One day Surja Mukhi, casting herself at his feet, choking down the sobs in her throat, with much humility entreated, “For my sake give this up.”

Nagendra asked angrily, “What is my fault?”

Surja Mukhi said:  “If you do not know what is the fault, how can I?  I only beg that for my sake you will give it up.”

Nagendra replied:  “Surja Mukhi, I am a drunkard!  If devotion should be paid to a drunkard, pay it to me; otherwise it is not called for.”

Surja Mukhi left the room to conceal her tears, since her weeping irritated her husband, and led him to strike the servants.

Soon after, the Dewan sent word to the mistress that the estate was going to ruin.

She asked, “Why?”

“Because the Babu will not see to things.  The people on the estates do just as they please.  Since the Karta is so careless, no one heeds what I say.”

Surja Mukhi answered:  “If the owner looks after the estate, it will be preserved; if not, let it go to ruin.  I shall be thankful if I can only save my own property” (meaning her husband).

Formerly Nagendra had carefully looked after all his affairs.

One day some hundreds of his ryots came to the kacheri, and with joined palms stood at the door.  “Give us justice,” they said, “O your highness; we cannot survive the tyranny of the naib (a law officer) and the gomashta.  We are being robbed of everything.  If you do not save us, to whom shall we go?”

Nagendra gave orders to drive them away.

Formerly, when one of his gomashtas had beaten a ryot and taken a rupee from him, Nagendra had cut ten rupees from the gomashta’s pay and given it to the ryot.

Hara Deb Ghosal wrote to Nagendra:  “What has happened to you?  I cannot imagine what you are doing.  I receive no letters from you, or, if I do, they contain but two or three lines without any meaning.  Have you taken offence with me?  If so, why do you not tell me?  Have you lost your lawsuit?  Then why not say so?  If you do not tell me anything else, at least give me news of your health.”

Nagendra replied:  “Do not be angry with me.  I am going to destruction.”

Hara Deb was very wise.  On reading this letter he thought to himself:  “What is this?  Anxiety about money?  A quarrel with some friend?  Debendra Datta?  Nothing of the kind.  Is this love?”

Kamal Mani received another letter from Surja Mukhi.  It concluded thus:  “Come, Kamal Mani, sister; except you I have no friend.  Come to me.”

Kamal Mani was agitated; she could contain herself no longer.  She felt that she must consult her husband.

Srish Chandra, sitting in the inner apartments, was looking over the office account-books.  Beside him on the bed, Satish Chandra, a child of a year old, was rejoicing in the possession of an English newspaper.  He had first tried to eat it; but, failing in that, had spread it out and was now sitting upon it.  Kamal Mani, approaching her husband, brought the end of her sari round her neck, threw herself down, bending her forehead to the floor, and, folding her hands, said, “I pay my devotions to you, O great king.”  Just before this time, a play had been performed in the house, from whence she borrowed this inflated speech.