The Portrait

I  
THIS story belongs to a time when Burma had not yet come under British rule. She still had her own king and queen, her ministers and counsellors, and her own army; the Burmese were still their own masters.

The capital was at Mandalay, but many members of the royal family had gone to settle in the various towns of the country.

It appears that long ago one of these had come down to live in a village called Imédin, not more than ten miles away from Pegu.

The family owned a vast mansion, extensive gardens, unlimited wealth, and large estates. One day, when the owner of all these received the call from the Beyond, he sent for his friend. 'Ba-ko,’ he said, 'it was my wish to see my daughter married to your son, but there has been no time. I leave Ma-shoé behind, look after her.'

He did not feel it necessary to say anything more. Ba-ko was his childhood friend. At one time, he, too, had been a wealthy man of property, but now had not only gone bankrupt by raising the Foyar temple, and feeding the monks, but was in debt. Nonetheless, the dying man was not afraid for a moment to leave without hesitation his only daughter with all that he possessed in the care of this man. He had, indeed, had this great privilege in his life of knowing his friend. Ba-ko, however, did not have to shoulder this responsibility for long. For he had also received the summons from the other side, and before the year was out, the old man, bowing to the sacred call, set out for the crossing to the Unknown, leaving the burden where it belonged.

His fellow villagers began celebrating his funeral rites with as great a zeal as they had loved and respected this god-fearing, poor man.

Ba-ko's dead body, decked out in garlands and sandalwood paste, lay in state on a richly carved bedstead, while down below the flow of fun and games, dancing and music, and feasting continued unabated day and night. It looked as if it would never come to an end.

Somehow slipping away from this grim revelry at his father's loss, Ba-thin sat weeping under a lonely tree. Suddenly turning round with a start, he saw Ma-shoé standing behind him. Silently drying her tears with the edge of her scarf, and sitting next to him, she took his right hand into hers, and whispered to him, 'Your father is dead, but your Ma-shoé is still alive.'  

II  
Ba-thin was a painter. He had submitted his last picture to the Royal Court through a merchant. The king had accepted it, and, as a mark of pleasure, rewarded him with a signet ring.

Ma-shoé's eyes filled with tears of joy. She stood close to him, and said softly, 'Ba-thin, you will be the greatest painter in the world.'

‘I shall now probably be able to repay my father's debts,' Ba-thin answered with a smile.
As her father's heir, Ma-shoé was his only creditor. Hence, above all, she felt deeply ashamed at this reminder.

‘If you go on humiliating me like this,' she said, ‘I shall never come to you again.'
Ba-thin remained silent. But the fearful thought that his father’s soul would be denied salvation on account of his debts seemed to send a shudder through his heart.

Ba-thin was working very hard these days. He was busy painting a new picture on a theme from the Jatakas; he had not looked up from his work the whole day.

Ma-shoé had come as on other days. It was her habit to tidy up and rearrange Ba-thin's bedroom, drawing-room and studio with her own hands; she dared not leave this duty to his servants and maids.

There was a mirror in front; Ba-thin's reflection had fallen off it. Looking at it steadily for a long time, Ma-shoé suddenly heaved a deep sigh, saying, 'Ba-thin, if you were a woman like us, you would have become the queen of the country by this time.'
'How do you mean?' Ba-thin asked, looking up with a smile.
'The king would have married you, and made you sit on his throne. He has many queens, but who among them can boast of your complexion, your hair and your face?' She then resumed her work. Ba-thin could not help recalling that he had heard similar remarks before when he was learning to paint in Mandalay.

'But if you had had the means of stealing my beauty, you would perhaps have tricked me out of it, and taken your place on the king's left side,'* he chaffed good-humouredly.
* Which is the side reserved for the female spouse, according to Indian tradition.
Ma-shoé made no reply to this accusation, but only murmured to herself, 'You are as weak as a woman, tender like a woman and equally beautiful—there is no limit to your beauty.'
 
