What fool asks woman for advice--The world
Holds her wit shallow. Even when the truth
Comes from her lips, men stop their ears and smile
And yet without the woman, where is man?
We hold the power of Form--for us the Fire
Of Shiv's creative force flames up and burns;
Lo! we are Thieves of Life, and sancturies of souls
And sanctuaries of souls! of souls!
There was a sudden check of irritation; the singer interrupted herself to complain of lack of accord; then continued:
Vessels are we of Virtue and of Vice
Of knowledge and of utmost ignorance
Astrologers can calculate from books
The courses of the stars; but who is he
Can read the pages of a woman's heart?
Our book hath not been measured, so men say
"She hath no wisdom" but to hide their lack
Of understanding. Yet we share your lives,
Your failures, your successes, griefs, and joys.
Hunger and thirst, if yours, are ours, and Death
Parts us not from you; for we follow fast
To serve you in the mansions of the Sun
The mansions of the Sun.
Yet once again some discord in voice and music seemed to rouse ire.
"Fool!" cried Âtma, "hast no sense! Thou art like a sitting hen with thy cluck, cluck, cluck, all out of tune! Take a paper if thou canst not remember and set it down in notation. See there is a bit yonder."
She pointed to the pen-tray and Deena with contrite face took the crumpled scrap, smoothed it out on the top of his drum and thereinafter, with some slight exaggeration in displaying a fair white surface, proceeded to write down quaint musical hieroglyphics. Then folding it, notation uppermost, stuck it into the drum-brace.
"Now let us try again, mistress most chaste," he said cheerfully. "For old Deena never failed a woman yet; least of all one who hath oft times stood between him and damnation."
There was a faint tremble as of relaxed tension in Âtma's voice as she went on: