“O ye critical and all-observing gods!” he exclaimed. “This is modernism, is it! Who will listen to a play that only has one king in it, and no queen, and no courtiers—but a shoemaker, and a goatherd, and a seller of sweetmeats, and three low-caste-women with water-jars, and only one soldier—he not a general but a sepoy, if you please!—and a wandering saddhu[[29]], and no vizier to support the king, but a tax-gatherer and a camel-driver, and a village headman, and two farmers—and for heroine—what kind of a heroine is this? A Chinese woman? And what a name! San-fun-ho! Bah! Who will listen to the end of such a play?”
“I will be the first to listen,” said the Lama dryly. “Let us begin reading.”
“And not even a marriage at the end!” Maitraya growled disgustedly. “None marries the king—not even the Chinese woman and her pigtail! No gods—one goddess! Not even a Brahman! How do you like that, Gupta Rao? Not as much as one Brahman to give the play dignity! What part have you? The saddhu’s? Let us hope it is a better part than mine. Listen to this: I am a king. I enter right, one sepoy following. (O Vishnu! Thy sharp beams burn! A king, and one sepoy for escort!) The sweetmeat seller enters left. Back of the stage the Chinese woman is beside a well under a peepul-tree, talking with three women who carry water-jars—and may the gods explain how a Chinese woman comes to be there! I address the sweetmeat seller. Listen:
“ ‘Thou, who sellest evanescent joy—and possibly enduring bellyache—to little ones, what hast thou to offer to me, who am in need of many things?’—What do you think of that for a speech for a king to make his entry with?”
“To which, what says the sweetmeat seller?” asked the Lama. “Who has the sweetmeat seller’s part? Read on.”
They sat down in a semicircle on the floor, Maitraya standing in the midst of them, and one of the men read matter-of-factly:
“ ‘Mightiest of kings, thy servant is a poor man, needing money to pay the municipal tax. May all the gods instruct me how to answer! Who am I that I should offer anything to the owner of all these leagues of forest and flowing stream and royal cities? An alms, O image of the sun?’ ”
“If he were a real king, and this a real play,” Maitraya exclaimed, consulting the directions, “he would order that sweetmeat seller into jail for impudence! But what does he do? He looks sad, gives the fellow an alms, and turns to face the women at the well. How can he do that? I tell you, he must face the audience. Are they interested in his back? And this is what he says:
“ ‘Bearers of refreshment! Ye who walk so straight beneath the water-jars! Ye who laugh and tell a city’s gossip! Ye who bring new men into the world! What have ye to offer me, whose heart is heavy? Lo, I bring forth sorrow amid many midwives. Wherewith shall I suckle it?’—It is just at this point that the audience begins to walk out!” said Maitraya.
“A woman speaks. What says the woman?” boomed the Lama; and the woman who could read held her scroll to the light, speaking sidewise, jerking her head at the Lama, as if he were the king: