The Heritage of India – A. L. Basham (Summary)

The Heritage of India – A. L. Basham

According to A. L. Basham’s essay “The Heritage of India” deals with innate cultural traditions of Ancient India, which remain unchanged though India had gone through many phases of historical and cultural bouts. In the Medieval times, India suffered from many social evils like sati, child marriages and the most inhuman practice of untouchablity, which were not known to Ancient India. All such evil practices in India were posing a substantial threat to its progress. Raja Ram Mohan Roy was initially sounded the theme of social reform against such social evils. He fought against ignorant and religious fanatics of that time to eradicate the inhuman practice of sati. Swami Vivekananda continued the tradition of social reform on various issues, which was initiated by Raja Ram Mohan Roy and declared that the highest form of service to Great Mother India was social service. Later on, there were many other great Indians served the nation, who believed in social service. Among those Mahatma Gandhi was the greatest of all who developed the theme of social service as a religious duty and his theme of social service was being followed by many of his successors.  

Both Indians and Europeans wrongly judged that Gandhi was the epitome of Hindu tradition. But he was greatly influenced by the Western ideas and strongly believed in the fundamentals of ancient Indian culture. He had great sympathy for underdog and his antipathy to caste though not unprecedented in ancient India.  Gandhi was greatly influenced from European 19^th century liberalism than to anything in India to uphold the issue of untouchability in terms of its eradication. He might have inspired his faith in non-violence and pacifism from ‘Sermon on the Mount’ and Tolstoy.  His championing of women’s rights is also the result of Western influence. Gandhi was always an innovator rather than a conservative.  With this background of perception Gandhi and his followers of the Indian National Congress had given new orientation and a new life to Hindu Culture, after many centuries of its stagnation.

Today, India is a composition of people who do not look back with pride on their ancient culture as well as people who are not willing to sacrifice some of its effete elements so that India may develop and progress, economically and politically. But people of India will be deeply rooted in the tradition and aware of the continuity of their culture.

It was only seven years after independence the extremes of national self-denigration and fanatical cultural chauvinism were gradually disappearing. Although the Indian culture came into the contact of many other cultures of the world somehow it was changed and influenced. Now it is well on the way to assimilating the culture of the West. Hindu civilization will remain intact and retain its continuity. Even in the modern times the Bhagawad Gita will never cease to inspire men of action and the Upanishads men of thought. The labour-saving devices of the West may not affect the Indian way life and that will continue forever.  People in India will still love the tales of the heroes of the Mahabharata and the Ramayana and the love stories of Dushyanta and Shakuntala and Pururava and Urvasi. The quite and gentle happiness pervades all-times in Indian life where oppression, disease and poverty have overclouded.

The extravagant and barbarous hecatombs of the Vedic age have been forgotten long ago however some animal sacrifices are still continuing in some sects. Widows have long ceased to be burnt on their husband’s pyres.  Girls may not be married in their childhood. Now a days Brahmans rub their shoulders with the lowest castes while travelling in buses and trains without consciousness of grave pollution. Temples are open to all by law. Disappearance of caste is slowly begun long ago. In fact the whole face of India is altering but the cultural tradition continues and it will never be lost.

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Laugh and be Merry – John Masefield

Laugh and be Merry – John Masefield (Summary)

The poem “Laugh and be Merry” by John Masefield examines the theme of living ‘Life’ to the full. In this poem he urges us to be cheerful and be merry and live the ‘Life’ to the fullest. The primary idea of the creation of entire universe is for happiness of man. The poet reminds us that life is not a bed of roses. There may be challenges and sufferings and the moments of sorrow or unhappiness in the life of each person but they are all passing things. The joy that we derive from the universe and from the Nature of the Earth is everlasting. Men will not do well to have recourse to Nature, which is an embodiment of God’s beauty and grandeur. So, the poet advises us to laugh and be merry.

The poet says:

Laugh and be merry: remember, in olden time,

God made heaven and earth for joy He took in a rhyme,

Made them, and filled them full with the strong red wine of His mirth;

The splendid joy of the stars, the joy of the earth.

Life is brief and it is not to be wasted away in sorrow and despair. He advocates us to get pleasure from our lives in this world, since the universe itself is a manifestation of the joy of God. Each moment of our life should be cherished and rejoiced. The celestial bodies like moon and stars are created for the happiness of man. So we should be enlivened by God’s purposeful creation. The poet compares the world with an inn where all human beings are temporary guests. We should enjoy life till it comes to an end and the lilt of music of life ends. So man should make use of his short and brief stay on Earth by laughing away his troubles and sorrows. The entire universe is created with the sweet pattern of music and filled them with intoxicating red wine that is His extreme joy and delight. He must draw happiness and inspiration from everything around him. The joy of life is very basis of our brotherhood and mutual love. Man must live happily with fellow men like brothers residing in an inn. He must play game of life cheerfully and pass through the journey of joy till he reaches his ultimate goal or destination. Similarly, we should enjoy our life to the last breath; and the song finishes. Life is compared to a game also. While playing we must enjoy the game without fretting about victory or defeat. Let us play the game of life cheerfully till to the end.