III   
With the coming of spring, horse-racing used to take place with great pomp in the village of Imédin. A vast concourse of people had gathered that day for this purpose in a field at the end of the village.
With slow, silent steps, Ma-shoé had come to stand behind Ba-thin. He was so absorbed in his painting that he had not heard her footsteps.

'I have come, turn round and see,' Ma-shoé whispered. ‘Why all this dressing-up?' Ba-thin enquired, turning round with a start.

'Fancy your not remembering that it is the day of our races! Whoever wins will garland me today.'
'No, I'm afraid I hadn't remembered,' observed Ba-thin, and was about to take up his brush again. 'Never mind! Get up, how long will you be?' Ma-shoé asked, taking him in her arms.
These two were about the same age, Ba-thin was perhaps older by a few months, but from their childhood they had thus spent their nineteen years together. They had played together, quarrelled, fought each other, and loved each other.

In the large mirror before them, their faces blossomed like two blooming roses. 'Look!' Ba-thin said, pointing....
Ma-shoé gazed at this picture for a while with unsatiated eyes.

Suddenly, she came to feel that she, too, was beautiful. Dazed by this realization, her eyes closed. 'I'm like the blemish in the moon,’ she whispered. Drawing her face closer to him, Ba-thin said, ‘You are not the blemish of the moon, you are nobody's blemish, you are the moonlight itself. Look once more properly.’
But Ma-shoé dared not open her eyes; they remained closed as before.
Time would perhaps have passed like this for a long time, but a huge procession of dancing and singing men and women was on its way along the road in front to join the festivities. ‘Come, it’s time to go,' Ma-shoé urged, rising hurriedly.
‘But, Ma-shoé, how can I go at all?'
‘Why?’
‘I have promised to finish the painting in five days.'
‘And if you don't?'
‘Then the man will go away to Mandalay without taking the portrait, and without paying me.'
The mention of money hurt Ma-shoé, and made her feel ashamed. ‘But that doesn't mean that I must let you work yourself to death,’ she retorted angrily.
Ba-thin made no reply. The memory of his father’s debt had cast a melancholy shadow over his face which did not escape her notice.
'Sell it to me, then? I shall pay double for it,' she said.
Ba-thin had no doubt about it, but asked smilingly, 'But what will you do with it?'
Pointing to her costly necklace, she replied, 'I shall have the portrait framed with all the pearls and rubies that this contains, and have it hung in my bedroom to face me.’
‘Then?'
'Then when the big moon rises in the night, and its rays begin to play upon your sleeping face through the open window....'
‘Then, what?'
‘Then rousing you from your sleep....'
The sentence remained unfinished. Down below, Ma-shoé’s bullock-cart was waiting for her, the driver's loud call could be heard.
‘I shall hear the rest later, not now. It's time for you to go, you had better leave at once.'
Ma-shoé's demeanour gave no indication that time was pressing. For she settled down more comfortably, and said, 'I don't feel well, I shan't go.'
'Not go? You have given your word, you know that everybody is eagerly expecting you.'
'Let them. I'm not at all ashamed of breaking my promise, I shan't go,' Ma-shoé answered, violently shaking her head.
'What a shame!'
‘Then you also must come.'
'If only I could, I would certainly have come. But I shan't allow you to break your promise for me. Please do go, don't wait any longer.'
A look at his grave face, and the sound of his quiet, firm voice made Ma-shoé get up, her face paling with hurt pride. 'You want to keep me at a distance for your own convenience. I'm leaving, never to come back to you again,' she said.
In a moment, Ba-thin's firmness of duty dissolved in tears of affection. 'Don't take such a cruel vow, Ma-shoé, I know how it will all end,' he rejoined with a smile, drawing her closer. ‘But you mustn't delay any more,' he added.
'You can afford to drive me away,' answered Ma-shoé with the same sad expression on her face, 'because I can't help worrying about the state you would be in without me to look after your meals, your clothes and other things.' She did not wait for a reply, but quickly rushed out of the room.  
IV  
When towards the afternoon, the peacock-shaped silver bullock-cart of Ma-shoé arrived at the race field, a tremendous shout went up from the noisy, assembled crowd.
