{"id":1752,"date":"2013-07-13T01:37:04","date_gmt":"2013-07-13T01:37:04","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/localhost\/?p=1752"},"modified":"2013-07-13T01:37:04","modified_gmt":"2013-07-13T01:37:04","slug":"15-incomplete-and-fragmentary-stories-vol-03-04-collected-plays-and-stories","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/01-works-of-sri-aurobindo\/03-cwsa\/03-04-collected-plays-and-stories\/15-incomplete-and-fragmentary-stories-vol-03-04-collected-plays-and-stories","title":{"rendered":"-15_Incomplete and Fragmentary Stories.htm"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n\n\n
\n
\n<\/p>\n

\nIncomplete and Fragmentary Stories<\/b><\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\n
\n1891 \u00ad 1912
\n <\/b><\/p>\n

<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\n

<\/font>
\n
\n<\/p>\n

\nFictional Jottings<\/a><\/b><\/font><\/p>\n

\n<\/p>\n

\nMrs<\/sup> Bolton was one of those sharp and rancid women whose
\n..
\nvery aspect gives a cultured man the toothache; it recalls vividly
\nthe taste of sour grapes. There had perhaps been a time when
\nshe was not elderly, but the boldest flight of metaphor would
\nnever have imaged her as young. The slanders of her enemies
\ndrew a frightful picture of the low-class Gorgon: they compared
\nher chin to a penknife, her lips to a pair of icicles: her smile
\nwas a perpetual reminder of vinegar, her voice was like frost
\nagainst the teeth. The sobriety of history merely records that
\nher face was twin sister to a ferret, her features sharp and if the
\nword may be used without offence gritty: altogether she was an
\nexcellent type of that class of crude failures whose mould nature
\nhas left unbroken that there may be a scourge for the refined
\nand a pattern for housewifes. <\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\nHer face was Nemesis sculptured in marble<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\nIn her distress the child of the hothouse spoke the language of
\nnature.<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\n“I never forgive, but I bear no malice when I have requited”<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\nShe felt as if she were groping for a coin in the dark<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\nA fire of remembrance burned a forgotten sentence into her brain
\nand wrote it in crimson on her cheeks.<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\nThe voiceful hurry of the indicator copied the pattering footfall
\nof the fugitive hours. <\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\nHis amazement unwound itself in a coil of laughter.<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\nJust as the clouds that steal the sunshine cannot throttle the
\nsunlight as well<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 989<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

<\/font>
\n<\/p>\n

\nFragment of a Story<\/a><\/b><\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\n<\/font>
\nA<\/font>
\nQUIET<\/font><\/b> hilly country on the confines of Bengal after rain.
\nGrey cloud yet banked up the horizon except in the north
\nand sloped over the eastern down-curve in great sheeny
\nribs brownish and grey like the ribs of a fan. The mango trees by
\nthe road with their crowded burden of ruddy or stained-yellow
\nblossom looked moist and quite fresh, the earth discoloured,
\ndraggled and limp with the wet, but healed of the dusty thirst and
\ndiscomfort of many showerless days. The west showed patches
\nof pale bluish steel-grey sky where the veil of cloud was thinnest
\nand the sinking light able to break through; just on the verge
\none or two of the outlying clouds were ruddy like a dull fire just
\nmeaning to go out. The moon must be somewhere eastward,
\na pale wisp of half-lucid yellow, waiting for the brilliancy to
\ncome, but in the east the long dark-ribbed layers ran down with
\na forbidding thickness. They were the skirts of the retreating
\nstorm.
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nThe soldier Rajmohan as he reined in his horse on the top
\nof a rise looked behind him once at the western and once at the
\nsouthern sky and observed with a contraction of the brow the
\nline of the southern horizon growing a heavy black and glaring
\nup with a lowering threat at the half-cleared zenith.
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n“A storm brews there” he muttered to himself “and it may
\nbreak here or it may pass. Either way there is no moonlight for
\nme tonight.”
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 990<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n
\nThe Devil’s Mastiff<\/a><\/b><\/font><\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\nT<\/font>HERE<\/b> had been a heavy fall throughout the whole of that
\nDecember day. The roads were white and indistinguishable in a thick pall of moonlight and dazzling snow; here
\nand there a drift betrayed the footing. In the sky a bright moon
\npursued by clouds ran timidly up the ascent of the firmament;
\ngreat arms of darkness sometimes closed over it; sometimes it
\nemerged and proceeded with its still luminous race, ran, swayed,
\nfloated, glided forward intently, unfalteringly. Patrick Curran,
\ntreading cautiously the white uncertain flooring of earth, stumbling into snowdrifts, scouting into temporary darkness for his
\nright road, cursed the weather and his fortunes.
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n“It is not enough,” he complained, “that I should be a
\nproscribed fugitive hiding my head in every uncertain refuge
\nfrom the pursuit of this devil’s Cromwell, doomed already to the
\ngallows, owing my life every day to the trembling compassion
\nof my poor father’s tenants; it is not enough that I should have
\nlost Alicia and that Luke Walter should have her; but the very
\nmoon and the snow and the night are his allies against me. Since
\nGod is so hard on me, I wonder why the devil does not come to
\nmy help \u2014  I would sell my soul to him this moment willingly.
\nBut perhaps he too is afraid of Cromwell.”
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n“It is hardly probable,” said a voice at his side suddenly.
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPatrick Curran turned with a fierce start and clutched at
\nhis dagger. He was aware in the darkness of a dim form pacing
\nbeside him with a step much quieter and more assured than his
\nown.
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n“Who are you?” he cried, rigid and menacing.
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n“A wayfarer like yourself,” said the other, “I travel earth as
\na fugitive.”
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n“From whom or what?” asked Patrick.
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n“How shall I say?” said the shadow, “Perhaps from my own <\/font><\/p>\n