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The Accompanist - Anitha Desai (Summary)

The Accompanist - Anitha Desai

Anitha Desai is one of the literary luminaries of the contemporary Indian fiction writing in English and being honoured with Padma Shri for her literary forte. She is prolific post-colonial writer who is like Virginia Woolf deals with the psychology of souls and goes down-reaching into the hearts of her characters to expose their inner affection and dig out the concealed questions that spring at the core of their hearts. Her short stories are known for their witty, suggestive, tender and perceptive, and perfect in revealing  her skill and style.

Anitha Desai’s “The Accompanist” is an extract of her collection of short stories “Games At Twilight” published in 1978 portrays the emotional state of a tanpura artist who proves as a true disciple and accompanist to his master Ustad Rahim Khan.

The short story “The Accompanist” deals with the lives of the Accompanist and Ustad Rahim Khan who feel happy to pursue the path of virtue and commitment. The Accompanist (Bhaiyya) and Ustad Rahim Khan are two major characters around whom the whole story revolves. The Accompanist is a  truly devoted follower of his master. He is a tanpura player to his master Ustad Rahim Khan, a noted classical musician. The Accompanist is now thirty years of age who had come to his master just as a boy of fifteen years. As a boy, The Accompanist gets a lot of elementary knowledge of music as well as training from his own father, who himself was a musical instrument maker. The Accompanist (Bhaiyya) remains a life-long tanpura accompanist to his master. He admires his master very profoundly with unbounded love for his master and does not see any blemish in him (master) as a true and obedient pupil strictly in the traditional sense of the teacher-taught relationship. 

The Accompanist recollects his childhood memories when his trust was shaken out due to the provoking of his childhood friends, Ajit and Bhola. 

They said “Bhai, go back to the sitar. You even know how to play the sarod and the veena. You could be great Ustad yourself, with some practice. We are telling you this for your own good. When you become famous and go to America, you will thank us for this advice why do you spend your life sitting at the back of the stage and playing that idiotic tanpura while someone else takes all the fame and all the money from you?”

On hearing this provocation he cried continuously. Everything appeared to be unpleasant and evil and then he recollected the past incidents of his life when he was a vagrant or a vagabond who was without hope, with out aim and without destination and was passing a meaningless life. He goes back to his childhood days and reminiscences how other things were of importance to him. 

The Accompanist was brought up under humble surroundings where his family carried the tradition of making musical instruments. His father, Mishraji, as a maker of musical instruments, expected him to play a wide range of instruments to keep the family tradition to continue. Music was worshipped in his family. The central hall of his house was famous for the musical instruments made by both his father and his grand father. But The accompanist felt that it was not his desire to carry his family tradition to be continued further. Initially, the accompanist himself had strong likeness for music and also started learning all ragas and raginis from his father while he was at the age of four. His father sternly tested his knowledge in music with rapid persistent questioning in his unmusical grating voice and frequently grabbed his ears pulled them during his teaching. He felt the need to escape from such harsh and intense musical classes.  Frequently, he bunked off his musical classes to play gulli-danda, kho, and marbles with mischievous boys of his mohalla. When, he had grown up into a teenage boy he engulfed in the bustling life-style of the city by moving around in the bazar and watching as many as six cinema shows for a week. Nargis and Meena Kumari were the queens of heaven for him.  In order to fulfil his desires he never hesitated to steal money from his father’s pockets or from his mother’s savings. Not only cinemas but also he was fond of sweets. His mouth watered for halwa or jelebi made by his mother. He considered that his mother was wonderful cook. He used to steal his brother’s and sister’s share of sweets for which he was beaten and cursed by the whole family. Stealing the shares of his brother and sister proved him unkindly, irresponsible, unsociable and naughty boy. 

When the accompanist first met Ustad, as he was boy of fifteen at his father’s instructions to deliver him a newly ordered tanpura. On seeing him, who came with a tanpura in his both hands, Ustad asked him that he could play tanpura for the concert in the place of his regular old accompanist. From that moment the accompanist changed himself completely. The love for music and Ustad Rahim Khan changed everything in his life and he gave up all his childhood pranks and pleasures. All his attractions regarding playing with mischievous boys of mohalla and cinemas disappeared from his life. Music had taken their place and it had become the goal of his life. Ustad Rahim Khan’s company brought several changes in his life and gave birth to him as Bhaiya, the tanpura player.  Thus he devoted his whole life to Ustad and became his true friend and accompanist to his master. 