She was young, she was beautiful, she was unmarried, and was heir to vast fortunes. In the realm of human youth, her place was very high. So here, too, the most exalted seat was reserved for her. She would hand out the garland today. And then the lucky one, who would place the chaplet of victory on her head, would perhaps become the sole object of envy in the world for his good fortune.
Dressed in scarlet, and seated on caparisoned horses, the riders were hard put to it to keep their spirits and excitement under control. It looked as though nothing was impossible for them today.
Little by little, time drew near, and the few who had come to test their fate today lined up, and in a moment, at the sound of the gong, let their horses go, not caring whether they lived or died.
This was bravery, part of the battle. Ma-shoé's ancestors had all been soldiers, the excitement of battle ran in her veins, woman though she was. She was powerless not to acclaim with all her heart the victor, whoever he was.
So, when an unknown youth from a different village, with blood-spattered body, trembling lips and damp hands, came forward to place the chaplet of victory on her head, her excess of fervour seemed a trifle unseemly in the eyes of many an aristocratic lady.
On the return journey, she asked him to sit by her, and in a choking voice said, 'I was frightfully worried about you, and once even felt afraid lest your legs got caught in those high walls!'
The youth modestly bowed, but Ma-shoé could not help comparing this reckless, robust youth with her own weak, delicate, and utterly helpless artist.
The youth was called Po-thin. As she got to know him in the course of conversation, she discovered that he, too, came of an aristocratic family, was rich, and in fact a distant relative.
That evening, Ma-shoé had invited a number of people to dinner at her palace. They and many others had followed her cart in a crowd. The evening sky was totally eclipsed by the dust raised by their wild dancing and the air resounded with the frenzy of their merriment and the unbearable din of their music.
As this terrifying crowd was passing in front of his house, Ba-thin, momentarily leaving his work, came to stand by the window, silently watching.  
V  
Next day, talking to Ba-thin about the previous evening's dinner party, Ma-shoé said, 'We had an enjoyable evening yesterday. Many people were good enough to come, but only you I did not ask, because you were busy.'
He was exerting his utmost to finish the portrait, so without lifting his head, he observed, 'You did well,' and went on with his work.
Dumbfounded, Ma-shoé remained seated. She was bursting to talk; pressure of work had prevented Ba-thin from joining the festivities the day before, so she had come prepared to have a long chat, but everything seemed to have gone wrong. Alone, one can rave, but not talk, so, in her
bewilderment, she went on sitting, somehow not daring to try to enter the closed portals of utter indifference and profound silence of this other person. All kinds of little chores that she was used to doing every day remained unattended that day—she did not feel inclined to lend her hand to anything at all. A long time passed in this fashion. Ba-thin did not raise his head once, nor ask any questions. He showed not the least curiosity about the great happenings of the day before, nor did he seem to find much time even to breathe in the intervals of his labour.
Hurt and ashamed, she remained silent for a long time, but got up at last, saying, ‘I shall say good-bye then for today.’
‘Good-bye,' said Ba-thin with his eyes still fixed on the portrait.
As she was leaving, Ma-shoé seemed to feel that she had fathomed the secret of the man's heart. Thus although for a moment, she even felt like enquiring, she could not open her mouth, and went out in silence instead.
Stepping into her house, she found Po-thin waiting. He had come to thank her for the previous night's entertainment. Ma-shoé warmly showed the guest to a seat.
The young man first broached the subject of Ma-shoé's wealth, then of the aristocracy of her family, of her father's renown, and of the regard he enjoyed at the Court, thus babbling away without a stop about nothing in particular.
Some of this she heard, some did not even reach her inattentive ears. The man was not only a strong and intrepid horseman, but also cunning. No, Ma-shoé's indifference did not escape him. When at last he began to dilate on beauty, referring to the royal family at Mandalay, and feigning innocence, he persistently hinted at this particular lady, her beauty and her wealth. She felt very embarrassed, but could not help feeling strangely happy and proud.
