The Plastic Age by Percy Marks (e book reader android .txt) 📖

"And I'm Awfully Glad He Butted In And

Pulled You Away. I'd Hate To See You Messing Around With Bags Like That

Myself,  And If I Hadn't Been Drunk I Wouldn't Have Let You. I'm More

Grateful To Him Than You Are. Gee! I'd Never Have Forgiven Myself," He

Concluded Fervently.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

Just When The Incident Was Beginning To Occupy Less Of Hugh's Thoughts,

It Was Suddenly Brought Back With A Crash. He Came Home From The

Gymnasium One Afternoon To Find Carl Seated At His Desk Writing. He

Looked Up When Hugh Came In,  Tore The Paper Into Fragments,  And Tossed

Them Info The Waste-Basket.

 

"Guess I'd Better Tell You," He Said Briefly. "I Was Just Writing A Note

To You."

 

"To Me? Why?"

 

Carl Pointedred The Works On Rhetoric And Dramatic

Theory--Subjects Which Hindu Savants Have Treated With Great,  If

Sometimes Hair-Splitting,  Ingenuity. The Profound And Subtle Systems

Of Philosophy Were Also Possessed By Kalidasa,  And He Had Some

Knowledge Of Astronomy And Law.

 

But It Was Not Only In Written Books That Kalidasa Was Deeply Read.

Rarely Has A Man Walked Our Earth Who Observed The Phenomena Of Living

Nature As Accurately As He,  Though His Accuracy Was Of Course That Of

The Poet,  Not That Of The Scientist. Much Is Lost To Us Who Grow Up

Among Other Animals And Plants; Yet We Can Appreciate His "Bee-Black

Hair," His Ashoka-Tree That "Sheds His Blossoms In A Rain Of Tears,"

His River Wearing A Sombre Veil Of Mist:

 

  Although Her Reeds Seem Hands That Clutch The Dress

  To Hide Her Charms;

 

His Picture Of The Day-Blooming Water-Lily At Sunset:

 

  The Water-Lily Closes,  But

    With Wonderful Reluctancy;

  As If It Troubled Her To Shut

    Her Door Of Welcome To The Bee.

 

The Religion Of Any Great Poet Is Always A Matter Of Interest,

Especially The Religion Of A Hindu Poet; For The Hindus Have Ever Been

A Deeply And Creatively Religious People. So Far As We Can Judge,

Kalidasa Moved Among The Jarring Sects With Sympathy For All,

Fanaticism For None. The Dedicatory Prayers That Introduce His Dramas

Are Addressed To Shiva. This Is Hardly More Than A Convention,  For

Shiva Is The Patron Of Literature. If One Of His Epics,  _The Birth Of

The War-God_,  Is Distinctively Shivaistic,  The Other,  _The Dynasty Of

Raghu_,  Is No Less Vishnuite In Tendency. If The Hymn To Vishnu In

_The Dynasty Of Raghu_ Is An Expression Of Vedantic Monism,  The Hymn

To Brahma In _The Birth Of The War-God_ Gives Equally Clear Expression

To The Rival Dualism Of The Sankhya System. Nor Are The Yoga Doctrine

And Buddhism Left Without Sympathetic Mention. We Are Therefore

Justified In Concluding That Kalidasa Was,  In Matters Of Religion,

What William James Would Call "Healthy-Minded," Emphatically Not A

"Sick Soul."

 

There Are Certain Other Impressions Of Kalidasa's Life And Personality

Which Gradually Become Convictions In The Mind Of One Who Reads And

Re-Reads His Poetry,  Though They Are Less Easily Susceptible Of Exact

Proof. One Feels Certain That He Was Physically Handsome,  And The

Handsome Hindu Is A Wonderfully Fine Type Of Manhood. One Knows That

He Possessed A Fascination For Women,  As They In Turn Fascinated Him.

One Knows That Children Loved Him. One Becomes Convinced That He Never

Suffered Any Morbid,  Soul-Shaking Experience Such As Besetting

Religious Doubt Brings With It,  Or The Pangs Of Despised Love; That

On The Contrary He Moved Among Men And Women With A Serene And Godlike

Tread,  Neither Self-Indulgent Nor Ascetic,  With Mind And Senses Ever

Alert To Every Form Of Beauty. We Know That His Poetry Was Popular

While He Lived,  And We Cannot Doubt That His Personality Was Equally

Attractive,  Though It Is Probable That No Contemporary Knew The Full

Measure Of His Greatness. For His Nature Was One Of Singular Balance,

Equally At Home In A Splendid Court And On A Lonely Mountain,  With Men

Of High And Of Low Degree. Such Men Are Never Fully Appreciated During

Life. They Continue To Grow After They Are Dead.

