Remorse

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  I was conscious that the feeling was one of remorse. But had I committed a sin for which I should be remorseful? Although a patent contradiction, is there not a sort of remorse that precedes sin? Was it remorse at the very fact that I existed? Had the sight of her called out to me and awakened this remorse? Or was my feeling possibly nothing but a presentiment of sin? . . . Sonoko was already standing demurely before me. She had already begun her bow, but finding me lost in thought, she now began it over again, very precisely. "Have I kept you waiting? Mother and Grandmother—" She had used the honorific forms in referring to these members of her own family, and now she stopped and blushed, suddenly aware how inappropriate her words were when addressed to someone outside the family circle. "Well, they hadn't finished getting ready yet and will be a little late. So wait a little—" She stopped again, and then corrected herself modestly: "So if you will please wait a little and if they still haven't come, we'll go on ahead to the train station—that is, if you like." Having at last managed to blurt out this long speech in faltering, formal language, she gave a big sigh of relief. Sonoko had a large build and was tall enough to reach to my forehead. Her body was unusually graceful and well proportioned, and she had beautiful legs. Her round, childlike face, on which she used no make-up, seemed the reflection of an immaculate and unadorned soul. Her lips were slightly chapped and seemed all the redder for it. We exchanged a few awkward words. Even though I detested myself in the role, I tried with all my might to appear lighthearted and gay, to show myself as a young man abounding in wit. Any number of elevated trains stopped beside us with shrieking, grating noises, and then departed. The press of passengers getting on and off became heavier and heavier. Each time a train came up we were cut off from the stream of sunlight that was bathing us in its pleasant warmth. And each time a train moved away I would be terrified anew by the gentleness of the sunlight that was let fall again upon my cheeks. I took it for an ill-omened sign that the richly blessed sunshine should fall upon me thus, that my heart should be thus filled with moments that left nothing to be desired. Surely in a few minutes a sudden air raid or some equally calamitous event would come and kill us where we stood. Surely, I thought, we do not deserve even a little happiness. Or perhaps we had acquired the bad habit of regarding even a little happiness as a big favor, which we would have to repay. This was precisely the feeling I got from being face to face with Sonoko in this way.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  She had come often before, but no one had the courage of this cook. For everyone knew how blindly I trusted the companion. The cook had, as it were, been sent to me just to do this service, for he begged leave of me that very moment. ‘I cannot stay in your house,’ he said. ‘You are so easily misled. This is no place for me.’ I let him go. I now discovered that the man who had poisoned my ears against the clerk was no other than this companion, I tried very hard to make amends to the clerk for the injustice I had done him. It has, however, been my eternal regret that I could never satisfy him fully. Howsoever you may repair it, a rift is a rift. 51HOMEWARDBy now I had been three years in South Africa. I had got to know the people and they had got to know me. In 1896 I asked permission to go home for six months, for I saw that I was in for a long stay there. I had established a fairly good practice, and could see that people felt the need of my presence. So I made up my mind to go home, fetch my wife and children, and then return and settle out there. I also saw that, if I went home, I might be able to do there some public work by educating public opinion and creating more interest in the Indians of South Africa. The £ 3 tax was an open sore. There could be no peace until it was abolished. But who was to take charge of the Congress work and Education Society in my absence? I could think of two men Adamji Miyakhan and Parsi Rustomji. There were many workers now available from the commercial class. But the foremost among those who could fulfil the duties of the secretary by regular work, and who also commanded the regard of the Indian community, were these two. The secretary certainly needed a working knowledge of English. I recommended the late Adamji Miyakhan’s name to the Congress, and it approved of his appointment as secretary. Experience showed that the choice was a very happy one. Adamji Miyakhan satisfied all with his perseverance, liberality, amiability and courtesy, and proved to every one that the secretary’s work did not require a man with a barrister’s degree or high English education. About the middle of 1896 I sailed for home in the s. s. Pongola which was bound for Calcutta. There were very few passengers on board. Among them were two English oficers, with whom I came in close contact. With one of them I used to play chess for an hour daily. The ship’s doctor gave me a Tamil Self- Teacher which I began to study.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  The prince now wanted his wife all to himself and, gently pushing aside the goose girl, he leaned forward to claim her lips with his, pushing her legs forward as he did so. This movement had the effect of spreading her body wider apart to better receive him, and he at last gave in to his own desire to be satisfied. The goose girl watched with interest as the prince satisfied himself with his wife. And later, when the three lay quietly together, the former maid reached for the true princess, suddenly anxious to somehow make amends to her for all that she had suffered. She would never again harm another woman in an effort to benefit herself! “You must come to the castle and live as a royal princess,” she begged. “I shall be your maid and will work day and night to make everything up to you!” Her husband lifted his head from the bed, about to protest her suggestion, but the goose girl interrupted him. “If you truly wish for me to live in this castle, I shall most happily agree, but I do not think it would be appropriate for a princess to act as my maid.” “But we all know I am not really a princess,” uttered the repentant maid. “But you are,” argued the former goose girl. “Indeed you are!” the prince spoke up. “I should hope, anyway, that marrying me would raise your status from that of a mere maid!” Both princesses laughed. The prince rested again, while the princesses whispered endearments to each other and excitedly made plans for the future—their future, together. And again, it never occurred to either princess to consult the prince on any of these matters. But, strange as it may seem, the prince did not mind. In fact, he has never been known to utter a single complaint about any of his wife’s decisions since that day! The Sheep in Wolves’ ClothingI am a lady. I always conduct myself in a manner that is befitting a lady. And for my efforts I am duly rewarded, as are all ladies, with respect from the men and women who are my peers. This may seem small reward for the difficulties one faces in meeting the stringent expectations placed upon ladies, and admittedly, as the years slip past me, I do find myself more and more aware of the limitations that enclose me and the resulting deficiency of new opportunities presented me. But what are my alternatives? This is not to say that I regret the decisions I have made. Of all the possible lifestyles I could have chosen as a woman, this was, without a doubt, the most tolerable one for me. It is just that I can’t help wondering why it is only for women that the boundaries between the limited choices remain so distinct.

