# Tales of Bengal (Sita and Santa Chattopadhyay)/Loyalty

Loyalty.
At the extreme end of the village of Madhabpur, there stands a red building, rearing its stately head in the midst of a garden. A girl could be frequently seen on its balconies, which boasted of beautiful stone balustrades. In the early morning she would stand on the eastern balcony looking towards the river with her face resting on her two slender and white hands. The pure fair complexion used to take on a rosy tinge from the red blush of dawn. If I call her simply a girl, she is not fully described. It was hard to tell her age. Her large grey eyes carried in their depths the sorrow of centuries. Her carriage was slow like one of advanced years, but her slight willowy figure was that of a young girl.
Before the break of day, at the first note of birds, the slender figure of Sunanda was to be seen advancing towards the bathing place of the river, which flowed by the red house. As she returned after her bath, her wet dress clinging to her young body and leaving the impress of her wet feet on every step of the Ghat, she might easily have been mistaken for a Naiad. Water-drops fell from her body like a shower of pearls and her wet hair clung to her marble white arms as the fibres of the water-moss cling to the stalks of lotuses. Her lips were not bright red, but soft pink like the heart of the mother of pearl. Yet what it was that caused this water-goddess to leave her mysterious watery kingdom and sigh out her grief in a secluded corner of this hard earth, remained hidden from the world.
The laughter and song of Sunanda filled the old palace the whole day. Her face did not lack the light of merriment though it reminded everyone of a lily drenched with tears. Her friends not unfrequently asked her, "Can you tell us, dear, where you find such a store of ​laughter?" As the sunshine breaks through the dark clouds of July, so Sunanda used to smile and answer, "What have I to grieve over? I have no home, no family, there is none to cause me sorrow with death or to make me weep with the pangs of love unrequited. To me, the world is full of strangers. Tears are never wasted over strangers. So why should I not laugh?"
What to another would have been the greatest of sorrows, was to this girl a never-ending source of laughter, or at least so she said. "Are you made of stone?" asked a friend once. "No, my dear, I am flesh and blood, like the rest of you," answered this strange girl.
But the smile vanished as soon as she was alone. It was like a costly ornament, put on in public for the sake of appearance. And one does not need adornment when there is none to see.
The temple of the god Shiva stood by the side of the river. As regularly as the sun rose every morning gilding the spire of the temple with its golden light, and as often as it went down setting the western sky on fire with its dying breath, even so could Sunanda be seen every evening standing before the image of the god in a dress all white and gold, with her palms joined in the attitude of prayer. In the soft light of the temple lamp her white face looked still more colourless. She seemed like a statue of veneration, modelled in wax, so still and white.
But after the evening worship as she used to prostrate herself in obeisance before the god, she resembled a flower-laden jasmine plant in the moonlight. It seemed impossible then that so fair a thing could have taken its birth on this earth; she called to mind a garland of celestial flowers blown off from its heavenly home by a mad stormy wind.
In fair weather or foul, in rain, storm and darkness, she never failed in her attendance. In the same place she ​ever stood and in the same dress. Joy and sorrow struggled to gain ascendancy in the expression of her face. But so long as the eyes of others rested on her face, it never lost its smile.
II
In the bedroom of Sunanda, at the head of her bed, stood a small box of marble. It contained a few trifles, the largest in size being a letter. It was written by herself, but for all that she cherished it. There were no means of knowing beforehand to whom it was written, as it was not addressed. But the contents revealed his name. They also revealed many things about the person who wrote it, which otherwise would have remained unknown for ever. The letter ran thus:
"Every human being possesses something which to the possessor is priceless. And this thing, he or she is unwilling to share with anyone, lest it loses its value. I have such a thing; it is my sorrow. I do not want to share it with anybody. There is nothing else of my very own, to which I can cling, which I can cherish in the inmost recess of my heart. So I keep it jealously hidden. But a time will come when I shall cease to be, and then I wish you to take charge of it. It is my very own and to none else can I entrust it. It came to my heart from the hands of God and none knew. I have kept his trust. I hid this priceless sorrow beneath my mantle of laughter, as the green turf hides the treasure lying in the dark womb of the earth. You too have always looked upon my face masked with laughter; so I do not know whether you will believe this tale of tears.
