In the hush of the evening, and the half-light, the scene was
lovely beyond description, and for eighteen years I treasured in
my mind the memory of the Husainabad at sunset as the vision of my
life.
On returning to Lucknow in 1906, I insisted on going at once to
revisit the Husainabad, though I was warned that there was nothing
to see there. Alas! in broad daylight and in the glare of the
fierce sun the whole place looked abominably tawdry. What I had
taken for black-and-white marble was only painted stucco, and
coarsely daubed at that; the details of the decoration were
deplorable, and the Husainabad was just a piece of showy,
meretricious tinsel. The gathering dusk and the golden expanse of
the Indian sunset sky had by some subtle wizardry thrown a veil of
glamour over this poor travesty of the marvels of Delhi and Agra.
So a long-cherished ideal was hopelessly shattered, which is
always a melancholy thing.
We are all slaves to the economic conditions under which we live,
and the present exorbitant price of paper is a very potent factor
in the making of books.
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