The Flower of Forgiveness Part 16

IN THE HOUSE OF A COPPERSMITH.

I.

The clangour of metal upon metal filling the low, dark workshop, pulsating out into the hot suns.h.i.+ne of the courtyards behind, and the hot shadow of the narrow street in front. Pulsating musically, yet with an undercurrent of jarring vibration like a north-country burr on a woman's tongue. The whole best described, perchance, in the native name for the copper which the workmen were hammering and welding into pots and pans--_tambur_.

_Tam bur, tam-burr-urr-ur_.

Thus endlessly through afternoon suns.h.i.+ne and afternoon shade, as the s.h.i.+ne fell full on a woman who was sitting silently beside a row of mud cooking-places in the first courtyard. So still, so silent; it seemed as if the waves of sound must break baffled upon the carven folds of the coa.r.s.e, whitey brown veil which, covering her almost from head to foot, was drawn tight over the forehead to conceal the hair, and wound tight under the chin so as to hide all save the oval face barred by level black brows, and the brown curves of a wide mouth. Only about her feet a voluminous petticoat showed its dingy red and green borderings like a frill. The typical dress of a widow in Northern India, and the face matched it. More indifferent than sad; the lack of vitality, inseparable from the conviction that the life is not worth living, written on every feature, blurring its beauty. For Durga-dei had been beautiful a year ago when sunsetting had sent the master coppersmith to tell her so, and praise the order of a well-kept house. Now the shadow creeping inch by inch along the sunlit dust, and up the sunlit mud wall, brought her no emotion save the mechanical hope that the lentils would be properly cooked by supper time, and the vague wonder why her sister-in-law's shrill voice had not recommenced the conjugation of the imperative mood from the inner court. Parb.u.t.ti had been sleeping longer than usual; she who but a year agone would no more have dared to sleep!

And as for command? Was not a _dewarani_--the husband's younger brother's wife--bound by every principle of religion and decency to obey? Durga-dei's black brows grew straighter at the thought of the change one short year had wrought. And Gopal, Parb.u.t.ti's husband, was the master now. A pretty master for all his good looks, for all his learning! yet what else could one expect, seeing he had spent his youth over books at the Munic.i.p.al School, while his elder brother, despite his crippled condition, had kept the ancestral business a-going? Yes!

on that point the dead husband had been weak; and yet how proud he had been of the handsome lad who was to bring sons to the ancestral hearth!

But he had not even done so much, though to be sure, for that Parb.u.t.ti was to blame; a jealous wife, too selfish--

"Durga! Durga-dei! The broom, quick! Am I to sit in the dust like a lone widow because thou art lazy? The broom, I say!"

The voice which overbore one clamour by another was not pleasant; but it was so in comparison with Durga's face as she rose reluctantly. A thousand times more so than that same face when, after a few minutes of listening to the high-pitched voice, the shrouded figure showed again through the doorway leading to the inner court. Not an ungraceful figure, despite its shroud, as it leant despondently against the lintel, while the black eyes s.h.i.+fted in a sort of helpless indifference over the blank walls imprisoning them.

A year ago; only a year ago!