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  was meaningful, to do what was right. A white lie here and there—to most people that wouldn’t be a big thing. But to Dan it would be unthinkable.” Brady pauses, and a look of overwhelming regret darkens his face. For a moment he looks like he’s going to burst into tears. He recovers his composure, with visible effort, then, in a faltering voice, continues: “So I introduced Dan Lafferty to Bob Crossfield. Looking back on it now, it’s unfortunate that I was the catalyst who brought Bob and the Laffertys together. But it happened.” EIGHT THE PEACE MAKER In an age in which economists take for granted that people equate well-being with consumption, increasing numbers of people seem willing to trade certain freedoms and material comforts for a sense of immutable order and the rapture of faith. EUGENE LINDEN, THE FUTURE IN PLAIN SIGHT Dan Lafferty grew up with his five brothers and two sisters on a four-acre farm just west of Salem, Utah. Their father, Watson Lafferty Sr., had served as a barber on an aircraft carrier in World War II; following the war he enrolled in chiropractic college on the G.I. Bill. Upon completion of his training, he opened a combination chiropractic practice– barbershop–beauty salon in a spare room in his home, and settled down to raise his family to be exemplary Latter-day Saints. Watson Lafferty spent a lot of time thinking about God. He also spent a lot of time thinking about the government, and the relationship the former should properly have with the latter. He was highly impressed with the ideas of Ezra Taft Benson—the prominent Mormon apostle, Red-baiter, and John Birch Society supporter who in 1961 announced that there was an “insidious infiltration of communist agents and sympathizers into almost every segment of American Life.” * Even in archconservative, ultra-Mormon Utah County, the hard rightward lean of Watson’s political views, as well as his extreme piety, caused the Lafferty patriarch to stand out. Dan characterizes his dad as “strong-willed,” a “very individual individual,”

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  I was conscious that the feeling was one of remorse. But had I committed a sin for which I should be remorseful? Although a patent contradiction, is there not a sort of remorse that precedes sin? Was it remorse at the very fact that I existed? Had the sight of her called out to me and awakened this remorse? Or was my feeling possibly nothing but a presentiment of sin? . . . Sonoko was already standing demurely before me. She had already begun her bow, but finding me lost in thought, she now began it over again, very precisely. "Have I kept you waiting? Mother and Grandmother—" She had used the honorific forms in referring to these members of her own family, and now she stopped and blushed, suddenly aware how inappropriate her words were when addressed to someone outside the family circle. "Well, they hadn't finished getting ready yet and will be a little late. So wait a little—" She stopped again, and then corrected herself modestly: "So if you will please wait a little and if they still haven't come, we'll go on ahead to the train station—that is, if you like." Having at last managed to blurt out this long speech in faltering, formal language, she gave a big sigh of relief. Sonoko had a large build and was tall enough to reach to my forehead. Her body was unusually graceful and well proportioned, and she had beautiful legs. Her round, childlike face, on which she used no make-up, seemed the reflection of an immaculate and unadorned soul. Her lips were slightly chapped and seemed all the redder for it. We exchanged a few awkward words. Even though I detested myself in the role, I tried with all my might to appear lighthearted and gay, to show myself as a young man abounding in wit. Any number of elevated trains stopped beside us with shrieking, grating noises, and then departed. The press of passengers getting on and off became heavier and heavier. Each time a train came up we were cut off from the stream of sunlight that was bathing us in its pleasant warmth. And each time a train moved away I would be terrified anew by the gentleness of the sunlight that was let fall again upon my cheeks. I took it for an ill-omened sign that the richly blessed sunshine should fall upon me thus, that my heart should be thus filled with moments that left nothing to be desired. Surely in a few minutes a sudden air raid or some equally calamitous event would come and kill us where we stood. Surely, I thought, we do not deserve even a little happiness. Or perhaps we had acquired the bad habit of regarding even a little happiness as a big favor, which we would have to repay. This was precisely the feeling I got from being face to face with Sonoko in this way.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  The will to live proved stronger than the devotion to truth, and for once the votary of truth compromised his sacred ideal by his eagerness to take up the Satyagraha fight. The memory of this action even now rankles in my breast and fills me with remorse, and I am constantly thinking how to give up goat’s milk. But I cannot yet free myself from that subtlest of temptations, the desire to serve, which still holds me. My experience in dietetics are dear to me as a part of my researches in Ahimsa. They give me recreation and joy. But my use of goat’s milk today troubles me not from the view-point of dietetic Ahimsa so much as from that of truth, being no less than a breach of pledge. It seems to me that I understand the ideal of truth better than that of a Ahimsa, and my experience tells me that, if I let go my hold of truth, I shall never be able to solve the riddle of Ahimsa. The ideal of