MY FAIR NEIGHBOUR By RABINDRANATH TAGORE

So Nabin sought help from me. The subject of his poems was the old, old one, which is ever new : his poems were all addressed to the beloved one. I slapped his back in jest, and asked him : ‘ Well, old chap, who is she ?’

Nabin laughed, as he replied : ‘ That I have not yet discovered ! ‘

I confess that I found considerable comfort in bringing help to my friend. Like a hen brooding on a duck’s egg, I lavished all the warmth of my pent-up passion on Nabin’s effusions. So vigorously did I revise and improve his crude productions, that the larger part of each poem became my own.

Then Nabin would say in surprise : ‘ That is just what I wanted to say, but could not. How on earth do you manage to get hold of all these fine sentiments ?’

Poet-like, I would reply : ‘ They come from my imagination ; for, as you know, truth is silent, and it is imagination only which waxes eloquent. Reality represses the flow of feeling like a rock ; imagination cuts out a path for itself.’

But one day I was startled. Could I believe my eyes ? It was a hot summer afternoon. One of the fierce and fitful nor’westers was threatening. Black clouds were massed in the north-west corner of the sky ; and against the strange and fearful light of that background my fair neighbour stood, gazing out into empty space. And what a world of forlorn longing did I discover in the far-away look of those lustrous black eyes ! Was there then, perchance, still some living volcano within the serene radiance of that moon of mine ? Alas ! that look of limitless yearning, which was winging its way through the clouds like an eager bird, surely sought—not heaven—but the nest of some human heart !

At the sight of the unutterable passion of that look I could hardly contain myself. I was no longer satisfied with correcting crude poems. My whole being longed to express itself in some worthy action. At last I thought I would devote myself to making widow-remarriage popular in my country. I was prepared not only to speak and write on the subject, but also to spend money on its cause.

Nabin began to argue with me. ‘ Permanent widowhood,’ said he, ‘ has in it a sense of immense purity and peace ; a calm beauty like that of the silent places of the dead shimmering in the wan light of the eleventh moon. (The eleventh day of the moon is a day of fasting and penance.) Would not the mere possibility of remarriage destroy its divine beauty ? ‘

I learned that Nabin’s loved one was not an imaginary being. It appeared that Nabin, too, had for some time adored a widow from a distance, but had not spoken of his feelings to any living soul. Then the magazines in which Nabin’s poems, or rather my poems, used to appear had reached the fair one’s hands ; and the poems had not been ineffective.

Not that Nabin had deliberately intended, as he was careful to explain, to conduct love-making in that way. In fact, said he, he had no idea that the widow knew how to read. He used to post the magazine, without disclosing the sender’s name, addressed to the widow’s brother. It was only a sort of fancy of his, a concession to his hopeless passion. It was flinging garlands before a deity ; it is not the worshipper’s affair whether the god knows or not, whether he accepts or ignores the offering.

And Nabin particularly wanted me to understand that he had no definite end in view when on diverse pretexts he sought and made the acquaintance of the widow’s brother. Any near relation of the loved one needs must have a special interest for the lover.

‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Nabin ; ‘I have not kept back her name because I feared your rivalry ! The fact is, she was very much perturbed at taking this unusual step, and had asked me not to talk about the matter to my friends. But it no longer matters, now that everything has been satisfactorily settled. She lives at No. 19, the house next to yours.’

If my heart had been an iron boiler it would have burst. ‘So she has no objection to re-marriage ? ‘ I simply asked.

‘Not at the present moment,’ replied Nabin with a smile.

‘ And was it the poems alone which wrought the magic change ?’

‘Well, my poems were not so bad, you know,’ said Nabin, ‘ were they ? ‘

I swore mentally.

But at whom was I to swear ? At him ? At myself ? At Providence ? All the same, I swore.