Her unpractised brain attempted no other complaint; but this unformulated sense of injury possessed her utterly, and everything in heaven and earth became an outrage on that capable past when she had held the reins of government. Of a truth, in that small kingdom of hers behind the coppersmith's shop naught had been wanting that she could compa.s.s. Naught save children; for that Parb.u.t.ti, f.e.c.kless Parb.u.t.ti, with youth and health and strength on both sides, was far more responsible than she. If the curse had been hers, would she not gladly have given a handmaiden to her lord? But they had waited for the brother's child which would be as their own, and in that hope had refused to adopt a son while yet there was time. Even now--the small supple hands sought the crevices beyond the door lintel against which they had been resting slackly--sought them as if intent on finding some flaw, some finger-hold in the blank brick wall--yes! even now, but for Parb.u.t.ti's indecent jealousy, the old customs might bring a tardy comfort, and give her, the widow, back something of her lost power and position. The Mosaic maxim, "Let him take the woman and raise up children to his brother," was so familiar to Durga-dei that its fulfilment in this case seemed to her quite commonplace. Married to Gopal by _kurao_, she would not, of course, regain her status as the wife, but she might find solace as the house mother, if there were children. The pa.s.sion of hearth and home was strong in her, as it is in most good Hindu women; and it is not too much to say that the disregard of time-honoured custom towards herself counted for far less in her resentment than the disregard of a time-honoured custom which was clearly for the good of the family; since she would then have the right to keep handsome, lazy Gopal and his work together for the sake of the son who might be born to the old trade. She was of the stern old school; but those two were not; and so, between the hearth and that calm perpetuity in which lay its only chance of success, stood a strong woman's jealousy and a weak man's cunning. For Gopal knew well that sooner or later even the most indecent of barren wives must give her lord a child-bringer. And in such case, without being bad to the heart's core, a handsome fellow like Gopal might well speculate on a youthful bride in the future, rather than take a widow in the present, since Parb.u.t.ti would never allow both. So, on the whole, he was not so much to blame. Men were men when all was said and done. They loved beauty. Yet she had been beautiful--surely she had been beautiful.

The clangour ceased suddenly, leaving, as it were, an echo in the chime of the police office gong at the nearest gate striking the hour--five o'clock. Durga, as she counted the strokes, smiled contemptuously. As usual Gopal was seizing on the first excuse for knocking off work, though a good two hours of daylight remained for the industrious--for the old style masters, such as her dead husband had been. But this one did not even trouble to see the shop properly closed, the implements put aside, or guard against the prentice trick of concealing a handful or two of snippings and filings; for there was his lithe figure at the door, about to cross to the inner courtyard--to ease and indolence--to his supper--to--to Parb.u.t.ti!

A flash of intense vitality came to Durga's face: despite its silence, its absolute stillness, her whole figure was instinct with life as she stood looking at the man opposite her. He was about her own age, and the scanty clothing of the artisan clashes left the strength and beauty of his limbs unconcealed. The face was handsome also, and pleasant in its beardless contours, surrounded by the fringe of silky black hair showing beneath the artisan's round calico cap. Both figure and features displaying at their best the characteristics of that curious guild which for thousands of years has defied the Sudra origin imputed to it by the Brahmans, and worn the sacred thread of the twice-born in the smithy, the mason's yard, and the carpenter's shop. It curved now like a piece of whipcord across the bronze body to which the afternoon suns.h.i.+ne sent gleams of gold as it shone on the sweat-dewed muscles. A fine young fellow certainly, with the thin, deft hands and feet which are the outcome of generations on generations of manual dexterity displayed in one and only one direction. So far, a type of past ages when Nasmyth hammers and Archimedean drills were unknown. Yet they were not unknown to Gopal the coppersmith. He had not been idle at the Munic.i.p.al School, where the primers discourse glibly of all the wonders of the world, all the marvels born from that curious potentiality--the human brain. So the forty and odd ounces of grey matter in Gopal's own skull were leavened with ideas foreign to those which had been transmitted to him through ages of slow heredity. A curious anomaly; one which has to be taken into account by the master builders of the Great Imperial Inst.i.tute when they count the cost of progress. And yet as he paused, arrested by the glow on Durga's face, his thoughts defied his education. For it came home to him suddenly, causelessly, that this woman, the widow of his dead brother, was beautiful, and that he had a right to her--if he chose. Yes! she was beautiful--far more beautiful, despite her widowhood, than the jealous wife awaiting him within; and she was his by right--if he chose. Why should he not choose? These thoughts were crowding culture from his brain, as he crossed the courtyard without a word; for convention so far held him fast. Only as she stepped aside from the door to let him pa.s.s, their eyes met.