truth requires that vows taken should be fulfilled in the spirit as well as in the letter. In the present case I killed the spirit the soul of my vow by adhering to its outer form only, and that is what galls me. But in spite of this clear knowledge I cannot see my way straight before me. In other words, perhaps, I have not the courage to follow the straight course. Both at bottom mean one and the same thing, for doubt is invariably the result of want or weakness of faith. ‘Lord, give me faith’ is, therefore, my prayer day and night. Soon after I began taking goat’s milk, Dr. Dalal performed on me a successful operation for fissures. As I recuperated, my desire to live revived, especially because God had kept work in store for me. I had hardly begun to feel my way towards recovery, when I happened casually to read in the papers the Rowlatt Committee’s report which had just been published. Its recommendations startled me. Shankarlal Banker and Umar Sobani approached me with the suggestion that I should take some prompt action in the matter. In about a month I went to Ahmedabad. I mentioned my apprehensions to Vallabhbhai, who used to come to see me almost daily. ‘Something must be done,’ said I to him. ‘But what can we do in the circumstances?’ he asked in reply. I answered, ‘If even a handful of men can be found to sign the pledge of resistance, and the proposed measure is passed into law in defiance of it, we ought to offer Satyagraha at once. If I was not laid up like this, I should give battle against it all alone, and expect others to follow suit.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  If, therefore, I would observe the vow I had taken, I must abjure eggs. I therefore did so. This was a hardship inasmuch as inquiry showed that even in vegetarian restaurants many courses used to contain eggs. This meant that unless I knew what was what, I had to go through the awkward process of ascertaining whether a particular course contained eggs or no, for many puddings and cakes were not free from them. But though the revelation of my duty caused this difficulty, it simplified my food. The simplification in its turn brought me annoyance in that I had to give up several dishes I had come to relish. These difficulties were only passing, for the strict observance of the vow produced an inward relish distinctly more healthy, delicate and permanent. The real ordeal, however, was still to come, and that was in respect of the other vow. But who dare harm whom God protects? A few observations about the interpretation of vows or pledges may not be out of place here. Interpretation of pledges has been a fruitful source of strife all the world over. No matter how explicit the pledge, people will turn and twist the text to suit their own purposes. They are to be met with among all classes of society, from the rich down to the poor, from the prince down to the peasant. Selfishness turns them blind, and by a use of the ambiguous middle they deceive themselves and seek to deceive the world and God. One golden rule is to accept the interpretation honestly put on the pledge by the party administering it. Another is to accept the interpretation of the weaker party, where there are two interpretations possible. Rejection of these two rules gives rise to strife and iniquity, which are rooted in untruthfulness. He who seeks truth alone easily follows the golden rule. He need not seek learned advice for interpretation. My mother’s interpretation of meat was, according to the golden rule, the only true one for me, and not the one my wider experience or my pride of better knowledge might have taught me. My experiments in England were conducted from the point of view of economy and hygiene. The religious aspect of the question was not considered until I went to South Africa where I undertook strenuous experiments which will be narrated later. The seed, however, for all of them was sown in England. A convert’s enthusiasm for his new religion is greater than that of a person who is born in it. Vegetarianism was then a new cult in England, and likewise for me, because, as we have seen, I had gone there a convinced meat-eater, and was intellectually converted to vegetarianism later. Full of the neophyte’s zeal for vegetarianism, I decided to start a vegetarian club in my locality, Bayswater. I invited Sir Edwin Arnold, who lived there , to be Vice-President. Dr. Oldfield who was Editor of the The Vegetarian became President.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  Everyone came to realize what a terrible thing it was to be sinful, and the bond that bound me to the boys and girls became stronger and truer. A circumstance arising out of this incident compelled me, a little while after, to go into a fast for fourteen days, the results of which exceeded even my expectations. It is not my purpose to make out from these incidents that it is the duty of a teacher to resort to fasting whenever there is a delinquency on the part of his pupils. I hold, however, that some occasions do call for this drastic remedy. But it presupposes clearness of vision and spiritual fitness. Where there is no true love between the teacher and the pupil, where the pupil’s delinquency has not touched the very being of the teacher and where the pupil has no respect for the teacher, fasting is out of place and may even be harmful. Though there is thus room for doubting the propriety of fasts in such cases, there is no question about the teacher’s responsibility for the errors of his pupil. The first penance did not prove difficult for any of us. I had to suspend or stop none of my normal activities. It may be recalled that during the whole of this period of penance I was a strict fruitarian. The latter part of the second fast went