At the end of the conversation, when Po-thin took leave, he managed to get invited to dinner again for that evening.
But when he was gone, Ma-shoé turned over in her mind everything he had said, and her whole being filled with the pettiness of it all and fatigue, and she felt annoyed and disgusted with herself for this rash invitation. Quickly, she sent off her servants with letters of invitation to several other friends also. The guests arrived punctually, but by the time the dinner was over amid much laughter and fun, much dancing and music, little was left of the night.
Tired and exhausted, she went to bed, but sleep eluded her eyes. But surprisingly, she could not recall a single thing of how she had spent all this time. The whole affair seemed so old, so trivial, as though belonging to the very long ago, and as dry as it was insipid. And she kept constantly remembering another person who lived in the seclusion and safety of a house at the bottom of her own garden—not even a hint of that day’s great hilarity had perhaps reached his ears.  
VI  
As day dawned, everyday habit began tugging at Ma-shoé. Once again she came over to sit in Ba- thin's room. As every other day, he hurried over his simple welcome by just saying, 'Come,' and returned to his wrork. Thus although she was sitting close to him, she repeatedly felt that this busy, silent man had slipped far, far away from her.
For a long time, Ma-shoé found nothing to say. Then overcoming shyness, she asked, 'How much more have you to do?'
'Quite a lot.'
'Then what did you do the last two days?’
Without answering, Ba-thin passed her the cigarette-case, saying, ‘I can't stand that smell of liquor.'
Understanding the hint, Ma-shoé flared up, and violently pushing away the cigarette-case exclaimed, 'I don't smoke in the morning, nor have I done anything to want to drown the smell of liquor by cigarette smoke—I'm not a common woman.'
Looking up, Ba-thin calmly replied, 'Perhaps, wine has somehow got spilt on your clothes, I haven't invented the smell.’
Ma-shoé stood up with lightning speed. 'You are as mean as you are jealous,' she said, 'you have insulted me for nothing. Very well, then, I'm removing my clothes from your room for good.' As she was hurrying out of the room without waiting for an answer, Ba-thin called after her, and said in the same restrained voice, 'Nobody has ever called me either mean or jealous, I have only cautioned you, since you are headed for a fall.’
‘How so?' Ma-shoé asked, turning round.
‘That's how I feel.'
‘All right, have it your own way; you will, of course, never see eye to eye with one whose father has bequeathed only his blessings and not his curse for his child.'
As she departed, Ba-thin remained still in his seat. He could never imagine that so much love could in one day turn into such deadly hate.
Coming home, Ma-shoé again found Po-thin seated. Respectfully rising to his feet, he greeted her with a very sweet smile. Perhaps unconsciously, Ma-shoé frowned.
‘Is there anything I can do for you?'
‘No, nothing really....'
‘Then I’m busy,' observed Ma-shoé, and hurried upstairs.
The man was left completely speechless when he recalled the previous evening. But as the servant approached, he smiled dryly, and pressing a rupee into his palm went out.  
VII  
Ma-shoé and Ba-thin had never been separated even for a moment since childhood, but such was the irony of fate that they did not see each other for more than a month.
Ma-shoé tried to console herself by saying that it was perhaps all for the good that the toils of infatuation which had held her in their grip for so long had at last been snapped. She would have nothing whatsoever to do with him any more. Even when her father was alive, this wild, wayward daughter of a rich man had often wanted to do so many things which she had refrained from doing only for fear of displeasing solemn, self-possessed Ba-thin. But now she was free, completely her own mistress, and had nothing more to answer for to anybody, anywhere. Only one thought she had turned over a good deal in her mind, built it up and demolished it, but never once had she tried to break open the door to the inner recesses of her heart to see what it held! If she had, she would have found that she had all along only been deceiving herself. In that inner sanctum, day and night the two sat face to face—not talking of love, nor quarrelling, only their eyes ceaselessly shedding silent tears.