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The Lost Child — Mulk Raj Anand (Summary)

The Lost Child — Mulk Raj Anand

The short story “The Lost Child” by Mulk Raj Anand describes how a little child was lost in the crowd of a village fair. One day, on the day of the spring festival a large crowd of brightly dressed people came out of the lanes and alleys of a town and headed towards the village fair. Among them a happy little boy was following his parents. The little boy lagged behind his parents as he was attracted by the toys displayed in the shops of the fair. He wanted to have a toy but he received an angry look from his father and his kind-hearted mother asked him tenderly to see what was before him. Then he began to sob as his desire was not fulfilled by his parents. Soon, they came into a vast stretch of mustered fields filled with yellow flowers stretching into miles like a rippling yellow river. The little boy’s eyes were filled with delight and amusement looking at the beautiful natural scenery. 

The child’s joy knew no bounds. He left the footpath and entered into the mustard-field and began to chase butterflies and dragon flies and tried to catch them if possible. His mother warned him not to go far away and asked him to be with them. He joined his parents and walked along them with side be side but again left them being attracted by a number of little worms and insects. He was once again called back by his parents who were sitting on the edge of a well in a grove. They were seated under a huge banyan tree which stretched its branches over smaller trees such as the jack, champak and gulmohur. When the child moving towards his parents with capers under the banyan tree where he lost his way and found himself in the fair again. 

Once again he came back to the fair unexpectedly. In the fair the child was attracted by the cries of a sweetmeat seller. His mouth watered for the burfi which was favourite to him. He knew very well that his desire would not be fulfilled, yet he spoke of it in a whisper then moved on without waiting for an answer. Then he came across flower seller, a balloon seller and a snake charmer who was playing on a flute before a snake. But the child had to pass on knowing that his parents were not ready to satisfy his desires. At last he came to a place which gave him the greatest attraction. It was a roundabout. He watched it going round and round with merry band of men, women and children on it. As soon as it stopped he boldly asked his parents for the pleasure of a ride on the roundabout. There was no answer from his parents. He turned round to see his parents but his parents were nowhere. 

Upon finding himself  alone and bereft of his parents, he ran here and there with no respite in sobbing. His turban came off and clothes became shabby with sweat and dust. He tries to find his parents in the people who are busy in laughing, jesting and moving all round. Tired from running the little boy stood sobbing for some time and then started running again. He ran desperately through people’s legs, crying ‘mother, father’. At the door of the temple the crowd was so thick that he was knocked down and was about to be trampled when he was picked up by a man in the crowd. The man came out of the crowd with the boy and asked him whose boy he was. The child only cried bitterly, saying that he wanted his father and mother. The kind hearted man tried to console the child by offering him a ride on the roundabout, but the child repeated his cry for his parents. Next The man took him to the snake-charmer but he refused to listen to his flute; then he offered to buy him the bright coloured balloons. Finally, the man tried to console him with some sweets, but all his efforts failed. The child only sobbed ‘I want my mother, I want my father.’  

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Obituary - A. K. Ramanujan (Summary)

Obituary - A. K. Ramanujan

A. K. Ramanujan’s poem “Obituary” is a reminiscence of his father’s life and death in a brahmin ghetto. The opening lines of the poem enumerate the list of things that his father had left behind as legacy. He left an old table heaped with old, dusty newspaper along with debts, daughters and a bedwetting grandson. The poets carps that his father had left them behind despite his trials and tribulations of his entire life. In India daughters are considered to be a burden, not greater than debts. They are being entrusted to their surviving  sons with responsibility of ‘marrying them off’ with adequate dowry to suit to their status. Then the poet talks about the grandson whose name was chosen with a toss of a coin and who had incorrigible habit of bedwetting. All these highlight that the poet’s father had left behind nothing but memories in the form of debris.   

Added to the legacy a dilapidated house that leant on a coconut tree through their growing years was also left. This nondescript old house symbolises the deterioration in their quality of life. Further, it may also signify that the family had to live a life of depending on others as the way the house leant on the coconut tree. The poet utters that his father being ‘the burning type’ burnt properly on the pyre of cremation. He burned….

