the book of tea(茶书)-第11部分
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century； pregnant with the theory of evolution； has moreover created in us
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the habit of losing sight of the individual in the species。 A collector is
anxious to acquire specimens to illustrate a period or a school； and forgets
that a single masterpiece can teach us more than any number of the
mediocre products of a given period or school。 We classify too much and
enjoy too little。 The sacrifice of the aesthetic to the so…called scientific
method of exhibition has been the bane of many museums。
The claims of contemporary art cannot be ignored in any vital scheme
of life。 The art of to…day is that which really belongs to us： it is our own
reflection。 In condemning it we but condemn ourselves。 We say that
the present age possesses no art：who is responsible for this？ It is
indeed a shame that despite all our rhapsodies about the ancients we pay
so little attention to our own possibilities。 Struggling artists； weary
souls lingering in the shadow of cold disdain！ In our self… centered
century； what inspiration do we offer them？ The past may well look with
pity at the poverty of our civilisation； the future will laugh at the
barrenness of our art。 We are destroying the beautiful in life。 Would
that some great wizard might from the stem of society shape a mighty harp
whose strings would resound to the touch of genius。
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VI。 Flowers
In the trembling grey of a spring dawn； when the birds were
whispering in mysterious cadence among the trees； have you not felt that
they were talking to their mates about the flowers？ Surely with mankind
the appreciation of flowers must have been coeval with the poetry of love。
Where better than in a flower； sweet in its unconsciousness； fragrant
because of its silence； can we image the unfolding of a virgin soul？ The
primeval man in offering the first garland to his maiden thereby
transcended the brute。 He became human in thus rising above the crude
necessities of nature。 He entered the realm of art when he perceived the
subtle use of the useless。
In joy or sadness； flowers are our constant friends。 We eat； drink；
sing； dance； and flirt with them。 We wed and christen with flowers。 We
dare not die without them。 We have worshipped with the lily； we have
meditated with the lotus； we have charged in battle array with the rose and
the chrysanthemum。 We have even attempted to speak in the language of
flowers。 How could we live without them？ It frightens on to conceive of
a world bereft of their presence。 What solace do they not bring to the
bedside of the sick； what a light of bliss to the darkness of weary spirits？
Their serene tenderness restores to us our waning confidence in the
universe even as the intent gaze of a beautiful child recalls our lost hopes。
When we are laid low in the dust it is they who linger in sorrow over our
graves。
Sad as it is； we cannot conceal the fact that in spite of our
companionship with flowers we have not risen very far above the brute。
Scratch the sheepskin and the wolf within us will soon show his teeth。 It
has been said that a man at ten is an animal； at twenty a lunatic； at thirty a
failure； at forty a fraud； and at fifty a criminal。 Perhaps he becomes a
criminal because he has never ceased to be an animal。 Nothing is real to
us but hunger； nothing sacred except our own desires。 Shrine after shrine
has crumbled before our eyes； but one altar is forever preserved； that
whereon we burn incense to the supreme idol；ourselves。 Our god is
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great； and money is his Prophet！ We devastate nature in order to make
sacrifice to him。 We boast that we have conquered Matter and forget
that it is Matter that has enslaved us。 What atrocities do we not
perpetrate in the name of culture and refinement！
Tell me； gentle flowers； teardrops of the stars； standing in the garden；
nodding your heads to the bees as they sing of the dews and the sunbeams；
are you aware of the fearful doom that awaits you？ Dream on； sway and
frolic while you may in the gentle breezes of summer。 To…morrow a
ruthless hand will close around your throats。 You will be wrenched；
torn asunder limb by limb； and borne away from your quiet homes。
The wretch； she may be passing fair。 She may say how lovely you are
while her fingers are still moist with your blood。 Tell me； will this be
kindness？ It may be your fate to be imprisoned in the hair of one whom
you know to be heartless or to be thrust into the buttonhole of one who
would not dare to look you in the face were you a man。 It may even be
your lot to be confined in some narrow vessel with only stagnant water to
quench the maddening thirst that warns of ebbing life。
Flowers； if you were in the land of the Mikado； you might some time
meet a dread personage armed with scissors and a tiny saw。 He would call
himself a Master of Flowers。 He would claim the rights of a doctor and
you would instinctively hate him； for you know a doctor always seeks to
prolong the troubles of his victims。 He would cut； bend； and twist you into
those impossible positions which he thinks it proper that you should
assume。 He would contort your muscles and dislocate your bones like
any osteopath。 He would burn you with red…hot coals to stop your bleeding；
and thrust wires into you to assist your circulation。 He would diet you
with salt； vinegar； alum； and sometimes； vitriol。 Boiling water would be
poured on your feet when you seemed ready to faint。 It would be his boast
that he could keep life within you for two or more weeks longer than
would have been possible without his treatment。 Would you not have
preferred to have been killed at once when you were first captured？
What were the crimes you must have committed during your past
incarnation to warrant such punishment in this？ The wanton waste of
flowers among Western communities is even more appalling than the way
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they are treated by Eastern Flower Masters。 The number of flowers cut
daily to adorn the ballrooms and banquet…tables of Europe and America；
to be thrown away on the morrow； must be something enormous； if strung
together they might garland a continent。 Beside this utter carelessness of
life； the guilt of the Flower…Master becomes insignificant。 He； at least；
respects the economy of nature； selects his victims with careful foresight；
and after death does honour to their remains。 In the West the display of
flowers seems to be a part of the pageantry of wealth；the fancy of a
moment。 Whither do they all go； these flowers； when the revelry is over？
Nothing is more pitiful than to see a faded flower remorselessly flung
upon a dung heap。
Why were the flowers born so beautiful and yet so hapless？ Insects
can sting； and even the meekest of beasts will fight when brought to bay。
The birds whose plumage is sought to deck some bonnet can fly from its
pursuer； the furred animal whose coat you covet for your own may hide at
your approach。 Alas！ The only flower known to have wings is the
butterfly； all others stand helpless before the destroyer。 If they shriek
in their death agony their cry never reaches our hardened ears。 We are
ever brutal to those who love and serve us in silence； but the time may
come when； for our cruelty； we shall be deserted by these best friends of
ours。 Have you not noticed that the wild flowers are becoming scarcer
every year？ It may be that their wise men have told them to depart till
man becomes more human。 Perhaps they have migrated to heaven。
Much may be said in favor of him who cultivates plants。 The man of
the pot is far more humane than he of the scissors。 We watch with
delight his concern about water and sunshine； his feuds with parasites； his
horror of frosts； his anxiety when the buds come slowly； his rapture when
the leaves attain their lustre。 In the East the art of floriculture is a very
ancient one； and the loves of a poet and his favorite plant have often been
recorded in story and song。 With the development of cer