A human child takes its birth in a world full of light and joy. But I came into a world which had no welcome for me. The only person who then took me in her arms, did so with eyes full of tears. To me, the world meant nothing but my mother's arms; the single tie which bound ​me to this earth was her love. To a child the world is full of friends and playmates. The ties of blood bring some to it and others come drawn by the bond of joy and love. The world is a willing slave to the child-emperor. Miserable indeed is he, whom no child rules with its soft little fingers. But from the moment of my birth the world frowned upon me. I did not know with whom ties of blood connected me and no person ever approached me through love. Dumb, inanimate nature was my sole friend. I was a stranger to the play of human emotions.
The memories of my childhood are all vague and shadowy. There is no event, no loving playmate, to which these shadows could cling and take distinct shape. There is only one face which comes to my mind when I think of that period. It is the face of my mother.
The first distinct impression of my life, the first that I remember with any degree of clearness, is one of weeping and tears. I was clasping my mother round her neck and sobbing upon her shoulders. Tears ran down her face, too. The memory of her tear-stained face still remains with me; it was like a white lotus drenched with dew. An old man was standing by my mother. Clusters of hair, white as the sea-foam, framed his gentle and benign face. "I have come to entrust this poor thing to you," my mother was saying, "Miserable mother that I am, I cannot by any means keep my child with me." The old man stretched out his arms to take me. I clung to my mother more firmly, while her tears fell fast on my hair. I have told you already that the world then meant nothing to me but my mother. It seemed that the world was taking farewell of me in tears. The arms of the old man did not tempt me. I viewed him with suspicion. I was too young to understand fully what was happening but the sight of my mother's tears filled my heart with terrible forebodings. I have no distinct recollection now, how long that drama of tears and sorrow lasted, but I vaguely ​remember that when the cruel hands of the old man finally tore me from my mother's arms, it was already dark, and the roads had become deserted. My mother ran back to the door immediately. She wanted to be away before she lost her resolution. She looked back at me from the door and with an inarticulate word of blessing, vanished for ever. It was the last sight I ever had of my mother. I do not know who she was. I have forgotten her parting words. I only remember the tears which fell upon my hair as she kissed me farewell. My mother was the only person on whom I had any claim, and the only gift I had of her was her tears. With this treasure alone I began my life. Time has continually added to it, but the capital was my mother's gift.
I was born with a heart full of love. But the only person whom I could have naturally loved, disappeared in the morning of my life like a star at the approach of daylight. I understood that I was fated to pass my life in tears. Laughter and love were not for me. But I fiercely resented this, I rebelled against my creator, I was determined to oppose his decree. From the day when my cruel benefactor tore me away from my mother's embrace and took me to his house, I banished tears from my eyes.
In that strange abode I passed the first few days in total silence. I refused to get up from the bed on which I had taken refuge when my mother made me over to the old man. I would not eat or drink. The old man tried patiently to bear with me. He used to come to feed me with his own hands, but I pushed aside his hand in anger and would not open my lips. I used to hold my lips fiercely with my teeth, lest they should open without my consent. The old man waited and waited with my food, sometimes till evening. He himself went without food the whole day, because he would not eat while the child entrusted to him remained unfed.
To propitiate the little stranger every means was ​taken. My room gradually began to take on the appearance of a toyshop. The garden was stripped of its wealth for me. And there also appeared a crowd of little boys and girls. They had been bribed by the good old man to come and make friends with me. I never had any friend, so my whole heart was greedy for them. My benefactor now watched me with a sigh of content. The smile returned to my face.
Gradually the silent old house became home to me. I began to call the old man grandfather. I was called Sunanda by him. I do not know if ever I had any other name.
When I had become a little older he taught me how to worship the god Shiva. I found my greatest joy in that. Grandfather had told me that to the god all can be told, all can be asked of him. Even the greatest of sorrows can be turned into bliss by him. I eagerly believed him. Every evening, as I prostrated myself before the god, I told him all that filled my heart. To men I had nothing to confide. They were nothing to me. I gave them only smiles. My god alone knew of that well of tears which I called my heart.
I lacked neither love nor care in my grandfather's house. But for all that, I never could forget that there was a great difference between myself and other children. He used to feed and bathe me himself, when I was too young to do things for myself, but even in the coldest winter, if he happened to touch me before his prayers, he would go and bathe again to purify himself. To save me pain and mortification he took every care to hide these things from me, but it is hard to deceive one whose eyes have lost the illusions which love gives to every child. Whenever he was detected by me, he shrank away from me, lest I should ask for explanations. But what right had I to complain of anything to man? To my god alone ​I complained. With smiles and prattlings I tried to put the old man at his ease, as if I had seen or understood nothing. Many a time have I seen him questioned by his neighbours as to who I was. It was difficult for him to answer the question before me, but I used to break in with, "I am his adopted grandchild," and so relieve him.