                                         at the cremation

                                         as before, easily

                                         and at both ends,

His eyes appeared as coins in his funeral pyre. They appear as coin-like in their metallic stare. The poet indicated that perhaps his father’s eyes were greedy for money. After the cremation he left some half-burnt spinal discs. The priest advised the poet to pick them ‘gingerly’ to immerse them at Triveni, where three holy rivers confluence as per the Hindu rites. No head stone was erected at his tomb bearing the dates of his birth and death. He is doomed to be incapable that even his birth was a caesarean reveals that he even put any effort for his own birth. His death also came easily to him in the form of heart failure at the fruit market. 

All he gained in his life is worth mentioning that he managed to get two lines of obituary printed somewhere in the columns of a newspaper published from Madras. The poet hoped to come across these lines of obituary of his late father in the process where the old newspaper might have sold to street hawker, who  in turn sold it to a grocer from whom the poet occasionally bought provisions. The poet states earlier that he used to read for his fancy from those pices of newspaper in which groceries like salt and jaggery are wrapped in cones. Thus, the poet attempts to discover some meaning of his father’s life in his poem ‘Obituary’.   

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The Heritage of India — A. L. Basham (II Sem Additional English)

The Heritage of India — A. L. Basham

Ram Mohan Roy had sounded the theme with his passionate advocacy of social reform; Vivekananda repeated in with a more nationalist timbre, when he declared that the highest for of service of the Great Mother was social service. Other great Indians, chief of whom was Mahatma Gandhi, developed the theme of social service as a religious duty, and the development continues under Gandhi’s successors.  

Mahatma Gandhi was looked on by many, both Indian and European, as the epitome of Hindu tradition, but this is a false judgement for he was much influenced by Western ideas. Gandhi believed in the fundamentals of his Ancient culture, but his passionate of the underdog and his antipathy to caste though not unprecedented in ancient India, were unorthodox in the extreme, and owed more to European 19th century liberalism than to anything Indian. His faith in non-violence was, as we have seen, by no means typical of Hinduism — his predecessor in revolt, the able Maratha Brahman B. G. Tilak (Bala Gangadhar Tilak), and Gandhi’s impatient lieutenant Subhash Chandra Bose, were for more orthodox in this respect. For Gandhi’s pacifism we must look to the ‘Sermon on the Mount’ and to Tolstoy. His championing of women’s right is also the result of Western influence. In his social context, he was always rather an innovator  than a conservative. Though some of his colleagues thought his programme of limited social reform too slow, he succeeded in shifting the whole emphasis of Hindu though towards a popular and equalitarian social order, in place of the hierarchy of class and caste. Following up the work of many less well-known 19th century reformer, Gandhi and his followers of the Indian National Congress have given new orientation and new life to Hindu culture, after centuries of stagnation.

Today, there are few Indians, whatever this creed, who do not look back with pride on their ancient culture, and there are few intelligent Indians who are not willing to sacrifice some of its effete Clements so that India may develop and progress. Politically and economically, India faces many problems of great difficulty, and no one can forecast her future  with any certainty. But is is safe to predict that, what the future may be, the Indians of coming generations will not be unconvincing and self-conscious copies of Europeans, but will be men rooted in their traditions, and aware of the continuity of their culture. Already, after only seven years of Independence, the extremes of national self-denigration and fanatical  cultural chauvinism are disappearing. We believe that Hindu civilisation is in the act of performing its most spectacular feat of synthesis. In the past, it has received, adapted and digested elements of many different cultures— Indo-European, Mesopotamian, Iranian, Greek, Roman, Scythian, Turkish, Persian and Arab. With each new influence, it has somewhat changed. Now it is well on the way to assimilating the culture of the West. 

Hindu civilisation will, we believe, retain its continuity. The Bhagwad Gita will not cease to inspire men of action, and the Upanishads, men of thought. The change and graciousness of  of the Indian way of life will continue, never mush affected it may be by the labour-saving devices of the West. People will still love the tales of the heroes of the Mahabharata and the Ramayana and of the loves of Dushyanta and Shakuntala and Pururava and Urvasi. The quite and gentle happiness which has at all-times pervaded Indian life where oppression, disease and poverty have not overclouded it will surely not vanish beefier the more hectic ways of the West.

Much that was useless in ancient Indian culture has already perished. The extravagant and barbarous hecatombs of the Vedic age have long since been forgotten, though animal sacrifice continues in some sects. Widows have long ceased to be burnt on their husband’s pyres. Girls may not by law be married in childhood. In see and trains all over India, Brahmans, rub shoulders with the lowest castes without consciousness of grave pollution, and the temples are open to all by law. Caste is vanishing; the process began long ago, but its pace is now so rapid that the more objectionable features of caste may have disappeared within a generation or so. The old family system is adapting itself to present-day conditions. In fact, the whole face of India is altering, but the cultural tradition continues, and it will never be lost.