\n<\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 991<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\n

thoughts, perhaps from a too powerful enemy.” <\/p>\n

\n

After the discovery of the recent conspiracy to murder
\nCromwell and restore Charles Stuart, the country was full of
\nRoyalist fugitives, hiding by day, travelling by night, in the
\nhope of reaching a port whence they could sail for Ostende or
\nCalais. For the inquisitions of the Republican magistrates were
\nimperative and undiscriminating. <\/p>\n

\n

“I would give,” he said to himself, “my soul and the rest
\nof my allotted days as a free gift to Satan, if I might once clasp
\nAlicia in my arms and take with me into Hell the warm sense of
\nthe joy of her body and if I might see Luke Walter dead before
\nme or be sure he was following me. Oh if I can once be sure
\nof that, let the brown dog of the Dacres leap on me the next
\nmoment, I care not.” <\/p>\n

\n

“You may be sure of it,” answered the voice at his side,
\nstrangely sweet, yet to Patrick’s ear formidable. He turned,
\nthrilling. <\/p>\n

\n

“You must be the devil himself,” he almost shouted. <\/p>\n

\n

“I may be only one who can read your thoughts,” said the
\nother in that sweet sinister voice which made the young man
\nfancy sometimes that a woman spoke to him. “And that I can,
\nyou will easily judge when I have told you a very little of what
\nI know of you. You are Patrick, the second son of Sir Gerald
\nCurran who got his estate from his wife, Margaret Dacre, his
\nbaronetcy from King James and his death from Cromwell who
\ntook him prisoner at Worcester and hanged him. You were to
\nhave married Lady Alicia Nevil, when the conspiracy of which
\nyou were one of the heads as well as the hand destined to strike
\ndown the Puritan tyrant, was discovered by the discernment,
\nluck and ruthless skill of Colonel Luke Walter.” <\/p>\n

\n

The young Cavalier started and uttered a furious imprecation. <\/p>\n

\n

“It was he;” said the other, “he has great brain-power and
\npenetration and a resolute genius. It is even possible he may
\nsucceed Cromwell, if the God of the Puritans gives him a lease
\nlong enough.” <\/p>\n

\n

“If I have the chance, I will shorten it,” cried Patrick Curran. <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n
\nPage \u2013 992<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\n

“Or I;” said the unknown, “for just now I too am a Royalist.
\nBut to proceed. You were proclaimed and doomed to a felon’s
\ndeath in your absence; the Earl, implicated in the conspiracy,
\nwas compelled as the price of his pardon to betroth his daughter
\nto Luke Walter, and the marriage is fixed for tonight.” <\/p>\n

\n

“Tonight!” groaned the young man, and he smote his thigh
\nmiserably with his hand. <\/p>\n

\n

“At the Church of Worndale.” <\/p>\n

\n

“But will it matter if Luke Walter perishes before he has
\nconsummated his nuptials?” <\/p>\n

\n

“I promise you that,” said the unknown. “It does not suit
\nyou that Alicia should marry another. It does not suit me that
\nthere should be a strong successor to Cromwell. Charles Stuart
\nis my good friend, and I wish that he should rule England.
\nTherefore, Patrick, it is a bargain.” <\/p>\n

\n

“Who the devil are you?” cried the young man again, marvelling. <\/p>\n

\n

As if to answer the moon peeped out from between two
\nheavy angry masses of black cloud, illumining the earth’s intense
\nand inclement whiteness. He saw beside him a young man of
\nremarkable beauty, whose face was perfectly familiar, but his
\nname could not be remembered. <\/p>\n

\n

“As for your soul and your life,” said the stranger, and as
\ntheir eyes met, Patrick shuddered, “you need not give them to
\nthe devil whether freely or as part of the bargain, for they are
\nalready his.” <\/p>\n

