bitterly being robbed of any part of his speech. So though it kept more important business waiting, I had to hear him out.
18.
Kaligram,
1891.
Oh, how I love this great, old Earth of ours, lying there so quietly! I feel I want to clasp in my arms the whole immensity of her, with her trees and foliage, rivers and fields, her sounds and her silences, her mornings and evenings.
What heaven is there which can give us the like of the earthly riches she has bestowed on us? Other things heaven may have, for aught I know, but where shall it get the intimate kinship of this tenderly weak, appealingly tremulous, immature humanity to offer us?
This dusty old Mother of ours,—our very own Earth,—in her golden fields, on the banks of her bounteous rivers, amidst the joys and sorrows of her loving households, brings to our door the tear-begotten wealth of her poor, mortal children. We, with our sad destiny, cannot even keep and save her loved ones, whom cruel, unknown forces snatch away off her very breast; and still the poor old thing goes on doing the very best she can for them. I do love her so!
A vast melancholy overshadows her countenance, as though she is weighed down by the thought: "Daughter of the gods am I, yet their power has been denied me. I love, but cannot keep; I begin, but cannot complete; I give birth, but cannot save from death."
For that I cannot forgive heaven; and so I doubly love the home of my humble old Mother Earth, just because she is so weak, so helpless, so distracted with loving anxieties.
Translated by
KRISHNAKANTA'S WILL
By Bankim Chandra Chatterjee.
(All rights reserved)
CHAPTER V.
NEXT morning Haralal walked straight to Brahmananda's house. When he got there, without stopping he went and peeped into the kitchen. Rohini was there busy in cooking. She pretended not to see him even when he stepped up and stood near her. "Look at me, Rohini, the pot won't crack," said Haralal.
Rohini looked up with a smile.
"Have you got it?" he asked.
She made no answer, but went and brought him what he wanted. Haralal knew at a glance that it was his father's will. A sinister smile was on his face. "How did you get it?" he asked.
Rohini began her story. She invented one; and she took the will from his hand to show how it lay between two boxes, which stood upon the chest of drawers. When she had finished speaking she left him abruptly. Haralal, not seeing the will in her hand when she returned, asked, "Where is the will?"
"I have kept it," said Rohini.
"I want to be going now. I must have it," said Haralal.
"Why, I think there is no haste."
"I cannot afford to wait. I must be off."
"Well, if you must, I will not detain you," said Rohini.
"The will? Let me have the will. Don't keep me waiting for it."
"You may leave it with me," said Rohini.
"Nonsense, I must have it."
"Whether it is with you or me, it is all the same."
"How? Why did you steal it if you will not give it to me?"
"When you have married a widow I will give it to your wife."
Haralal pretended not to see what she was driving at, and only said, "Don't