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Louis Braille (Summary) B. Com. II sem Basic English

Louis Braille

Louis Braille was a son of farmer as well as a leather worker who lost his both eyes by an accident at his early age. Braille had mastered his disability while still a boy. He  attended Hauy’s school in 1819 and excelled in his education and won scholarship from France’s Royal Institute for Blind Youth. Later he taught there. While still a student there, he began developing a system of tactile code that could allow blind people to read and write quickly and efficiently. He soon became determined to fashion a system of reading and writing that could bridge the critical gap in communication between the sighted and the blind.

In 1821, Braille learned of a communication system devised by captain Charles Barbier of the French Army. Barbier’s “Night Writing”, was a code of dots and dashes impressed into thick paper. These impressions could be interpreted entirely by the fingers, letting soldiers share information on the battle field without having light or needing to speak.

The captain’s code turned out to be too complex to use in its original military form, but it inspired Braille to develop a system of his own. Braille worked tirelessly on his ideas, and his system was largely completed by 1824, when he was just fifteen years of age. From Barbier’s “Night Writing”, he innovated by simplifying its form and maximising  its efficiency. He made uniform column for each letter, and he reduced the twelve raised dots to six. He published his system in 1829, and by the second edition in 1837 had discarded the dashes because they are too difficulty to read. Crucially, Braille’s smaller cells were capable of being recognised as letters with a simple touch of a finger. This unique discovery of script for the blind filled happiness in the lives of millions. 

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A Ghost Story — Mark Twain (Summary)

A Ghost Story — Mark Twain

Samuel Longhorn Clemens better known by his pen name Mark Twain, was an humorist, entrepreneur, publisher and Lecturer. He began his career writing light, humorous verse, but he became a chronicler of the vanities, hypocrisies and murderous acts of mankind.  At his mid-career, he combined rich humour and social criticism and master of rendering colloquial speech that help to create and popularise a distinctive American literature built on American themes and language.

The short story “A Ghost Story” is based on the infamous 19th century hoax of the Cardiff Giant, in which a petrified giant was carved out of stone and buried in the ground for others to discover. As news spread about the discovery of the Cardiff Giant, people came in droves to pay money to see the giant. 

The short story begins when the narrator rents a room in New York City, in “a huge old building whose upper stories had been wholly unoccupied for years”. He sits by the fire awhile and then goes to bed. He wakes in terror to discover that the bed covers are being slowly pulled toward his feet. After an unnerving tug-of-war with the sheets, he finally hears footsteps retreat.

He convinces himself the experience was nothing more than a dream, but when he gets up and lights a lamp, he sees an enormous giant’s like footprint in the ashes near the hearth. He goes back to bed, terrified, and the haunting continues throughout the night with voices, footsteps, rattling chains, and other ghostly demonstrations.

Eventually, he sees that he is being haunted by the Cardiff Giant, whom he considers harmless, and all his fear dissipates. The giant proves himself to be clumsy, breaking furniture every time he sits down, and the narrator chastises him for it.

The giant explains that he has been haunting the building, hoping to convince someone to bury his body — currently in the museum across the street — so he can get some rest. But the ghost has been duped into haunting the wrong body. The body across the street is Barnum's fake, and the ghost leaves, deeply embarrassed.

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Philosophy for Laymen – Bertrand Russell

Philosophy for Laymen – Bertrand Russell

Bertrand Russell achieved an international reputation as a philosopher, mathematician, thinker, social critic, pacifist and a fighter for freedom. Born in a family of English aristocrats, he consistently advocated democracy and was an inveterate opponent and enemy of colonialism, racism and totalitarianism. He waged a relentless war against massive armament, especially nuclear arms, in which the major countries of the world are now involved. As a rationalist, he tried to expose every kind of irrational humbug prevalent in a contemporary society. He was a prolific writer and expressed his ideas with great power and precision on a variety of subjects, but he was essentially a philosopher.

In the essay ‘Philosophy for Laymen’ Russell explains very briefly the uses of philosophy. Philosophy, he says, means a love of wisdom. Philosophy, in this sense, is what people must acquire if new technical powers achieved by man are not to plunge mankind into the greatest that the ordinary people should be taught is not the same thing as the philosophy of specialists.

The theoretical function of philosophy:

Philosophy has always had two different objects: to arrive at a theoretical understanding of the structure of the world; and to discover and propagate the best possible way a life. Philosophy has thus been closely related to science on the one hand and to religion on the on the other. On its theoretical side philosophy partly consists in the framing of large general hypotheses they become part of science, and no longer belong to philosophy. There are a number of purely theoretical questions, of everlasting interest, which science is unable to answer at present. Do we survive after death? Can mind dominate matter? or does matter completely dominate mind?  Does this universe has a purpose, or is it driven by blind necessity? To keep alive the interest in such questions is one of the functions of philosophy.

