha or some one else had a chance--speak
out in the open where there were no spies to see--to hear.
It was a clear night, she thought, for sure; and, despite the red
warning, giving promise of a clear dawn. One of those dawns, maybe,
when, like a pearl-edged cloud, the far distant Himalayas would hang
on the northern horizon during the brief twilight and vanish before
the glare of day. _Ai!_ Mai Uma must be cold up there in the snows!
And Shivo must be hungry by this time; watching, perhaps, the
twinkling light she carried come nearer and nearer.
The thought pleased her, soothing her simple heart, and the placid
routine of her life came to aid her as she set the platter before her
husband reverently with the signs of worship she would have yielded a
god. Were they not, she and Shivo, indissolubly joined together for
this world and the next? Was not a good woman redemption's source to
her husband? _Baba-jee_ had read that many times from his old books.
So she felt no degradation as she set the water silently by Shivo's
right hand, scooped a hollow in the yellow wheat for the flickering
cresset and then drew apart into the shadows leaving the man alone to
perform the ritual in that little circle of light. He was her husband;
that was enough.
With her chin upon both her hands she crouched on another pile of corn
and watched him with sad eyes. Far and near all was soft, silent
darkness save for those twinkling stars shining in heaven and matched
on earth. Far and near familiar peace, familiar certainty. Even that
pain at her heart? Had not others felt it and set it aside? The calm
endurance of her world, its disregard of pain, seemed to change her
own smart to a dull ache, as her eyes followed every movement of the
man who loved her.
"Thou art silent, wife," he said, kind wonder in his tone, when, the
need for silence being over, she still sat without a word.
That roused her. Silent! yea! silent for too long.
She rose suddenly and stood before him, tall and straight in the
circle of light. Then her voice came clear without a tremble.
"There are too few of us in the house, husband. We must have more. We
must have young hands when ours are old."
He stood up in his turn stretching his hands towards her.
"Uma! say not so," he faltered, "I want no more."
She shook her head.
"The fields want them; and even thou----" Then her calm broke,
dissolved, disappeared, like a child's sand barrier before the tide.
She flung her arms skyward and her voice came like a cry.
"Ask her--ask thy sister--let her do all. I cannot. And she--_she_
must come from afar, Shivo, from far! Not from here--lest Mai
Radha----"
She broke off, turned and flung herself face down in the corn
silently, clutching at it with her hand.
Shiv-deo stood looking out over the shadowy fields.
"They need them surely," he said softly after a time, "and my father
has a right----"
He paused, stooped, and laid a timid touch on the woman's shoulder.
"Yea! she shall come from far, wife, from far."
Then there was silence; far and near.