When he had gone, and the sound of Parb.u.t.ti's shrill welcoming rose over the high part.i.tion wall, Durga crouched down beside the fireplace, and blew softly at the smouldering embers under the pot of lentils. It was woman's work to fan a flame if--if it were not fierce enough to do its duty to the hearth. Easy work also: a woman could do it with no more exertion than would make the bosom rise and fall a trifle quicker, or send a tremble through the arm supporting the bowed shoulder. No more than that. And even that Parb.u.t.ti did not notice, as she bustled out, full of wifely service and housewifely blame, to set the finis.h.i.+ng touches to the meal and carry it off to the hungry master, leaving a shapeless bundle of widowhood waiting indifferently for such dog's share of food as might be left when other appet.i.tes were satisfied.

Then a great silence seemed to take possession of and fill the outer court, just as the clangour had filled it, and still Durga sat waiting, her eyes upon the fire. The sunlight left the wall to dull shadow, the flames died down, but no one called; perhaps they had eaten everything, and she must stave off her whole day's hunger with a handful of parched grain. Well! 'twould count as a virtue, not for herself, but for the dead husband who had gone down to death sonless; not by her fault, though--not by her fault! The old vague sense of injury returned, lulling her to a sort of resignation.

"Durga! Durga-dei!"

She started from a half doze to see Parb.u.t.ti pausing on her way to the outer door, in order to exclaim at laziness--exclaiming all the louder because Gopal, also on his way to the world beyond those four walls, stood by listening both to the scolding and the silence. Suddenly he moved impatiently to the door.

"Come, wife! There is no time for such things nowadays. Stay wrangling if thou wilt. I hate it all. Holy Lukshmi! it hath been so since the world began, and I am tired of it!"

He scarcely knew his own meaning; only this was clear--the old customs, the old conventional ways were an annoyance. Yet, as he walked moodily down the narrow street towards the police station, his mind circled round one thought--he had a right by immemorial usage to claim Durga if he chose. A queer medley altogether was Gopal, the coppersmith, seated in the growing darkness on a certain flight of steps leading at one and the same time to a small Hindu temple and the back door of a native printing-office. Just over the way a yellow-trousered constable was pacing up and down in front of the police and octroi station, between a patent Birmingham-made weighing machine, warranted all the latest improvements, and a primitive water-clock; thus as it were keeping watch over the due measurement of the two great staples of civilisation--Time and Money, and looking with equal impartiality at the rising beam registering its burden accurately, and the copper bowl--made no doubt by a forebear of Gopal's--sinking lower and lower as the water filtered through the hole in its bottom, until it marked the whereabouts of an hour by having to be fished up and set afloat once more on the Sea of Time--like the soul of a man according to the theory of metempsychosis. This flight of steps was a favourite resort of the idle, for, lying as it did just within the city gate, it was a coign of vantage whence things new and old might be seen clearly side by side. Gopal liked it, because he himself was compounded of ancient characters and modern ideas. He sat gossiping over an ill-printed newspaper, watching the wors.h.i.+ppers go up to do _pooja_ in the temple, commenting on the last police news, and the chance of so and so being run in for a breach of the bye-laws; while through the high arched gateway, showing in shadow against the darkening sky, the herds of cattle came trooping dustily, undriven save by custom and the homing instinct. A packed throng, streaming through the gate in unison, then separating into flocks, and so, by endless unswerving subdivision through highways and byeways, into units, arriving each at last in the familiar stall. One of them, a big, pearl-grey, soft-eyed creature, walked in composedly to the courtyard where Durga-dei still crouched by the ashes of the fire, and, sidling into her accustomed corner, lowed for her supper. The woman rose and brought it mechanically. The cow at any rate must not fast. As she mixed the portion of parched grain with the fodder it smelt appetising, but she did not taste it. The hunger that was on her was not to be stayed by food. She did not envy Parb.u.t.ti away at the wedding festivities at a neighbour's house--those festivities whence the ill-omened widow's face was barred; she did not envy Gopal sitting on the steps watching the current of life slip into the old and the new channels, but in a vague way she envied Motiya, the milk-giver, her honoured place by the hearthstone. She envied her the calf which the milker on his rounds loosed from its tether in the dark shed, and an answering quiver seemed to run through her limbs as she saw the mother yield to the first rough touch of the sucking tongue.