The practical aspect of philosophy:

On its practical side, philosophy can greatly increase a man’s value as a human being and as a citizen. It can give a habit of exact and careful thought. It can give an impressive breadth and scope to the conception of the aims of life. It can give to the individual a correct estimate of himself in relation to society and of man in the present to man in the past and in the future. It can offer a cure, or at least a palliative, for the anxieties and the anguish which afflict mankind at present. 

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A Ghost Story - Mark Twain (II Sem Additional English VSKUB Bly)

 A Ghost Story — Mark Twain 

I took a large room, far up Broadway, in a huge old building whose upper stories had been wholly unoccupied for years; until I came. The place had long been given up to dust and cobwebs, to solitude and Silence. I seemed groping among the tombs and invading the privacy of the dead, that first night I climbed up to my quarters. For the first time in my life a superstitious dread came over me; and as I turned a dark angle of the stairway and an invisible cobweb swung its lazy woof in my face and clung there, I shuddered as one who had encountered a phantom. 

I was glad enough when I reached my room and locked out the mould and darkness. A cheery fire was burning in the grate, and I sat down before it with a comforting sense of relief. For two hours I sat there, thinking of bygone times; recalling old scenes, and summoning half-forgotten faces out of the mists of the past; listening, in fancy, to voices that long ago grew silent for all time, and to once familiar songs that nobody sings now. And as my reverie softened down to a sadder and sadder pathos, the shrieking of the winds outside softened to a wail, the angry beating of the rain against the panes diminished to a tranquil patter, and one by one the noises in the street subsided, until the hurrying footsteps of the last belated straggler died away in the distance 

and left no sound behind. 

The fire had burned low. A sense of loneliness crept over me. I arose and undressed, moving on tiptoe about the room, doing stealthily what I had to do, as if I were environed by sleeping enemies whose slumbers it would be fatal to break. I covered up in bed, and lay listening to the rain and wind and the faint creaking of distant shutters, till they lulled me to sleep. I slept profoundly, but how long I do not know. All at once I found myself awake, and filled with a shuddering expectancy. All was still. All but my own heart — I could hear it beat. Presently the bedclothes began to slip away slowly toward the foot of the bed, as if some one were pulling them! I could not stir; I could not speak. Still the blankets slipped deliberately away, till my breast was uncovered. Then with a great effort I seized them and drew them over my head. I waited, listened, waited. Once more that steady pull began, and once more I lay torpid a century of dragging seconds till my breast was naked again. At last I roused my energies and snatched the covers back to their place and held them with a strong grip. I waited. By and by I felt a faint tug, and took a fresh grip. The rug strengthened to a steady strain — it grew stronger and stronger. My hold parted, and for the third time the blankets slid away. I groaned. An answering groan came from the foot of the bed! Beaded drops of sweat stood upon my forehead. I was more dead than alive. Presently I heard a heavy footstep in my room — the step of an elephant it seemed to me — it was not like anything human. But it was moving from me — there was relief in that. I heard it approach the door — pass out without moving bolt or lock — and wander away among the dismal corridors, straining the floors and joists till they creaked again as it passed — and then silence reigned once more. 

When my excitement had calmed, I said to myself, "This is a dream — simply a hideous dream." And so I lay thinking it over until I convinced myself that it was a dream, and then a comforting laugh relaxed my lips and I was happy again. I got up and struck a light; and when I found the locks and bolts were just as I had left them, another soothing laugh welled in my heart and rippled from my lips. I took my pipe and lit it, and was just sitting down before the fire, when — down went the pipe out of my nerveless fingers, the blood forsook my cheeks, and my placid breathing was cut short with a gasp ! In the ashes on the hearth, side by side with my own bare footprint, was another, so vast that in comparison, mine was but an infant's! Then I had had a visitor, and the elephant tread was explained. 