 

 

 

 

Ii

 

Kalidasa Left Seven Works Which Have Come Down To Us: Three Dramas,

Two Epics,  One Elegiac Poem,  And One Descriptive Poem. Many Other

Works,  Including Even An Astronomical Treatise,  Have Been Attributed

To Him; They Are Certainly Not His. Perhaps There Was More Than One

Author Who Bore The Name Kalidasa; Perhaps Certain Later Writers Were

More Concerned For Their Work Than For Personal Fame. On The Other

Hand,  There Is No Reason To Doubt That The Seven Recognised Works Are

In Truth From Kalidasa's Hand. The Only One Concerning Which There Is

Reasonable Room For Suspicion Is The Short Poem Descriptive Of The

Seasons,  And This Is Fortunately The Least Important Of The Seven. Nor

Is There Evidence To Show That Any Considerable Poem Has Been Aving

Decided To Major In English,  He Found That He Was Required To Take A

Composition Course The Second Half Of His Sophomore Year. His Instructor

Was Professor Henley,  Known As Jimmie Henley Among The Students,  A Man

In His Middle Thirties,  Spare,  Neat In His Dress,  Sharp With His Tongue,

Apt To Say What He Thought In Terms So Plain That Not Even The Stupidest

Undergraduate Could Fail To Understand Him. His Hazel-Brown Eyes Were

Capable Of A Friendly Twinkle,  But They Had A Way Of Darkening Suddenly

And Snapping That Kept His Students Constantly On The Alert. There Was

Little Of The Professor About Him But A Great Deal Of The Teacher.

 

Hugh Went To His First Conference With Him Not Entirely Easy In His

Mind. Henley Had A Reputation For "Tearing Themes To Pieces And Making A

Fellow Feel Like A Poor Fish." Hugh Had Written His Themes Hastily,  As

He Had During His Freshman Year,  And He Was Afraid That Henley Might

Discover Evidences Of That Haste.

 

Henley Was Leaning Back In His Swivel Chair,  His Feet On The Desk,  A

Brier Pipe In His Mouth,  As Hugh Entered The Cubbyhole Of An Office.

Down Came The Feet With A Bang.

 

"Hello,  Carver," Henley Said Cheerfully. "Come In And Sit Down While I

Go Through Your Themes." He Motioned To A Chair By The Desk. Hugh

Muttered A Shy "Hello" And Sat Down,  Watching Henley Expectantly And

Rather Uncomfortably.

 

Henley Picked Up Three Themes. Then He Turned His Keen Eyes On Hugh.

"I've Already Read These. Lazy Cuss,  Aren't You?" He Asked Amiably.

 

Hugh Flushed. "I--I Suppose So."

 

"You Know That You Are; No Supposing To It." He Slapped The Desk Lightly

With The Themes. "First Drafts,  Aren't They?"

 

"Yes,  Sir." Hugh Felt His Cheeks Getting Warmer.

 

Henley Smiled. "Thanks For Not Lying. If You Had Lied,  This Conference

Would Have Ended Right Now. Oh,  I Wouldn't Have Told You That I Thought

You Were Lying; I Would Simply Have Made A Few Polite But Entirely

Insincere Comments About Your Work And Let You Go. Now I Am Going To

Talk To You Frankly And Honestly."

 

"I Wish You Would," Hugh Murmured,  But He Wasn't At All Sure That He

Wished Anything Of The Sort.

 

Henley Knocked The Ashes Out Of His Pipe Into A Metal Tray,  Refilled It,

Lighted It,  And Then Puffed Meditatively,  Gazing At Hugh With Kind But

Speculative Eyes.

 

"I Think You Have Ability," He Began Slowly. "You Evidently Write With

Great Fluency And Considerable Accuracy,  And I Can Find Poetic Touches

Here And There That Please Me. But You Are Careless,  Abominably

Careless,  Lazy. Whatever Virtues There Are In Your Themes Come From A

Natural Gift,  Not From Any Effort You Made To Say The Thing In The Best

Way. Now,  I'm Not Going To Spend Anytime Discussing These Themes In

Detail; They Aren't Worth It."

 

He Pointed His Pipe At Hugh. "The Point Is Exactly This," He Said

Sternly. "I'll Never Spend Any Time Discussing Your Themes So Long As

You Turn In Hasty,  Shoddy Work. I Can See Right Now That You Can Get A C

In This Course Without Trying. If That's All You Want,  All Right,  I'll

Give It To You--And Let It Go At That. The Lord Knows That I Have Enough

To Do Without Wasting Time On Lazy Youngsters Who Haven't Sense Enough

To Develop Their Gifts. If You Continue To Turn In Themes Like These,

I'll Give You C's Or D's On Them And Let You Dig Your Own Shallow Grave

By Yourself. But If You Want To Try To Write As Well As You Can,  I'll

Give You All The Help In My Power. Not One Minute Can You Have So Long

As You Don't Try,  But You Can Have Hours If You Do Try. Furthermore,  You

Will Find Writing A Pleasure If You Write As Well As You Can,  But You

Won't Get Any Sport Just Scribbling Off Themes Because You Have To."