When that was over, she crouched down again to brood over the empty house. Parb.u.t.ti would not be back till all hours, and Gopal--what of Gopal?

The night settled down. There was no moon, only a spangled star or two showing in the narrow slip of sky above her. The noise of the city without seemed lost in the stillness of the courtyard, where, through the darkness, you could hear the sound of Motiya chewing the cud of content.

That in one corner; in the other something different, and yet--

"Durga! Durga-dei!"

It was Gopal's voice through the darkness.

II.

The dark nights had yielded to light ones, and drawn back into darkness again more than once, before the second act of the drama began. Such a still night! The moon over-riding the high walls shone straight down upon a man and a woman standing beside the row of fireplaces where the dead ashes of the past day's flame showed white. Through the stillness and the moons.h.i.+ne a man's voice petulant, almost peevish.

"Lo! I told thee from the beginning it must be so. There is time yet.

Have patience awhile, Durga; when there is no escape Parb.u.t.ti will yield--that is woman's way. Thou knowest that I love thee; were it not so why should I have sought thee?" Durga's clasped hands fell from their hold upon his arm listlessly.

"Yea! thou didst love me; that is true. And I? Knowest thou, Gopal, why my heart sinks now as it never did when first I yielded to thy plan for peace? Then it seemed naught to keep it secret awhile--no harm--no blame; but now--Gopal! knowest thou it comes upon me even as if I were a shameless one--since--since I have learnt to care--"

Her voice died away to a whisper, her dark eyes sought his with a pa.s.sionate gloom in them before which his s.h.i.+fted uneasily.

"A wife should love her husband, surely? so say the Scriptures--and thou lovest old sayings, O Durga! Yea! and she should obey him also. So let the question be awhile. When due time comes Parb.u.t.ti shall be told that the old custom hath prevailed, and that the child is of the hearth. She is quick-witted, and will see that after all 'tis better for _her_ than a stranger wife."

A certain aggressiveness of accent provoked a sharp, half-questioning protest.

"And for thee also, Gopal; surely 'tis best for thee--if as thou sayest I am dear unto thee?"

"For me also, if thou desirest it so, though we men ask first that our women live in peace. But see, the moon climbs high; Parb.u.t.ti will be returning, and she must not suspect yet awhile. Look not so troubled, Durga! Sure I love thee, else wherefore should I have sought thee?"

The repet.i.tion of this argument seemed as much for his own conviction as for hers, and there was something of the same motive in the half-hearted kiss he stooped to bestow upon her. To his surprise she shrank from it, and the unexpected rebuff bringing sudden stimulus to his pa.s.sion, he slid his arm under the widow's shroud and drew her towards him with a patronising laugh. "Lo! thou art a fool, Durga!

Afraid because thou hast found a weak spot in thy heart for lazy Gopal, when thou shouldest be thanking thy namesake,[23] _Mai_ Bhavani, for sending pleasure in the path of duty. Afraid lest folk should blame thee, when, woman-like, thou shouldest be praying the G.o.ds Parb.u.t.ti might return even now to see thee preferred before her."

The words were spoken lightly, and the speaker's eyes smiled into the earnest ones raised to his. So neither saw a m.u.f.fled form at the entrance behind them--a form which showed itself for a second, then shrank back behind the strip of wall, built like a screen, across the outer door.

"If she came, Gopal, wouldst thou tell her the truth?"

The night was so still that every word of the pa.s.sionate whisper was audible to that unseen listener.

"Sure would I, sweetheart, if only to prevent her claws from scratching. For look you, once 'tis known that you and I have settled it, she can do naught--save quarrel. That is why I say wait till the last. There will be no time then for words--or wiles. Now, Durga, I must go--I would not she had the knowledge secretly--that were an evil chance."

The night was so still that a keen listener might have heard a light footfall behind the screen, as if some one were stealing away from it.

But those two only heard their own soft breathing as their lips met.

"Durga! Durga! asleep as usual, and I bade thee keep the fire aglow lest I should need aught."