It was only because this profoundly tragic picture had remained unknown to her mind's eye that the drama of many a futile festive night could go on being enacted in her own house without grinding her down to dust by the shame of defeat!
But on this day, time did not seem to want to pass in the same manner. I shall tell you why.
Every year, her birthday was an occasion for much merrymaking and feasting in her house. Preparations for these, it seemed, were being pursued with extra gusto. Even neighbours had come to help the servants and maids of the household. But only she appeared to have no heart in anything. Ever since the morning, she had begun to feel that all was vanity, futile effort. For some reason she had persuaded herself to think that Ba-thin, too, was not above jealousy. Did the message of all these elaborate, ever-new preparations for gaieties in her house never penetrate his closed windows to reach his solitary room? Did it not interrupt him in his work?
Perhaps sometimes he would throw his brush aside and sit still, perhaps sometimes he paced up and down his room with restless, rapid steps, or perhaps sometimes, lying awake all night on his hot bed, he was consumed with remorse, or perhaps—but no, no more of it.
All this time, in imagination, Ma-shoé had been enjoying a kind of bitter delight, but today, on her birthday, she suddenly began feeling that it was all futile, vain. Nothing seemed to disturb him in his work in any way. All was false, all a fraud. He did not want to catch, nor be caught himself. Such a
frail body seemed suddenly to have become hard and immovable as a rock—no trouble from anywhere seemed to agitate him in the least.
Nonetheless, elaborate preparations for the birthday celebrations were going ahead with all pomp and circumstance. Po-thin was everywhere today, in everything. Indeed, it was even being whispered among the acquaintances that one day this man would become the master of this house, and perhaps that day was not very far away.
The house had filled with men and women of the village—the hum of gaiety was everywhere. But only the person for whom all this was about seemed listless, the shadow of sadness covering her face. But this shadow was hardly perceptible to an outsider, save to one or two of the servants and maids of former days. And perhaps to the One who invisibly watches everything. Only He could see that to this girl everything was sheer agony that day. On this birthday, the person who was first to come secretly every year to place the garland of benediction round her neck, was not there today, nor the garland. That garland was desperately missing that day.
‘Why don't I see him anywhere today, little mother?' the old servant of Ma-shoé's father's time came to ask.
The old man had retired some time ago, and moved to another village—he was not aware of the estrangement. Since his arrival that morning, he had heard of it in the servants' quarter. ‘If you want to see him, go to his house, why come here?’ Ma-shoé answered haughtily.
‘Very well, I shall do that,’ the old man said, and departed. 'But,' he muttered to himself as he went, 'it won't do to see him alone, I must see you both together, otherwise I have walked all this distance for nothing.'
The secret in the old man's mind did not go unnoticed. Since his departure, amid all her work, she appeared to pass her time in a state of subdued excitement. All of a sudden, at the muffled sound of a low voice, she turned round to see Ba-thin. An electric current shot through her body; but immediately controlling herself, she turned her face away, and took herself off somewhere else.
'He was your guest after all, little mother, should you not have said a word to him at least?' rejoined the old man on his return a little later.
'But did I ask you to fetch him?'
'That was my fault,' he replied, and turned to go. 'But surely there are other people in the house beside myself, they could have talked to him!'
'That is so, but it is not necessary any more, he has left,’ the old man added.
'That would be my luck! Otherwise, you also could have asked him to have something,' she said after a pause.
'No, I'm not so devoid of shame,' the old man retorted, and left in anger.  
VIII  
This insult brought tears to Ba-thin's eyes. But he blamed nobody, repeatedly blaming himself instead, saying, 'Well served, I deserved it, shameless as I am.'
Thus although the necessity was there, it was not yet over and done with in one night. In a couple of days, he became aware that an insult of an infinitely worse kind was still in store for him. And the knowledge came to him in such a manner that he hardly knew how to cover up his shame in a whole lifetime.