The attenuated figure of the old man became more so, as the years advanced. One day I heard that we were going away to his country-house. It was in Madhabpur. He wanted to close his eyes in the place where he first opened them.
We arrived in that red brick house, together with the mango-blossoms which heralded the approach of spring in the huge garden which surrounded the house. The house stood silent and deserted. I have heard that once it held many persons, and festivities were of daily occurrence. But the huge reception rooms were empty now. Only the daily worship at the temple of Shiva still went on.
My grandfather had wealth once and he also possessed numerous children and grandchildren. But all had followed the departing footsteps of the goddess of plenty. At last he had only one grandson left. But in his terrible bereavement he turned away from this boy and left his native home. He did not want any more ties, which are formed only to be broken.
And as death approached him, he returned again to his deserted home. "Here," he said, "have I given up all whom I had cherished in life, in death I will not be parted from them. Let my ashes, too, mingle with theirs."
Here it was that I first met you. You seemed to me as beautiful as a single streak of light in this kingdom of dark desolation. Many years have passed since. I wonder if you still remember that day.
I think that the river must have flowed close to your house at that time when these stairs were made leading ​down to the depths of the clear current. Since then it has changed its course a little and the water has receded more and more, leaving the stairs bare and dry. After stepping down people now have to walk a short distance over the dry mud in order to reach the water. A big banyan tree stands close by; it has stood so from time immemorial, looking down at its own image reflected in the dark blue surface below. The current of the river has gradually washed away the earth from around its numerous roots, leaving them exposed. Underneath this tree two large stones have been laid down and these now form the bathing-place of the village people.
On that day, I had come out of my room and was sitting on one of these stones. The water had not yet turned rosy with the first kiss of the god of day; it was lying still and grey before me. The birds had just begun to send out welcoming trills to the fast advancing sun-god. I was thinking of my own fate. I did not know whether I had any relations of my own living, and the person with whom destiny had made me take shelter was fast approaching the end of his days. Suddenly I looked up at the sound of footsteps. You were advancing towards the river and to my eyes you looked as resplendent as the god of light himself. In the half light of the early dawn we first exchanged glances. It was the most inauspicious yet the most auspicious moment of my life.
A young heart craves for human company and, as there were only the old man and myself to chose between, it was no wonder that you chose the younger one as your companion, and so did I choose you. The smile that I had worn as a mask became real through your friendship. So long as this lasted I banished all sorrow and sadness from my heart; all was full of light within and without. How the days passed! They now seem like dreams to me, dreams that have vanished in the fierce light of day. But memory still lingers on like some golden ​feather dropped from the flitting wings of the fairy of dreams.
Within those few days I tried to gather ample compensation for all the dark days of my life. The harp of my life resounded with joyous strains full and loud. But in my eagerness, perhaps I had struck too hard; for one day the string broke. From that day the harp has been mute.
But at the same time when we were filling the hours with joy and laughter, the messenger of death had already entered the house. My grandfather took to his bed; it was his last illness. The day was given over to joy, but morning and evening I went twice to his room and sat by him. He used to look up at me, his gentle eyes full of pity, and he stroked my hair with his trembling hand. I knew that his heart was more full of the thoughts of the girl whom he was leaving behind than of the blessed land towards which every day carried him nearer. The waif whom he had long sheltered would now be left alone and shelterless. This gnawing anxiety seemed to hasten his end. He was one of the noblest of human beings, yet he used to bathe after touching me, to purify himself. My touch was pollution even to him! So what could I hope for at the hands of any other?
But these thoughts came afterwards. At that time I had no time to spare for gloomy thoughts. Grandfather sometimes used to draw me down to his bedside; he struggled to say something; but he could not utter it. His eyes expressed what his tongue failed to do; he seemed to ask a favour of me,—of me to whom he had given everything. But what that favour was, I never tried to know. I had then no time for reading the language of an old man's dim tear-filled eyes. Your bright dark eyes told me a new tale every morning, and my eyes wanted nothing else. So after a few hurriedly spoken words, accompanied with bright smiles, and after a few pats on his pillows, I used to leave ​his room and go off. Countless sighs from a broken heart pursued me, but I paid no heed. Indeed I was not even conscious of them. It is only now that I find time to think of them.