fairly hard with me. I had not then completely understood the wonderful efficacy of Ramanama , and my capacity for suffering was to that extent less. Besides, I did not know the technique of fasting, especially the necessity of drinking plenty of water, however nauseating or distasteful it might be. Then the fact that the first fast had been an easy affair had made me rather careless as to the second. Thus during the first I took Kuhne baths every day, but during the second I gave them up after two or three days, and drank very little water, as it was distasteful and produced nausea. The throat became parched and weak and during the last days I could speak only in a very low voice. In spite of this, however, my work was carried on through dictation where writing was necessary. I regularly listened to readings from the Ramayana and other sacred books. I had also sufficient strength to discuss and advise in all urgent matters. 116TO MEET GOKHALEI must skip many of the recollections of South Africa. At the conclusion of the Satyagraha struggle in 1914, I received Gokhale’s instruction to return home via London. So in July Kasturbai, Kallenbach and I sailed for England. During Satyagraha I had begun travelling third class. I therefore took third class passages for this voyage. But there was a good deal of difference between third class accommodation on the boat on this route and that provided on Indian coastal boats or railway trains.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "Like it? No! I never liked the thing. But she fixed it all up to have it done, like." He returned to pulling off his boots. "If you don't like it, why do you keep it hanging there? Perhaps your wife would like to have it," she said. He looked up at her with a sudden grin. "She carted off ivrything as was worth taking from th'ouse," he said. "But she left _that_!" "Then why do you keep it? For sentimental reasons?" "Nay, I niver look at it. I hardly knowed it wor theer. It's bin theer sin' we come to this place." "Why don't you burn it?" she said. He twisted round again and looked at the enlarged photograph. It was framed in a brown-and-gilt frame, hideous. It showed a clean-shaven, alert, very young looking man in a rather high collar, and a somewhat plump, bold young woman with hair fluffed out and crimped, and wearing a dark satin blouse. "It wouldn't be a bad idea, would it?" he said. He had pulled off his boots, and put on a pair of slippers. He stood up on the chair, and lifted down the photograph. It left a big pale place on the greenish wallpaper. "No use dusting it now," he said, setting the thing against the wall. He went to the scullery, and returned with hammer and pincers. Sitting where he had sat before, he started to tear off the back-paper from the big frame, and to pull out the springs that held the backboard in position, working with the immediate quiet absorption that was characteristic of him. He soon had the nails out: then he pulled out the backboards, then the enlargement itself, in its solid white mount. He looked at the photograph with amusement. "Shows me for what I was, a young curate, and her for what she was, a bully," he said. "The prig and the bully!" "Let me look!" said Connie. He did look indeed very clean-shaven and very clean altogether, one of the clean young men of twenty years ago. But even in the photograph his eyes were alert and dauntless. And the woman was not altogether a bully, though her jowl was heavy. There was a touch of appeal in her. "One never should keep these things," said Connie. "That one shouldn't! One should never have them made!" He broke the cardboard photograph and mount over his knee, and when it was small enough, put it on the fire. "It'll spoil the fire, though," he said. The glass and the backboards he carefully took upstairs. The frame he knocked asunder with a few blows of the hammer, making the stucco fly. Then he took the pieces into the scullery. "We'll burn that tomorrow," he said. "There's too much plaster-moulding on it." Having cleared away, he sat down. "Did you love your wife?" she asked him. "Love?" he said. "Did you love Sir Clifford?" But she was not going to be put off.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  For instance, an honest, respectable man will not suddenly take to stealing, whether there is a law against stealing or not, but this very man will not feel any remorse for failure to observe the rule about carrying head-lights on bicycles after dark. Indeed it is doubtful whether he would even accept advice kindly about being more careful in this respect. But he would observe any obligatory rule of this kind, if only to escape the inconvenience of facing a prosecution for a breach of the rule. Such compliance is not, however, the willing and spontaneous obedience that is required of a Satyagrahi. A Satyagrahi obeys the laws of society intelligently and of his own free will, because he considers it to be his sacred duty to do so. It is only when a person has thus obeyed the laws of society scrupulously that he is in a position to judge as to which particular rules are good and just and which injust and iniquitous. Only then does the right accrue to him of the civil disobedience of certain laws in well- defined circumstances. My error lay in my failure to observe this necessary limitation. I had called on the people to launch upon civil disobedience before they had thus qualified themselves for it, and this mistake seemed to me of Himalayan magnitude. As soon as I entered the Kheda district, all the old recollections of the Kheda Satyagraha struggle came back to me, and I wondered how I could have failed to perceive what was so obvious. I realized that before a people could could be fit for offering civil disobedience, they