Page:Works of Tagore from the Modern Review, 1909-24 Segment 1.pdf/154

Rh we who make our thoughts (and a good thing it is so!) and yet it is within our power to do a great deal on our own part to keep the stream of thought within us fresh and clear and wholesome. One of the best things we can do is to keep well, for melancholy or obnoxious thoughts cannot find much entertainment where the spirits are lively, and lively spirits are much a matter of health. We have at hand also the power of occupation, of making ourselves actively useful, of joining the company of the workers for the good of the world, and so inviting into our minds the health-giving companionship of hopes, purposes, ideals and duties. And further, we can live in the society of men and women who have done and are doing well. We can love science and art, we can love all high things like poetry and prophecy,...we can take our part in intellectual and social movements; and as we do this we shall waken the best thoughts and feelings in our breasts, and discover the oracle within us, which "declareth" not our own but "His" thought.

2em

HEY met together in a ruined temple on the river bank: Mahamaya and Rajib.

In silence she cast her naturally grave look at Rajib with a tinge of reproach. It meant to say,—"How durst you call me here at this unusual hour today? You have ventured to do it only because I have so long obeyed you in all things!"

Rajib had a little awe of Mahamaya at all times, and now this look of hers thoroughly upset him: he at once gave up his fondly conceived plan of making a set speech to her. And yet he had to give quickly some reason for this interview. So, he hurriedly blurted out, "I say, let us run away from this place and marry." True, Rajib thus delivered himself of what he had had in his mind; but the preface he had silently composed was lost. His speech sounded very dry and bald,—even absurd. He himself felt confused after speaking it,—and had no power left in him to add some words to modify its effect. The fool! after calling Mahamaya to that ruined temple by river side at mid-day, he could only tell her "Come, let us marry!"

Mahamaya was a kulin's daughter; twenty-four years old,—in the full bloom of beauty as in the fulness of growth,—a frame of pure gold, of the hue of the early autumn sun's rays,—radiant and still as that sunshine, with a gaze free and fearless as day-light itself.

She was an orphan. Her elder brother, Bhabani Charan Chattopadhay, looked after her. The two were of the same mould—taciturn, but possessing a force of character which burnt silently like the mid-day sun. People feared Bhabani Charan without knowing why.

Rajib had come there from afar with the Burra Sahib of the silk factory of the place. His father had served this Sahib, and when he died, the Sahib undertook to bring up his orphan boy and took him with himself to this Bamanhati factory. In those early days such instances of sympathy were frequent among the Sahibs. The boy was accompanied by his loving aunt, and they lived in Bhabani Charan's neighbourhood. Mahamaya was Rajib's playmate in childhood, and was dearly loved by his aunt.

Rajib grew up to be sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and even nineteen; and yet, in spite of his aunt's constant urging, he refused to marry. The Sahib was highly pleased to hear of this uncommon instance of good sense in a Bengali youth, and imagined that Rajib had taken him as his ideal in life. (I may here add that the Sahib was a bachelor.) The aunt died soon after.

For Mahamaya, too, no bridegroom of an