The familiar fault-finding rang through the courtyard, and not even a tremble in Parb.u.t.ti's voice betrayed knowledge of that unseen listener, who, five minutes before, had hid behind the screen. Gopal was right; her wits were quick to seize on what was to her own advantage. Anger and reproach were desirable, doubtless, but what if they left her helpless? Besides, there was time to spare for such things when she had accepted the inevitable. So through the still summer night she lay awake piecing together a plan of revenge against the woman who, on the other side of the mud wall, lay awake piecing together her plan for peace. Revenge! That was the first consideration; if it could be combined with comparative comfort. Peace! Yes! peace; if it could be had without that gnawing sense of shame which had come so unexpectedly to complicate the situation. So much for the women's thoughts; as for the man's, as he sat in the dawning light eating his morning meal, they might have been inferred from a certain irritation towards both the women who, in one way or another, were engaged in ministering to his comfort. For polygamy is not altogether tragic; it is often comic--at times almost farcical.

The clangour of metal upon metal rose with the sun, and all through the long hot day the beat and the burr filled the courtyards where those two women went about their daily tasks. When evening came it brought Gopal an unusual display of platters at supper time--an unusual sweetness both in the viands and in Parb.u.t.ti's voice.

"Lo! 'tis like a wedding feast, wife," he said, well pleased.

She gave an odd little hysterical laugh. "Perhaps 'tis time there was a wedding, O Gopal!" Then she grew grave. "Thy people say so, and mine also. Even last night _Mai_ Radha spoke to me of her daughter. And perhaps 'twere better so. Thou wouldst not cease to love me, O Gopal!

because I brought thee fair sons; ay! and a fair wife too."

Her face was turned away; she spoke softly, regretfully, dutifully, as a good Hindu wife should under the circ.u.mstances, and her husband could hardly believe his ears. Parb.u.t.ti--jealous Parb.u.t.ti--suggesting a wife of her own choice! Here indeed would have been a chance of peace, were it not for Durga. What a fool he had been to be so precipitate! A sudden regard for the wife who was prepared to sacrifice so much to him mingled not unnaturally with a corresponding resentment against the woman whose love was certain to stand in the way of his pleasure. Yet he was too much taken aback for real a.s.sent or denial, and murmured something incoherently about there being no need for hurry, no need to bring a strange woman to the house--as yet. Parb.u.t.ti's conventional decorum gave way before even this faint allusion to realities, and she turned upon him sharply.

"Wherefore no stranger, Gopal? Sure it must be so, seeing thou wouldst not mock me by thinking of a widow--a childless widow. 'Tis not as if thou didst set store by foolish old ways. 'Tis not as though thou wast old and foolish thyself. Thou canst choose a virgin bride, and thou shalt choose one, else will I not yield thee. For thine own sake, husband, I will not. _Mai_ Radha's daughter is worthy of thee. Lo! I have seen her, but if thou heedest me not inquire of her secretly.

Durga is old and a widow. We want no more childless ones in this house--nor her sons, even if fate were kind; for look you, I hate her--I hate her."

Gopal's faint protest died down before Parb.u.t.ti's vehemence; if she hated, she hated, and there was an end of it. No use in words, or for the matter of that in deeds. He went moodily out into the bazaars for comfort, telling himself he had been a fool to let his fancy for a woman as old as he was fetter his future. He might have known it would not last. That was the worst of it! Had he braved Parb.u.t.ti's shrill wrath at first when the pa.s.sion was there, it might have seemed worth while to suffer discomfort; now it was hard to hark back dutywards.

What a fool he had been! halting as it were between the new and the old. He had glozed over the secrecy by appealing to the customs of his forefathers, and now he hated the tie they imposed upon him. Durga was his dead brother's widow, but what right had she to more consideration than any other woman who had yielded to a man's promise? She was no better than those others, would be no worse off than those others if he-- Even Gopal could not put the thought plainly before himself; so he took refuge in a general sense of injury.

"Let be! Let be," he said angrily, the next time that Durga, with a growing pa.s.sion in her voice, demanded that he should admit the truth.