\n

He laughed a laugh of terrible and ominous sweetness, and
\nin a moment Patrick remembered. He knew that laugh, he knew
\nthat face. They were his own. <\/p>\n

\n

At that moment the moon passed away into the second
\nfragment of cloud. Patrick stood, unable to speak, looking at
\nthe dim shadow in front of him. Then it vanished. <\/p>\n

\n

It was some time before the young man could command
\nhimself sufficiently to pursue his way. He tried to think for a
\nmoment that it was John Dacre, the illegitimate son of Sir Gerald by his sister-in-law Matilda Dacre, who resembled Patrick
\nstrongly and was his sworn comrade and lover. But he knew <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 993<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\n

it was not John. That was not John’s face or John’s speech or
\nJohn’s thinking. It must have been a vivid dream or a waking
\nillusion. He walked forward in the darkness, greatly disturbed,
\nbut with recovered courage. <\/p>\n

\n

Again the moon shone out, this time with a clear gulf of
\nsky just in front of her. Before Patrick the white road stretched
\nlong, straight and visible to a great distance and was marked
\nout here by a high snow-covered hedge from the equally white
\nindistinguishable country around. <\/p>\n

\n

“Come now, that is better,” said Patrick Curran. As he
\nspoke, he saw far off on the road a dark object travelling towards
\nhim; he slackened his pace and was minded to turn off the road
\nto avoid it. But it was approaching with phenomenal speed. As
\nit came nearer, he saw that it was only a dog. Again Patrick
\nstood still. A dog! There was nothing in that. It was not what
\nhe had feared. But he remembered that singular conversation
\nand the impious prayer that had arisen in his heart about the
\nbrown Dog of the Dacres, \u2014  the dog which showed itself always
\nwhen a Dacre was about to die and leaped on him whenever the
\ndoom was by violence. He smiled, but a little uncertainly. Then
\nthe moonlight seemed to dwell on the swiftly-travelling animal
\nmore intensely and he saw that it was brown. <\/p>\n

\n

Never had Patrick seen any earthly thing master of such a
\nterrible speed. It ran, it galloped, it bounded, and the wretched
\nman watching the terrific charge of that phantasmal monster,
\n\u2014  for it was a gigantic mastiff, \u2014  felt his heart stop and his
\nwarm youthful blood congeal in his veins. It was now within
\ntwenty paces; he felt the huge eyes upon him and knew that it
\nwas going to leap. He went down heavily with the ponderous
\nframe of the animal oppressing his breast, its leonine paws on
\nhis shoulders, its hot breathing moistening his face. And then
\nthere was nothing. <\/p>\n

\n

That was the most terrible part of it, to have been borne
\ndown physically by a semblance, an unearthly hallucination,
\na thing that was this moment and the next was not. Patrick
\nstruggled to his feet, overcome by a panic terror; his nerves cried
\nto him to run, to travel away quickly from this accursed night <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 994<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\n

and this road of ghastly encounters. But he felt as if hamstrung,
\nhelpless, clutched by an intangible destruction. He sat down on
\nthe snow, panted and waited. <\/p>\n

\n

After a few minutes the blood began to flow more quietly
\nthrough his veins, the pounding of his heart slackened and the
\nsick agitation of his nerves yielded to a sudden fiery inrush. He
\nleaped furiously to his feet. “The Dog of the Dacres,” he cried,
\n“the brown Dog, the Devil’s Mastiff! And no doubt it was his
\nmaster spoke to me in my own semblance. I am doomed, then.
\nBut not to the gallows. No, by God, not to the gallows. God’s
\ndoom and the devil’s, since I can resist neither, but not man’s,
\nnot Cromwell’s!” Then he paused. “Tonight!” he cried again.
\n“At Worndale Church! But I will see her once before I go down
\nto Hell. And it may be I shall take Luke Walter with me. It may
\nbe that is what the Devil wants of me.” <\/p>\n

\n

He looked about the landscape and thought he could distinguish the trees that bordered the distant Church of Worndale.
\nThat was in front of him. Also in front, but much more to the left,
\nwas Trevesham Hall, the home of Alicia Nevil. He began walking
\nrapidly, no longer with his first cautious and doubtful treading,
\nbut with a bold reckless stride. And it was noticeable that he
\nno longer stumbled or floundered into snowdrifts. Patrick knew
\nthat he had only a few brief inches of his life’s road left to his
\ntreading; for no man of the Dacre blood had ever lived more
\nthan twenty-four hours after the Brown Dog leaped on him.
\nA desperate courage had entered into his veins. He would see
\n[incomplete<\/i>] <\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 995<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