The portrait with which we started the story, the picture of Gopa from the Jatakas had at last been completed; more than a month's unremitting toil had at last borne fruit that day. He remained immersed the whole morning in the happiness of it.
The portrait was destined for the Royal Court, on receipt of information, the personage who was to pay for it came to take it away. As the cover was removed from the portrait, he fell back in alarm. He was no tyro in matters of art. So, after staring fixedly at it for a long time, he burst out in an agitated voice, saying, 'I can't possibly give this portrait to the king.’
‘Why?' enquired Ba-thin, stricken with fear and surprise.
‘The reason is, I know this face. If the divine is fashioned in the image of the human, we insult the divine. If this is discovered, the king will refuse to see me.' With this remark, he gazed for a while at the wide-open, troubled eyes of the painter, and with the ghost of a smile said, 'If you look carefully, you will know whose face it is. No, this won't do!'
A pall of mist seemed gradually to lift from Ba-thin's eyes. Even though the gentleman had left, he remained standing with the same fixed stare. Tears poured from his eyes, and he realized that the beauty and loveliness he had wrung out of his heart so long and after so much labour, and that the one who had mocked him day and night as divine—was not the Gopa of the Jatakas, but his very own Ma-shoé!
Drying his eyes, he groaned: 'Oh God, why have you made me suffer like this, what have I done to you?'  
IX  
‘Even the gods desire you, Ma-shoé, I'm only human,' Po-thin was encouraged to say.
‘But one who doesn't is perhaps greater than a god,' Ma-shoé said absent-mindedly.
Without letting this discussion proceed any further, she added, ‘I understand that you have great influence at the Court—could you get something done for me, and very soon?’
'What, for instance?' Po-thin enquired eagerly.
'Someone owes me a lot of money, but I can't realize it. There is no document, can you suggest a solution?'
‘I can. But surely you know who the official concerned is!’ he replied with a laugh.
The answer was clearly implicit in the laughter.
'Then please do something about it. Today. I can't wait a day longer,' Ma-shoé went on, eagerly seizing him by the hand.
'Very well, it will be done,' Po-thin said with a nod.
This debt was so trivial, so impossible, almost a matter of joke that she had never given it a thought. But the assurance from the king's official set in a trice Ma-shoé's whole body tingling with excitement. With blazing eyes, she began to relate the whole story, adding, 'I shan't give up a thing, not even a farthing, even as a leech sucks up blood. Today—can't it be done at once?' she asked.
It was superfluous to say anything more to this man. It had exceeded his expectations! 'It's the king's law, it requires seven days, you will somehow have to hold yourself in patience, then you may suck as much blood as you like, I shan't object,' he answered, mastering his inner joy and eagerness with difficulty.
'Very well, but you had better go now,' she said, and almost ran away.
The man's greed for this foolish girl was unbounded. He was so used to enduring all her indifference without protest that he behaved no differently even that day. Rather, as he walked home, his excited heart kept repeating to itself the assurance that there was nothing more to fear— his path to success would soon be rid of all obstacles. That was true. For it was impossible for him that day even to imagine how soon and how great a surprise God had in store for him.  
X  
The demand note for debt arrived. With the paper in his hand, Ba-thin sat in silence for a long time. Although he had not expected quite this, he was not surprised either. Time was short, something must be done soon.
Once Ma-shoé had made fun of his father's extravagance in a fit of anger; he had neither forgotten this nor forgiven her. So, now, he did not want to insult his father's memory by appealing
for an extension of time for repayment. His only anxiety was whether or not he would be able to redeem his father's debt by parting with all he possessed. In his own village, there was a wealthy merchant. The very next morning, he called on him secretly, to propose selling all he had. It appeared that what he was prepared to offer was quite sufficient. He collected the money, and brought it home, but only when he went down with fever did he become aware how greatly the shock of someone’s unreasoning heartlessness had affected his body and mind.