I put out the light and returned to bed, palsied with fear. I lay a long time, peering into the darkness, and listening. Then I heard a grating noise overhead, like the dragging of a heavy body across the floor; then the throwing down of the body, and the shaking of my windows in response to the concussion. In distant parts of the building I heard the muffled slamming of doors. I heard, at intervals, stealthy footsteps creeping in and out among the corridors, and up and down the stairs. Sometimes these noises approached my door, hesitated, and went away again. I heard the clanking of chains faintly, in remote passages, and listened while the clanking grew nearer — while it wearily climbed the stairways, marking each move by the loose surplus of chain that fell with an accented rattle upon each succeeding step as the goblin that bore it advanced. I heard muttered sentences, half-uttered screams that seemed smothered violently; and the swish of invisible garments and the rush of invisible wings. Then I became conscious that my chamber was invaded — that I was not alone. I heard sighs and breathings about my bed, and mysterious whisperings. Three little spheres of phosphorescent light appeared on the ceiling directly over my head, clung and glowed there a moment, and then dropped — two of them upon my face and one upon the pillow. They spattered, liquidly, and felt warm. Intuition told me they had turned to gouts of blood as they fell — I needed no light to satisfy myself of that. Then I saw pallid faces, dimly luminous, and white uplifted hands, floating bodiless in the air — floating a moment and then disappearing. The whispering ceased, and the voices and the sounds, and a solemn stillness followed. I waited and listened. I felt that I must have light or die. I was weak with fear. I slowly raised myself toward a sitting posture, and my face came in contact with a clammy hand! All strength went from me apparently, and I fell back like a stricken invalid. Then I heard the rustle of a garment — it seemed to pass to the door and go out. When everything was still once more, I crept out of bed, sick and feeble, and lit the gas with a hand that trembled as if it were aged with a hundred years. The light brought some little cheer to my spirits. I sat down and fell into a dreamy contemplation of that great footprint in the ashes. By and by its outlines began to waver and grow dim. I glanced up and the broad gas flame was slowly wilting away. In the same moment I heard that elephantine tread again. I noted its approach, nearer and nearer, along the musty halls, and dimmer and dimmer the light waned. The tread reached my very door and paused — the light had dwindled to a sickly blue, and all things about me were in a spectral twilight. The door did not open, and yet I felt a faint gust of air fan my cheek, and presently was conscious of a huge, cloudy presence before me. I watched it with fascinated eyes. A pale glow stole over the Thing; gradually its cloudy folds took shape — an arm appeared, then legs, then a body, and last a great sad face looked out of the vapour. Stripped of its filmy housings, naked, muscular and comely, the majestic Cardiff Giant loomed above me! 

All my misery vanished — for a child might know that no harm could come with that benignant countenance. My cheerful spirits returned at once, and in sympathy with them the gas turned up brightly again. Never a lone outcast was so glad to welcome company as I was to greet the friendly giant. I said: "Why, is it nobody but you? Do you know, I have been scared to death for the last two or three hours? I am most honestly glad to see you. I wish I had a chair — Here, here, don't try to sit down in that thing!" But it was too late. He was in before I could stop him, and down he went — I never saw a chair shivered so in my life. "Stop, stop, you'll ruin ev — " 

Too late again. There was another crash, and another chair was resolved into its original elements. "Confound it, haven't you got any judgment at all? Do you want to ruin all the furniture on the place? Here, here, you petrified fool — " But it was no use. Before I could arrest him he had sat down on the bed, and it was a melancholy ruin. 

"Now what sort of a way is that to do? First you come lumbering about the place bringing a legion of vagabond goblins along with you to worry me to death, and then, when I overlook an indelicacy of costume which would not be tolerated anywhere by cultivated people except in a respectable theatre, and not even there if the nudity were of your sex, you repay me by wrecking all the furniture you can find to sit down on. And why will you? You damage yourself as much as you do me. You have broken off the end of your spinal column, and littered up the floor with chips of your hands till the place looks like a marble yard. You ought to be ashamed of yourself — you are big enough to know better." "Well, I will not break any more furniture. But what am I to do? I have not had a chance to sit down for a century." And the tears came into his eyes. 

"Poor devil," I said, "I should not have been so harsh with you. And you are an orphan, too, no doubt. But sit down on the floor here — nothing else can stand your weight — and, besides, we cannot be sociable with you away up there above me; I want you down where I can perch on this high counting-house stool and gossip with you face to face." 

So he sat down on the floor, and lit a pipe which I gave him, threw one of my red blankets over his shoulders, inverted my sitz-bath on his head, helmet fashion, and made himself picturesque and comfortable. Then he crossed his ankles, while I renewed the fire, and exposed the flat, honey-combed bottoms of his prodigious feet to the grateful warmth. "What is the matter with the bottom of your feet and the back of your legs, that they are gouged up so?" 

"Infernal chilblains — I caught them clear up to the back of my head, roosting out there under Newell' s farm. But I love the place; I love it as one loves his old home. There is no peace for me like the peace I feel when I am there." We talked along for half an hour, and then I noticed that he looked tired, and I spoke of it. 