Do you remember that day, when you and I together made a garland of white lotuses, sitting on the grass by the side of the river? You took one end of the string and I the other, and we both worked at the same time. The chain was very long before we finished. In the middle was a large full-blown lotus. Grandfather was very fond of lotuses, so I took the garland to his room. "Look here, grandfather," I called out, "what a beautiful garland! See, if I wear it, it reaches down to my feet."
He turned round and said, "Indeed child, you are nearly covered with flowers! You look like the goddess Saraswati! Who gave you so many flowers?"
"Your grandson Shankar," I answered.
His pale face seemed to turn paler still. Yet he laughed and said, "My dear, you spend your days in laughter alone. But life is not all laughter; there are tears enough in it. It is well to be prepared for both, otherwise sorrow gives too severe a shock. May it never enter your life. Still you never know."
I hung the garland on the wall, and left the room. Our joyous laughter had penetrated even into the sick room and told its own tale. But it found no answering joy there; only sadness. And why?
I passed that day alone and speechless. The shadow of some impending calamity darkened everything for me. In what shape was it coming? The old man had told me to be ready; but for what was I to be ready? At one time I thought you must have told him something against me. But I dismissed that thought, because why should you? I had never harmed you. Then,—was my mother dead? Was my grandfather trying to prepare me for that? ​I was a mere child when I had last seen her: I called to mind her tear-stained face, but my own eyes remained dry. Why should I weep for a mother who had given me away? Even the street beggars share their poverty with their children, but my mother had not done even that. I hardened my heart. Why should I weep and tremble for anything or anybody? I chased away all the dark shadows from my heart.
But from that day the light of joy which had filled my universe began to fade fast. I began to get dispirited and dull. I refused to go out of the house, and frittered away the time in useless and trivial tasks. You seemed surprised at my behaviour; sometimes you even asked the reason. I laughed in answer, but the laughter was becoming hollow and insincere.
A few days passed in this way. Then one day in the morning you entered grandfather's room and spent two or three hours there. I do not know what you told each other, but as soon as you left the room I was sent for. As I entered he turned slowly round and said, "My child, my days are numbered. Before passing away I have something to say to you and Shankar. To him I have told all I had to say. Besides, he is a man, he can very well look after himself. But I am anxious for you, my darling."
He ceased to speak and gazed intently at me. I sat still with beating heart and averted face.
After a time he began again: 'My darling child, perhaps you do not know how much I love you. My love for you is no whit less than the love I feel for Shankar. The day when I deserted this house and left it ruined and desolate, I did so, swearing not to love anybody again in this world. Love is a never-ending source of suffering and agony. But your face made me break my promise. The heart never remains empty for long; some one or other creeps into it and establishes a new sway. Such is the law ​of the Creator. So you came in, the child-queen of my heart. Shankar was then with his mother's relations. I left him there willingly. I did not want any more ties of affection, but the world is full of them, so I could not escape. How I brought you up, with what care and love, you know well. I sheltered you from sorrow and sin to the best of my power. But who can go against destiny? It is I who must deal you the first great blow of your life. I tried hard to shirk this terrible duty. But I could not find any other way."
I sat there silent, my heart turning cold within my breast.
What I heard was terrible for me. I did not know what sin was, but I understood I owed my being to sin. Then it was I knew what had caused my mother to desert her baby. It was not poverty; she was afraid of herself, she feared to contaminate me. She gave me up to this saintly man in the hope that his merit might wash away my sin. But can any one wash a piece of charcoal white? The sin of my birth clung to me.
The old man went on, "My child, I have loved you above everything. But man is weak, he is stained easily. I know that I have caused you pain sometimes by my treatment of you, as one whose touch makes me unclean, yet I could not help it. I have ever loved and cared for you as my own child, and now that I am dying, I have only one favour to ask of you. I found out long ago, what perhaps you do not know yet. To Shankar you have become as the apple of his eye. He confessed it to me to-day, my darling. I know that you are pure as the water of the sacred Ganga. But society will not recognise it. You are an outcast by its laws. Swear to me, my child, touching my white hair, that you will do nothing to make Shankar ashamed before his fellow-men; that you will leave him, the last of my race, free to live a life worthy of his ​birth. If you become hard, he will easily forget you sooner or later. Such is man's nature. I will leave you everything that I die possessed of. You will be able to maintain yourself in decency and comfort."