He hardly noticed how the days and nights passed. When he came to and sat up, he realized that that very day was the last day for the settlement of his debt. In the quiet of her room, Ma-shoé was busy weaving the net of her imagination. Continually rebuffed in her pride, she had also succeeded in raising someone else's pride sky-high. She had no doubt that, that very day, this inordinate pride would be ground down to dust under her feet.
Her servant came to announce meanwhile that Ba-thin was waiting downstairs. 'I know,' said Ma-shoé with a cruel smile on her lips. She herself was waiting for this moment.
As Ma-shoé came down, Ba-thin got up. But when she looked at his face, she was stung to the quick. She did not want money, nor had she the least hankering for money, but she realized now what terrible injustice could be committed in the name of money. Ba-thin spoke first. 'Today is the last of the seven days, I have brought your money,' he said.
Alas! even on his deathbed man cannot shed his pride. Otherwise, how could Ma-shoé bring herself to say that she had not asked for a little money, but wanted him to settle the whole of his debt.
Ba-thin's sick, parched face lighted up with a smile, and he replied, 'Yes, indeed, I have brought all your money.'
'All the money, where did you get it?'
'You will know tomorrow. It's in the box, ask somebody to count it.'
'How long will you be?' the cart-driver called from across the threshold, 'if we don't set out early, we shan't be able to find shelter for the night at Pegu.'
Craning her neck, Ma-shoé saw in the road a waiting bullock cart, laden with his boxes, bed-roll and other belongings. In a moment her whole face changed colour with fright, and, in her anxiety, she began piling him with a thousand questions. 'Who is going to Pegu?' she asked, 'whose cart is this? Where have you obtained all this money? Why are your eyes so bloodless? If I am to know tomorrow, why not tell me today?’
Forgetting herself, as she talked, she seized him by the hand—and then at once letting it go, started as she touched his forehead. 'Ugh! you have a temperature,' she said, 'and no wonder your face is so pale!'
'Sit down,' Ba-thin said in a calm, gentle voice, freeing himself. 'I'm on my way to Mandalay, will you listen to my last request?' Having said this, he, too, sat down.
Ma-shoé nodded assent. After a moment's silence, Ba-thin went on, 'my last request is that you should soon marry someone dependable. Don't remain single much longer. Another thing—.'
'You must always bear in mind another thing,' he continued in an even gentler voice, 'it is that, like bashfulness, pride is as much a feminine ornament, but overdoing it —.'
'I shall hear all this some other time. Where did you get the money?' Ma-shoé persisted, impatiently interrupting him.
Ba-thin laughed. 'Why do you ask this? I have no secrets from you.'
Gulping, Ba-thin hesitated for a moment, and then said at last, 'My father's debt has been paid off with his own property—otherwise, what else have I left?'
'And your garden?'
'That is also father's.'
'And all your books?'
'What shall I do with them? Besides, they are also his.'
'Never mind,' Ma-shoé added with a sigh, 'you must now go upstairs to bed.'
‘But I must leave today without fail.'
'With such a temperature? Do you really believe that I shall let you go in this condition?' she said. Then coming closer, she again took his hand. Ba-thin now looked at Ma-shoé's face with astonished eyes and saw that her appearance had undergone a total transformation in a moment. In that face there was no sign left of anything—sadness, hatred, desperation, shame or pride, save only that of a vastness of affection and that of an equally profound concern. Impelled by the magic charm of this face, he quietly followed her to the bedroom upstairs.
Having helped him to lie down, Ma-shoé sat by him, and fixing her eyes, sparkling with tears, on his wan face, she said, ‘Do you think you have paid off my debt, simply because you have brought all this money? Give up the idea of going to Mandalay, if you even dare to go out of this room without my permission, I shall take my own life by jumping off the roof. I have been hurt much already, I shall endure it no longer, I tell you that for certain.'
Ba-thin made no further reply. Pulling the bedclothes over himself, he turned over to sleep with a sigh.