# Stories of Bengalee Life/A Pseudonym/Chapter 5

​When I arrived, there was no one in the drawing-room. But presently Nirmala came, and, saluting me with a smile, said—"I am so glad to see you. We had given up all hope of your coming. Father, mother, and Satish Babu are all gone to see the garden. Satish Babu said you would not come to-day; you were too busy. Some new writing, I expect?"
"Yes—no, I had work that I thought"—
"I understand. May I ask, Manmatha Babu, how many hours a day you give to The Light of Bengal?"
"Nearly all my time. I exist for its sake."
"That must be delicious. I wish I could devote myself to literature, day and night, in that way. But is it not very rash to confess that to you?"
"Why so?"
"From what you say in that article of yours, 'The Ideal woman's Life,' it seems that you think that home is the woman's proper sphere; that, to forget herself entirely in the service of others in the domestic circle, is woman's true existence."
​"You must, then, have read the article?"
"Read it! Certainly. I have finished the whole of the magazine. Last night I fell asleep reading it in bed. I awoke to see the candle burnt quite down, and flickering with so great a flare that at first I was much alarmed."
"Ah! it is fortunate nothing caught fire."
"If through my reading that journal my curtains had caught fire and I had been burnt to death—the announcement of the event in the different newspapers would have been a fine advertisement for your Light of Bengal."
At first I could think of no suitable reply to this speech; a sort of metaphor was buzzing in my brain, that, like the wax of the candle of which she spoke, this educated maiden was tender and delicate, and bright like its flame. I gave a meaningless laugh, and at length said—"Since you are so fond of Bengali literature, why do you not write yourself?"
"If I wrote, who would read? In the first place, who would print it?"
I had a suspicion that Nirmala did write in secret, but I had not the courage to ask. The discussion turned upon the short story. I said that the present custom of giving a short story each month was a cause of great embarrassment to ​an editor at times owing to the dearth of good tales of this kind.
Nirmala said—"I have a friend who writes short stories. I have one by me now; will you look at it?"
Had I anticipated this disaster, I would not have introduced the topic of the short story at all. In the drudgery of editorial duties it fell to my lot to read many stories by novices. But I had come now to the hills for a month's holiday. However, there was no escape, so I said—"I will look at whatever you give me."
"You must give me your real opinion of it."
"I will do so."
"You must not keep anything back, because the writer is my friend."
"If you are really anxious to hear it, I will give you my genuine opinion."
Nirmala immediately went to fetch the story. A few minutes later she placed in my hands a bundle of beautifully executed manuscript on ruled foolscap, with half margins, fastened at the corner with crimson silk. At first sight I exclaimed—"A new writer?"
"Yes; but how do you know?"
"New writers nearly always take great pains in preparing their manuscript. The handwriting of authors of established reputation is usually illegible."
​As I said this, I turned to the last page in search of the name as is usual with editors. There was none. I glanced through the page to see if the lovers ended their lives by poison. New authors seldom permit their heroes or heroines to survive. But I saw that these here were allowed to live, so I became rather hopeful. A doubt arose whether Nirmala herself might not be the writer. Many shy writers present their first efforts as written by a friend. I said—"I will take this home to-day, and let you know to-morrow what I think of it."
That it was written by Nirmala was extremely probable. The words in which I should express my opinion were already cut and dried. I had to do this sort of work, giving an opinion on a friends literary efforts—most days of my life.
The phrases were there; you had but to distribute them: "Very readable in certain parts" "with practice he may become an excellent writer," &c., &c.
One after another, all the members of the family came in. When tea was over, we sat about chatting. There was no further talk af a walk.