should thoroughly understand its deeper implications. That being so, before restarting civil disobedience on a mass scale, if would be necessary to create a band of well-tried, pure-hearted volunteers who thoroughly understood the strict conditions of Satyagraha. They could explain these to the people, and by sleepless vigilance keep them on the right path. With these thoughts filling my mind I reached Bombay, raised a corps of Satyagrahi volunteers through the Satyagraha Sabha there, and with their help commenced the work of educating the people with regard to the meaning and inner significance of Satyagraha. This was principally done by issuing leaflets of an educative character bearing on the subject. But whilst this work was going on, I could see that it was a difficult task to interest the people in the peaceful side of Satyagraha. The volunteers too failed to enlist themselves in large numbers. Nor did all those who actually enlisted take anything like a regular systematic training, and as the days passed by, the number of fresh recruits began gradually to dwindle instead of to grow. I realized that the progress of the training in civil disobedience was not going to be as rapid as I had at first expected.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  I had seen, in the course of my travels, that cow protcation and Hindi propaganda had become the exclusive concern of the Marwadis. A Marwadi friend had sheltered me in his #dharmashala# whilst at Bettiah. Other Marwadis of the place had interested me in their #goshala# (dairy). My ideas about cow protection had been definitely formed then, and my conception of the work was the same as it is today. Cow protection, in my opinion, included cattle-breeding, improvement of the stock, humane treatment of bullocks, formation of model dairies, etc. The Marwadi friends had promised full co-operation in this work, but as I could not fix myself up in Champaran, the scheme could not be carried out. The #goshala# in Bettiah is still there, but it was not become a model dairy, the Champaran gullock is still made to work beyond his capacity, and the so-called Hindu still cruelly belabours the poor animal and disgraces his religion. That this work should have remained unrealized has been, to me, a continual regret, and whenever I go to Champaran and hear the gentle reproaches of the Marwadi and Bihari friends, I recall with a heavy sigh all those plans which I had to drop so abruptly. The educational work in one way or another is going on in many places. But the cow protection work had not taken firm root, and has not, therefore, progressed in the direction intended. Whilst the Kheda peasants’ question was still being discussed, I had already taken up the question of the mill-hands in Ahmedabad. I was in a most delicate situation. The mill-hands’ case was strong. Shrimati Anasuyabai had to battle against her own brother, Sjt. Ambalal Sarabhai, who led the fray on behalf of the mill- owners. My relations with them were friendly, and that made fighting with them the more difficult. I held consultations with them, and requested them to refer the dispute to arbitration. I had therefore to advise the labourers to go on strike. Before I did so, I came in very close contact with them and their leaders, and explained to them the conditions of a successful strike: 1. never o resort to violence, 2. never to molest blacklegs, 3. never to depend upon alms, and 4. to remain firm, no matter how long the strike continued, and to earn bread, during the strike, by any other honest labour. The leaders of the strike understood and accepted the conditions, and the labourers pledged themselves at a general meeting not to resume work until either their terms were accepted or the mill-owners agreed to refer the dispute to arbitration. It was during this strike that I came to know intimately Sjts. Vallabhbhai Patel and Shankarlal Banker. Shrimati Anasuyabai I knew well before this. We had daily meetings of the strikers under the shade of a tree on the bank of the Sabarmati.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "Was it horrid for you?" she asked, as she sat opposite him at table. He was too thin; she saw it now. His hand lay as she knew it, with that curious loose forgottenness of a sleeping animal. She wanted so much to take it and kiss it. But she did not quite dare. "People are always horrid," he said. "And did you mind very much?" "I minded, as I always shall mind. And I knew I was a fool to mind." "Did you feel like a dog with a tin can tied to its tail? Clifford said you felt like that." He looked at her. It was cruel of her at that moment: for his pride had suffered bitterly. "I suppose I did," he said. She never knew the fierce bitterness with which he resented insult. There was a long pause. "And did you miss me?" she asked. "I was glad you were out of it." Again there was a pause. "But did people _believe_ about you and me?" she asked. "No! I don't think so for a moment." "Did Clifford?" "I should say not. He put it off without thinking about it. But naturally it made him want to see the last of me." "I'm going to have a child." The expression died utterly out of his face, out of his whole body. He looked at her with darkened eyes, whose look she could not understand at all: like some dark-flamed spirit looking at her. "Say you're glad!" she pleaded, groping for his hand. And she saw a certain exultance spring up in him. But it was netted down by things she could not understand. "It's the future," he said. "But aren't you glad?" she persisted. "I have such a terrible mistrust of the future." "But you needn't be troubled by any responsibility. Clifford would have it as his own, he'd be glad." She saw him go pale, and recoil under this. He did not answer. "Shall I go back to Clifford, and put a little baronet into Wragby?" she asked. He looked at her, pale and very remote. The ugly little grin flickered on his face. "You wouldn't have to tell him who the father was." "Oh!" she said; "he'd take it even then, if I wanted him to." He thought for a time. "Ay!" he said at last, to himself. "I suppose he would." There was silence. A big gulf was between them. "But you don't want me to go back to Clifford, do you?" she asked him. "What do you want yourself?" he replied. "I want to live with you," she said simply. In spite of himself, little flames ran over his belly as he heard her say it, and he dropped his head. Then he looked up at her again, with those haunted eyes. "If it's worth it to you," he said. "I've got nothing." "You've got more than most men. Come, you know it," she said.