I have a house in the country some miles away from Calcutta, where I can
remain unknown and unmolested. The villagers there have not, as yet,
come to any conclusion about me. They know I am no mere holiday-maker
or pleasure-seeker; for I never outrage the silence of the village
nights with the riotous noises of the city. Nor do they regard me as
ascetic, because the little acquaintance they have of me carries the
savour of comfort about it. I am not, to them, a traveller; for, though
I am a vagabond by nature, my wandering through the village fields is
aimless. They are hardly even quite certain whether I am married or
single; for they have never seen me with my children. So, not being
able to classify me in any animal or vegetable kingdom that they know,
they have long since given me up and left me stolidly alone.
But quite lately I have come to know that there is one person in the
village who is deeply interested in me. Our acquaintance began on a
sultry afternoon in July. There had been rain all the morning, and the
air was still wet and heavy with mist, like eyelids when weeping is
over.
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