At this mention of his property, I felt as if someone had struck me with stinging nettles. But without a murmur I swore the oath which he desired me to take. Then I understood how much I had taken upon myself.
The old man blessed me, "May you be born as Savitri in your next birth. The penance you will undergo in this life will wash away all your sins. Give up everything to the god; he alone can be the husband of such as you."
After that I came out of the room. I had gone in a girl, I came out a woman. I knew then that I had given you everything unknowingly. I loved you above all earthly things, so I must forget you. But the human heart knows no master. You were my friend in times of joy, but in this day of sorrow you became all the world to me. I could not forget, but I could make you forget.
I began to move away from you by imperceptible degrees. I did not want any questions and explanations. So I behaved as if my household tasks engrossed all my attention and I had no time for child's play. Even to myself I pretended that you were nothing to me but a chance playmate.
Before this I never mentioned the word marriage to you. But now I always jested about your coming marriage and your future wife. This made you angry, which made me go on the more. That day, the last day of the month of Paush it was, you came to me with a garland of flowers. As you gave it to me, you were about to say something when I interrupted you: "What a fool you are," I cried, "to be always running after thankless tasks. What's the use of presenting flowers to me? It is nothing but casting ​pearls before swine. Keep your presents for one who will want them."
You looked at me with eyes full of pain. You never expected such words from me. I began to talk at random, as if I had not understood anything. But you did not know what it cost me to hurt you. Perhaps you thought that my heart was made of stone. It is out of such beds of stone the mighty rivers take their birth.
You had come to say something, but it remained unspoken. You went out with a sad and disappointed look. I called in our neighdour Manda and began to talk and laugh with her aloud. I am quite sure that you heard me; I meant you to do so.
It was my love for you which made me as hard as flint, I went on striking at your heart mercilessly. I must make you think me cruel and worthless. I must make you forget; I had promised to the old man.
I was born to a heritage of shame and ignominy. I was determined to keep it to myself. I would not allow any one to share it, least of all you. I would not let a particle of my shame rest upon you, and form a stain upon your fair name. So I tried to keep you at a distance from this child of sin. I was afraid that if once I let you guess the secret of my heart, nothing would keep you from me. You would gladly share my burden of shame. But I must not let you. You were the last of a noble family and I an outcast, whom God and man have forsaken. How could two such persons come together?
Once I thought of confessing everything to you. I wanted to hear all you had to say and to tell all that filled my heart. I wanted to tell you what had caused me to behave like a heartless thing and what it had cost me. But I soon gave up the idea. Why make your sorrow greater? You must forget me; then what was the use of ​such understanding? Yet now I think I should have told you all.
Once again we met by the side of the lotuses. Our eyes were full of the memory of the first meeting. I turned away my eyes lest they should reveal my secret, and said lightly: "What a wealth of flowers we have this year!"
"Why, don't you remember," you said, "last year, too, there was exactly such a profusion? We two sat here and made a huge garland of white lotuses."
"Oh, one cannot always remember everything that happened in one's childhood," I replied.
"Childhood? Why it was only last year! Do you forget so soon?"
"I cannot remember every trifle," I replied with a show of disdain.
Your voice had a mingling of sadness in it when you said, "I remember many greater trifles."
"Then you must lend me a share of your memory. I have nearly lost mine," I said with a laugh.
If I had you now near me I could tell you that my memory for trifles was even greater than yours. I remembered every look, every gesture of yours; I had got by heart all your habits, likes and dislikes. I pretended to ignore you, but I never ceased to look after your every comfort. I tried to blind you, but why were you so easily blinded? Why could you not see through my thin subterfuges?
Gradually I grew more and more scarce to you. I never had time to walk or talk with you. But as I gave up things in outward appearance, in my inmost heart they established themselves all the more firmly. I thought only of you; I worked only for you. This was my only joy, that I could still serve you though you knew it not. ​Seldom does the god know of the adoration of the votary.
Every morning I went to the temple to prostrate myself before the image of the god. To him alone I confided my agony and sorrow. I told him alone of the deceit that I was practising on you, that was for your good.