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  HOW A CLIENT WAS SAVED The reader, by now, will be quite familiar with Parsi Rustomji’s name. He was one who became at once my client and co-worker, or perhaps it would be truer to say that he first became co- worker and then client. I won his confidence to such an extent that he sought and followed my advice also in private domestic matters. Even when he was ill, he would seek my aid, and though there was much difference between our ways of living, he did not hesitate to accept my quack treatment. This friend once got into a very bad scrape. Though he kept me informed of most of his affairs, he had studiously kept back one thing. He was a large importer of goods from Bombay and Calcutta, and not infrequently he resorted to smuggling. But as he was on the best terms with customs officials, no one was inclined to suspect him. In charging duty, they used to take his invoices on trust. Some might even have connived at the smuggling. But to use the telling simile of the Gujarati poet Akho, theft like quicksilver won’t be suppressed, and Parsi Rustomji’s proved no exception. The good friend ran post haste to me, the tears rolling down his cheeks as he said: ‘Bhai, I have deceived you. My guilt has been discovered today. I have smuggled and I am doomed. I must go to jail and be ruined. You alone may be able to save me from this predicament. I have kept back nothing else from you, but I thought I ought not to bother you with such tricks of the trade, and so I never told you about this smuggling. But now, how much I repent it!’ I calmed him and said: ‘To save or not to save you is in His hands. As to me you know my way. I can but try to save you by means of confession.’

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  thus unfavourable. I must therefore confess that most of my efforts to instruct Kasturbai in our youth were unsuccessful. And when I awoke from the sleep of lust, I had already launched forth into public life, which did not leave me much spare time. I failed likewise to instruct her through private tutors. As a result Kasturbai can now with difficulty write simple letters and understand simple Gujarati. I am sure that, had my love for her been absolutely untainted with lust, she would be a learned lady today; for I could than have conquered her dislike for studies. I know that nothing is impossible for pure love. I have mentioned one circumstance that more or less saved me from the disasters of lustful love. There is another worth noting. Numerous examples have convinced me that God ultimately saves him whose motive is pure. Along with the cruel custom of child marriages, Hindu society has another custom which to a certain extent diminishes the evils of the former. Parents do not allow young couples to stay long. The child-wife spends more than half her time at her father’s place. Such was the case with us. That is to say, during the first five years of our married life (from the age of 13 to 18), we could not have lived together longer than an aggregate period of three years. We would hardly have spent six months together, when there would be a call to my wife from her parents. Such calls were very unwelcome in those days, But they saved us both. At the age of eighteen I went to England, and this meant a long and healthy spell of separation. Even after my return from England we hardly stayed together longer than six months. For I had to run up and down between Rajkot and Bombay. Then came the call from South Africa, and that found me already fairly free from the carnal appetite.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "_I_ do! Because I've suffered more from them. In the abstract, I've no idea. When I get with a Lesbian woman, whether she knows she's one or not, I see red. No, no! But I wanted to have nothing to do with any woman any more. I wanted to keep to myself: keep my privacy and my decency." He looked pale, and his brows were sombre. "And were you sorry when I came along?" she asked. "I was sorry and I was glad." "And what are you now?" "I'm sorry, from the outside: all the complications and the ugliness and recrimination that's bound to come, sooner or later. That's when my blood sinks, and I'm low. But when my blood comes up, I'm glad. I'm even triumphant. I was really getting bitter. I thought there was no real sex left: never a woman who'd really 'come' naturally with a man: except black women, and somehow, well, we're white men: and they're a bit like mud." "And now, are you glad of me?" she asked. "Yes! When I can forget the rest. When I can't forget the rest, I want to get under the table and die." "Why under the table?" "Why?" he laughed. "Hide, I suppose. Baby!" "You do seem to have had awful experiences of women," she said. "You see, I couldn't fool myself. That's where most men manage. They take an attitude, and accept a lie. I could never fool myself. I