"Tired?" he said. "Well, I should think so. And now I will tell you all about it, since you have treated me so well. I am the spirit of the Petrified Man that lies across the street there in the museum. I am the ghost of the Cardiff Giant. I can have no rest, no peace, till they have given that poor body burial again. Now what was the most natural thing for me to do, to make men satisfy this wish? Terrify them into it! — haunt the place where the body lay! So I haunted the museum night after night. I got the other spirits to help me. But it did no good, for nobody ever came to the museum at midnight. Then it occurred to me to come over the way and haunt this place a little. I felt that if I ever got a hearing I must succeed, for I had the most efficient company that tradition could furnish. Night after night we have shivered around through these mildewed halls, dragging chains, groaning, whispering, tramping up and down stairs, till, to tell you the truth, I am almost worn out. But when I saw a light in your room to-night, I roused my energies again and went at it with a deal of the old freshness. But I am tired out — entirely fagged out. Give me, I beseech you, give me some hope!" 

I lit off my perch in a burst of excitement, and exclaimed: "This transcends everything! Everything that ever did occur — why, you poor blundering old fossil, you have had all your trouble for nothing — you have been haunting a plaster cast of yourself — the real Cardiff Giant is in Albany! "Confound it, don't you know your own remains?" 

I never saw such an eloquent look of shame, of pitiable humiliation, overspread a countenance before.The Petrified Man rose slowly to his feet, and said: "Honestly, is that true?" "As true as I am sitting here." 

He took the pipe from his mouth and laid it on the mantle, then stood irresolute a moment (unconsciously, from old habit, thrusting his hands where his pantaloon pockets should have been, and meditatively dropping his chin on his breast), and finally said: 

"Well — I never felt so absurd before. The Petrified Man has sold everything else and now the mean fraud has ended by selling his own ghost! My son, if there is any charity left in your heart for a poor friendless phantom like me, don't let this get out. Think how you would feel if you had made such an ass of yourself." 

I heard his stately tramp die away, step by step down the stairs and out into the deserted street, and felt sorry that he had gone, poor fellow — and sorrier still that he had carried off my red blanket and my bathtub. 

——

The open window – Saki

The open window – Saki (H. H. Munro)

“My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel,” said self-possessed young lady of 15. “In the meantime you must put up with me.”

Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something to flatter the nice without unduly discounting the aunt. Privately he doubted whether these formal visits on total strangers would help the nerve cure which he supposed to be undergoing in the rural retreat.

“I’ll give you letters to everyone I know there.” His sister had said.

“Or else you’ll bury yourself and not speak to a soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping.”

“Do you know many people around here?” asked the niece when she judged they had had sufficient communion.

“Hardly a soul,” said Framton. “My sister visited here four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction.”

“Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?” pursued the young lady.

“Only her name and address.”

“Her great tragedy happened just three years ago,” said the child.

“That would be since your sister’s time.”

“Her tragedy?” asked Framton. Somehow in this restful spot tragedies seemed out of place.

“You may wonder why we keep that window open so late in the year,” said the niece, indicating a large french window that opened on the lawn. “Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two brothers went off for their day’s shooting. In crossing the moor, they were engulfed in a treacherous bog. Their bodies were never recovered.”

Here the child’s voice faltered. “Poor Aunt always thinks that they’ll come back someday, they and little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at the window. That is why it is kept open every evening till dusk. She has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm. You know, sometimes on still evenings like this, I get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that widow….”

She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late.

“I hope you don’t mind the open window,” she said. “My husband and brothers will be home from shooting, and they always come in this way.”

She rattled on cheerful about the prospects for duck in the winter. Framton made a desperate effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic, conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and that her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window.

“The doctors order me a complete rest from mental excitement and physical exercise,” announced Framton, who labored under the widespread delusion that total strangers are hungry for the last detail of one’s infirmities.

“Oh?” responded Mrs. Sappleton, vaguely. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention — but not what was saying.

“Here they are at last!” she cried. “In time for tea.”

Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with a look of sympathetic comprehension. The child was staring through the open window with dazed horror in her eyes. Framton swung round and looked in the same direction.

In the deepening twilight, three figures were walking noiselessly across the lawn, a tired brown spaniel close at their heels. They all carried guns and one had a white coat over his shoulders.

 Framton grabbed his waking stick; the hall door and the gravel drive were dimly noted stages in his headlong retreat.

“Here we are, my dear,” said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window. “Who was that who bolted out as we came up?”

“A Mr. Nuttel,” said Mrs. Sappleton, “who dashed off without a word of apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost.”

“I expect it was the spaniel,” said the niece calmly. “He told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and foaming above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve.”

Romance at short notice was her speciality.

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