This confession did not bring relief to my heart. For you, I had carried deceit even into my dealings with the god. In bitter shame and sorrow I confess it and hope for forgiveness. During the evening worship, when I stood with bowed head and joined palms before the image of the god, it was not he who filled my heart. I felt your gaze with my whole body. It flowed over me like a stream of holy water, purifying this body of its inherited sin. I felt that the end of my penance was drawing near. Purged of the sin in my blood in this life by your purifying look, I should have you as my very own when I should be born again. The conchshell blew on and the silver lamps blazed, but I had neither ears nor eyes for them; all my senses were then steeped in you. The temple held nothing but you. Even now, every evening I feel your presence there and it fills me with rapture.
But when I returned from the temple, fear used to take hold of my heart. If I had made the god angry by my neglect of him, would any harm befall you? For punishment strikes a woman very often through her beloved. And you too had no faith in that god. You went to the temple, but not for him. We have both sinned against the god, but I was the cause of your sinning. With bowed head I supplicated to him, not for forgiveness, but that punishment might fall upon me only.
My grandfather had told me that a god can never be contaminated by man. So I decided to dedicate myself to ​his service. He would take care of me and maintain me, for I was determined that I would never accept the property which by right belonged to you. I dreamed of myself in the future as living in a little hut by the side of the temple and from there witnessing your home life made beautiful and happy by some fortunate woman. But who knows if ever the dream will come true? All the probabilities seem against it. Yet I cannot give up my dream, and I am taking care of your house and property in the hope that one day I shall be able to make all over to you.
Long years have passed since I first began to sweep and wash the temple stairs and decorate them with flowers. Though I am the lowest of the low, yet I am allowed to serve thus. Every evening I wipe the accumulated dust of the day from off the stairs with my own hair. It is nothing but a habit now. For I know that the last particle of the dear holy dust has long been blown away by the wind.
The temple is no longer so crowded now as it used to be in your days. Only a few old women still persist. And of the innumerable young village folk who thronged here every evening and made my entrance nearly impossible, not one is seen any more.
A great storm ravaged the countryside that year. On the day of the storm, it grew dark even before evening. During the night several large trees were torn down by the violence of the wind, many boats were wrecked and the river wildly broke down its banks. It was a mad dance of the elements, and man trembled before it.
Before the storm broke, the evening worship in the temple was somehow hurried through. All the people left in haste. I alone remained for the purpose of finishing my daily tasks. But I did not know that you too had lingered behind. I never set about my self-appointed tasks before the eyes of a single human being. Not even ​the priest of the temple knew anything about them. So it must have come as a surprise to you.
After trimming and polishing the silver lamps of the temple and washing the back stairs, I came round to the front. I knelt down and swept the marble steps with my hair. The last rays of the departing daylight struck upon my white and gold sari and made it glow. This attracted your eyes and you came forward and asked, "Sunanda, what makes you kneel here before this god of stone?"
The truth rushed to my lips. But I held it back. I must not tell you the truth before the day of final parting. So I said, "My god has made me kneel here."
Suddenly you cried out, "What is this? Why do you sweep the stairs with your hair? Who is the fortunate being, the dust of whose feet dare to aspire so high?"
I laughed and said, "Do not you know that to a woman her beloved is above God?"
In the dark I could not see your face. Your voice was hoarse as you said, "What has he given you in return for this?"
"I do not keep count of that, I am satisfied with giving."
"So you have given away all to him? Have you kept nothing at all for others?"
I replied, "No, when we give, we give all."
Then you said, "Sunanda, is there then really no hope for me?"
I replied, "Indeed! What is it that you expect from me?"
You went away without another word. I too left soon after.
All through the night I lay awake, listening to the crash of thunder, and the roar of the river as it broke down its banks. The rain fell in torrents and at intervals ​the crash of a large tree, as it was uprooted and flung to the ground, penetrated to my room.
Next morning, as I rose and looked out, I could scarcely recognise the long familiar scenes. All the old landmarks were gone, broken or washed away. Many houses had fallen, many lives were lost. But the havoc outside was nothing to the havoc in my heart. For that day I lost all.
Since then I have not set eyes upon you. I have not given up waiting. I want to tell you everything before I go. Perhaps if I am not fortunate enough, this letter will tell you. I want once more to see your face, the smile kindle in your eyes; and I want myself to laugh once again from the heart as I used to. Then I shall die content, with the memory of this last meeting blooming like a white lotus in the sea of tears which I called my life. But I wonder, will so much be granted to me, who have been denied all from my birth?"