knew what I wanted with a woman, and I could never say I'd got it when I hadn't." "But have you got it now?" "Looks as if I might have." "Then why are you so pale and gloomy?" "Bellyful of remembering: and perhaps afraid of myself." She sat in silence. It was growing late. "And you do think it's important, a man and a woman?" she asked him. "For me it is. For me it's the core to my life: if I have a right relation with a woman." "And if you didn't get it?" "Then I'd have to do without." Again she pondered, before she asked: "And do you think you've always been right with women?" "God, no! I let my wife get to what she was: my fault a good deal. I spoilt her. And I'm very mistrustful. You'll have to expect it. It takes a lot to make me trust anybody, inwardly. So perhaps I'm a fraud too. I mistrust. And tenderness is not to be mistaken." She looked at him. "You don't mistrust with your body, when your blood comes up," she said. "You don't mistrust then, do you?" "No, alas! That's how I've got into all the trouble. And that's why my mind mistrusts so thoroughly." "Let your mind mistrust. What does it matter!" The dog sighed with discomfort on the mat. The ash-clogged fire sank. "We _are_ a couple of battered warriors," said Connie. "Are you battered too?" he laughed. "And here we are returning to the fray!"

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  could not have blamed him. In fact, he had a right to arraign me for having described the concern as profitable without proper proof. But he never so much as uttered one word of complaint. I have, however, an impression that this discovery led Mr. West to regard me as credulous. I had simply accepted Sjt. Madanjit’s estimate without caring to examine it, and told Mr. West to expect a profit. I now realize that a public worker should not make statements of which he has not made sure. Above all, a votary of truth must exercise the greatest caution. To allow a man to believe a thing which one has fully verified is to compromise truth. I am pained to have to confess that, in spite of this knowledge, I have not quite conquered my credulous habit, for which my ambition to do more work than I can manage is responsible. This ambition has often been a source of worry more to my co-workers than to myself. On receipt of Mr. West’s letter I left for Natal. I had taken Mr. Polak into my fullest confidence. He came to see me off at the Station, and left with me a book to read during the journey, which he said I was sure to like. It was Ruskin’s Unto This Last. The book was impossible to lay aside, once I had begun it. It gripped me. Johannesburg to Durban was a twenty-four hours’ journey. The train reached there in the evening. I could not get any sleep that night. I determined to change my life in accordance with the ideals of the book. This was the first book of Ruskin I had ever read. During the days of my education I had read practically nothing outside text-books, and after I launched into active life I had very little time for reading. I cannot therefore claim much book knowledge. However, I believe I have not lost much because of this enforced restraint. On the contrary, the limited reading may be said to have

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  8. A TRAGEDY Amongst my few friends at the high school I had, at different times, two who might be called intimate. One of these friendships did not last long, though I never forsook my friend. He forsook me, because I made friends with the other. This latter friendship I regard as a tragedy in my life. It lasted long. I formed it in spirit of a reformer. This companion was originally my elder brother’s friend. They were classmates. I knew his weaknesses, but I regarded him as a faithful friend. My mother, my eldest brother, and my wife warned me that I was in bad company. I was too proud to heed my wife’s warning. But I dared not go against the opinion of my mother and my eldest brother. Nevertheless I pleaded with them saying, ‘I know he has the weaknesses you attribute to him, but you do not know his virtues. He cannot lead me astray, as my association with him is meant to reform him. For I am sure that if he reforms his ways, he will be a splendid man. I beg you not to be anxious on my account.’ I do not think this satisfied them, but they accepted my explanation and let me go my way. I have seen since that I had calculated wrongly. A reformer cannot afford to have close intimacy with him whom he seeks to reform. True friendship is an identity of souls rarely to be found in this world. Only between like natures can friendship be altogether worthy and enduring. Friends react on one another. Hence in friendship there is very little scope for reform. I am of opinion that all exclusive intimacies are to be avoided; for man takes in vice far more readily than virtue. And he who would be friends with God must remain alone, or make