<\/font>
\n<\/p>\n

\n

The Golden Bird<\/a><\/b><\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

\n<\/font>
\nI<\/font>T
\nWAS<\/font><\/b> in the forests of Asan that the Golden Bird first
\nflew out from a flower-besieged thicket and fluttered before
\nthe dazzled eyes of Luilla. It was in the forests of Asan, \u2014 <\/p>\n

the open and impenetrable, the haunt of the dancers and the
\nuntrodden of human feet, coiling place of the cobra and the
\nPython, lair of the lion and the jaguar, formidable retreat of the
\nfleeing antelope, yet also the green home of human safety where
\na man and a maiden could walk in the moonlit night and hear
\nunconcerned the far-off brool of the kings of the wilderness. It
\nwas into the friendly and open places that the golden bird fluttered, but it came no less from the coverts of dread and mystery.
\nFrom the death and the night it flew out into the sunlight where
\nLuilla was happily straying.
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nLuilla loved to wander on the verges of danger just where
\nthose flower-besieged thickets began and formed for miles together a thorny and tangled rampart full at once of allurement
\nand of menace. She did not venture in, for she had a great fear
\nof the thorns and brambles and a high respect for her radiant
\nbeauty, her constant object of worship and the daily delight
\nof all who dwelt for a while on earth labouring the easy and
\nkindly soil on the verges of the forests of Asan. But always
\nshe wandered close to the flowery wall and her mind, safe in
\nits volatile incorporeality, strayed like a many-hued butterfly
\nfar into the forbidden region which the gods had so carefully
\nsecluded. Perhaps secretly she hoped that one day some kingly
\nand leonine head would thrust itself out through the flowers and
\ncompel her with a gaze of friendly and majestic invitation or else
\nthat the green poisonous head of a serpent, reposing itself on a
\nflower, would scrutinise her out of narrow eyes and express a
\ncunning approval of her beauty. It was not out of fear of the lions
\nand the serpents that Luilla forbore to enter the secret places. She<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n
\nPage \u2013 996<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\nknew she could overcome the most ferocious intentions of any
\ndestroyer in the world, four-footed or footless, if only he would
\ngive her three minutes before making up his mind to eat or bite
\nher. But neither lion nor serpent strayed out of their appointed
\nhaunts. It was the golden bird that first fluttered out from the
\nthickets to Luilla.
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nLuilla looked at it as it flitted from bough to bough, and
\nher eyes were dazzled and her soul wondered. For the little body
\nof the bird was an inconstant flame of flying and fleeting gold
\nand the wings that opened and fluttered were of living gold and
\nthe small shapely head was crested gold and the long graceful
\nquivering tail was feathered trailing gold; all was gold about the
\nbird, except the eyes and they were two jewels of a soft ever-changing colour and sheltered strange looming depths of love
\nand thought in their gentle brilliance. On the bough where it
\nperched, it seemed as if all the soft shaded leaves were suddenly
\nsunlit. For as Luilla accustomed her eyes to the flickering brightness of the golden bird, it hovered at last over a branch, settled
\nand sang. And its voice also was of gold.
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nThe bird sang in its own high secret language; but Luilla’s
\near understood its thoughts and in Luilla’s soul as it thirsted and
\nlistened and trembled with delight, the song shaped itself easily
\ninto human speech. This then was what the bird sang \u2014  the bird
\nthat came out of the death and night, sang to Luilla a song of
\nbeauty and of delight.
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n“Luilla! Luilla! Luilla! green and beautiful are the meadows
\nwhere the children run and pluck the flowers, green and beautiful
\nthe pastures where the calm-eyed cattle graze, green and beautiful the cornfields ripening on the village bounds, but greener
\nare the impenetrable thickets of Asan than her open places of
\nlife and more beautiful than the meadows and the pastures and
\nthe cornfields are the forests of death and night. More ensnaring
\nto some is the danger of the jaguar than the attractive face of
\na child, more welcome the foot-tracks of the lion as it hunts
\nthan the pastures of the cattle, more fair and fruitful the thorn
\nand the wild-briar than the fields full of ripening grain. And this
\nI know that no such flowers bloom in the safety and ease of<\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 997<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\nAsan’s meadows, though they make a thick and divine treading
\nfor luxurious feet, as I have seen blooming on the borders of
\nthe wild morass, in the heart of the bramble thicket and over
\nthe mouth of the serpent’s lair. Shall I not take thee, O Luilla,
\ninto those woods? Thou shalt pluck the flowers in the forests of
\nnight and death, thou shalt lay thy hands on the lion’s mane.
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n“O Luilla! O Luilla! O Luilla!
\nNote on the Texts<\/font><\/font><\/p>\n


\n\t\t\tPage \u2013 998<\/p>\n

<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/table>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Incomplete and Fragmentary Stories   1891 \u00ad 1912     Fictional Jottings Mrs Bolton was one of those sharp and rancid women whose .. very…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[39],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1752","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-03-04-collected-plays-and-stories","wpcat-39-id"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1752","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1752"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1752\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1752"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1752"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1752"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}