 

He Paused To Toss The Three Themes Across The Desk To Hugh,  Who Was

Watching Him With Astonishment. No Instructor Had Ever Talked To Him

That Way Before.

 

"You Can Rewrite These Themes If You Want To," Henley Went On. "I

Haven't Graded Them,  And I'll Reserve The Grades For The Rewritten

Themes; And If I Find That You Have Made A Real Effort,  I'll Discuss

Them In Detail With You. What Do You Say?"

 

"I'd Like To Rewrite Them," Hugh Said Softly. "I Know They Are Rotten."

 

"No,  They Aren't Rotten. I've Got Dozens That Are Worse. That Isn't The

Point. They Aren't Nearly So Good As You Can Make Them,  And Only Your

Best Work Is Acceptable To Me. Now Show Me What You Can Do With Them,

And Then We'll Tear Them To Shreds In Regular Fashion." He Turned To His

Desk And Smiled At Hugh,  Who,  Understanding That The Conference Was

Over,  Stood Up And Reached For The Themes. "I'll Be Interested In

Seeing What You Can Do With Those," Henley Concluded. "Every One Of Them

Has A Good Idea. Go To It--And Get Them Back In A Week."

 

"Yes,  Sir. Thanks Very Much."

 

"Right-O. Good-By."

 

"Good-By,  Sir," And Hugh Left The Office Determined To Rewrite Those

Themes So That "They'd Knock Jimmie Henley's Eye Out." They Didn't Do

Exactly That,  But They Did Interest Him,  And He Spent An Hour And A Half

Discussing Them With Hugh.

 

That Was Merely The First Of A Series Of Long Conferences. Sometimes

Henley And Hugh Discussed Writing,  But Often They Talked About Other

Subjects,  Not As Instructor And Student But As Two Men Who Respected

Each Other's Mind. Before The Term Was Out Henley Had Invited Hugh To

His Home For Dinner And To Meet Mrs. Henley. Hugh Was Enormously

Flattered And,  For Some Reason,  Stimulated To Do Better Work. He Found

His Talks With Henley Really Exciting,  And He Expressed His Opinions To

Him As Freely And Almost As Positively As He Did To His Classmates. He

Told His Friends That Jimmie Henley Was Human,  Not Like Most Profs. And

He Worked At His Writing As He Had Never Worked At Anything,  Running

Excepted,  Since He Had Been In College.

 

The Students Never Knew What To Expect From Henley In The Class-Room.

Sometimes He Read Themes And Criticized Them; Sometimes He Discussed

Books That He Had Been Reading; Sometimes He Read Poetry,  Not Because

Contemporary Poetry Was Part Of The Course But Because He Happened To

Feel Like Reading It That Morning; Sometimes He Discoursed On The Art Of

Writing; And Sometimes He Talked About Anything That Happened To Be

Occupying His Mind. He Made His Class-Room An Open Forum,  And The

Students Felt Free To Interrupt Him At Any Time And To Disagree With

Him. Usually They Did Disagree With Him And Afterward Wrote Violent

Themes To Prove That He Was Wrong. That Was Exactly What Henley Wanted

Them To Do,  And The More He Could Stir Them Up The Better Satisfied He

Was.

 

One Morning,  However,  He Talked Without Interruption. He Didn't Want To

Be Interrupted,  And The Boys Were So Taken Back By His Statements That

They Could Find No Words To Say Anything.

 

The Bell Rang. Henley Called The Roll,  Stuck His Class-Book Into His

Coat Pocket,  Placed His Watch On The Desk; Then Leaned Back And Looked

The Class Over.

 

"Your Themes Are Making Me Sick," He Began,  "Nauseated. I Have A Fairly

Strong Stomach,  But There Is Just So Much That I Can Stand--And You Have

Passed The Limit. There Is Hardly A Man In This Class Who Hasn't Written

At Least One Theme On The Glory That Is Sanford. As You Know,  I Am A

Sanford Man Myself,  And I Have My Share Of Affection For The College,

But You Have Reached An Ecstasy Of Chauvinism That Makes Chauvin's

Affection For Napoleon Seem Almost Like Contempt.

 

"In The Last Batch Of Themes I Got Five Telling Me Of The Perfection Of

Sanford: Sanford Is The Greatest College In The Country; Sanford Has The

Best Athletes,  The Finest Equipment,  The Most Erudite Faculty,  The Most

Perfect Location,  The Most Loyal Alumni,  The Strongest Spirit--The Most

Superlative Everything. Nonsense! Rot! Bunk! Sanford Hasn't Anything Of

The Sort,