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  He laughed loudly: ‘I'll hound her out of the county before I’ve done — and with luck out of England; the same as I’d hound you out if I thought that there’d ever been anything between you two women. It’s damned lucky for you that she wrote this letter, damned lucky, otherwise I might have my suspicions. You’ve got off this time, but don’t try your reforming again — you’re not cut out to be a reformer. If there’s any of that Lamb of God stuff wanted IIl see to it myself and don’t you forget it!’ He slipped the letter into his pocket, ‘I’ll see to it myself next time — with an axe!’ Angela turned and went out of the study with bowed head. She was saved through this great betrayal, yet most strangely THE WELL OF LONELINESS 225 bitter she found her salvation, and most shameful the price she had paid for her safety. So, greatly daring, she went to her desk and with trembling fingers took a sheet of paper. Then she wrote in her large, rather childish handwriting: ‘ Stephen — when you know what I’ve done, forgive me.’ CHAPTER 27 I wo days later Anna Gordon sent for her daughter. Stephen T found her sitting quite still in that vast drawing-room of hers, which as always smelt faintly of orris-root, beeswax and violets. Her thin, white hands were folded in her lap, closely folded over a couple of letters; and it seemed to Stephen that all of a sudden she saw in her mother a very old woman — a very old woman with terrible eyes, pitiless, hard and deeply accusing, so that she could but shrink from their gaze, since they were the eyes of her mother. Anna said: ‘ Lock the door, then come and stand here.’ In absolute silence Stephen obeyed her. Thus it was that those two confronted each other, flesh of flesh, blood of blood, they con- fronted each other across the wide gulf set between them. Then Anna handed her daughter a letter: ‘ Read this,’ she said briefly. And Stephen read: Dear Lapy ANNA, With deep repugnance I take up my pen, for certain things won't bear thinking about, much less being written. But I feel that I owe you some explanation of my reasons for having come to the decision that I cannot permit your daughter to enter my house again, or my wife to visit Morton. I enclose a copy of your daugh- ter’s letter to my wife, which I feel is sufficiently clear to make it unnecessary for me to write further, except to add that my wife is returning the two costly presents given her by Miss Gordon. I remain, Yours very truly, RALPH CrossBY. THE WELL OF LONELINESS 227

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  In two or three months’ time I came to know that the amount would not be recovered. I could ill afford to sustain such a loss. There were many other purposes to which I could have applied this amount. The loan was never repaid. But how could trusting Badri be allowed to suffer? He had known me only. I made good the loss. A client friend to whom I spoke about this transaction sweetly chid me for my folly. ‘Bhai,’ – I had fortunately not yet become ‘Mahatma’, nor even ‘Bapu’ (father) friends used to call me by the loving name of ‘Bhai’ (brother)- said he, ‘this was not for you to do. We depend upon you in so many things. You are not going to get back this amount. I know you will never allow Badri to come to grief, for you will pay him out of your pocket, but if you go on helping your reform schemes by operating on your clients’ money, the poor fellows will be ruined, and you will soon become a beggar. But you are our trustee and must know that, if you become a beggar, all our public work will come to a stop.’ The friend I am thankful to say, is still alive. I have not yet come across a purer man than he, in South Africa or anywhere else. I have known him to apologize to people and to cleanse himself, when, having happened to suspect them, he had found his suspicion to be unfounded. I saw that he had rightly warned me. For though I made good Badri’s loss, I should not have been able to meet any similar loss and should have been driven to incur debt- a thing I have never done in my life and always abhorred. I realized that even a man’s reforming zeal ought not to make him exceed his limits. I also saw that in thus lending trust-money I had disobeyed the cardinal teaching of the Gita, #viz#, the duty of a man of equipoise to act without desire for the fruit. The error became for me a beaconlight of warning. The sacrifice offered on the altar of vegetarianism was neither intentional nor expected. It was a virtue of necessity. 86.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  carelessness in school. I have a faint recollection that I finally succeeded in getting the fine remitted. The exemption from exercise was of course obtained, as my father wrote himself to the headmaster saying that he wanted me at home after school. But though I was none the worse for having neglected exercise, I am still paying the penalty of another neglect, I do not know whence I got the notion that good handwriting was not a necessary part of education, but I retained it until I went to England. When later, especially in South Africa, I saw the beautiful handwriting of lawyers and young men born and educated in South Africa, I was ashamed of myself and repented of my neglect. I saw that bad handwriting should be regarded as a sign of an imperfect education. I tried later to improve mine, but it was too late. I could never repair the neglect of my youth. Let every young man and woman be warned by my example, and understand that good handwriting is a necessary part of education. I am now of opinion that children should first be taught the art of drawing before learning how to write. Let the child learn his letters by observation as he does different objects, such as flowers, birds, etc., and let him learn handwriting only after he has learnt to draw objects. He will then write a beautifully formed hand. Two more reminiscences of my school days are worth recording. I had lost one year because of my marriage, and the teacher wanted me to make good the loss by skipping a class a privilege usually allowed to industrious boys. I therefore had only six months in the third standard and was prompted to he forth after the examinations which are followed by the summer vacation. English became the medium of instruction in most subjects from the fourth standard. I found myself completely at sea. Geometry was a new subject in which I was not particularly strong, and the English medium made it still more difficult for me. The teacher taught the subject very well, but I could not follow him. Often I would lose heart