the golden threshold(金色的门槛)-第2部分
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disturb that fixed contemplation； as of Buddha on his lotus…throne。
And along with this wisdom； as of age or of the age of a race； there
was what I can hardly call less than an agony of sensation。 Pain or
pleasure transported her； and the whole of pain or pleasure might be held
in a flower's cup or the imagined frown of a friend。 It was never found in
those things which to others seemed things of importance。 At the age of
twelve she passed the Matriculation of the Madras University； and awoke
to find herself famous throughout India。 〃Honestly；〃 she said to me； 〃I
was not pleased； such things did not appeal to me。〃 But here； in a letter
from Hyderabad； bidding one 〃share a March morning〃 with her； there is；
at the mere contact of the sun； this outburst： 〃Come and share my
exquisite March morning with me： this sumptuous blaze of gold and
sapphire sky； these scarlet lilies that adorn the sunshine； the voluptuous
scents of neem and champak and serisha that beat upon the languid air
with their implacable sweetness； the thousand little gold and blue and
silver breasted birds bursting with the shrill ecstasy of life in nesting time。
All is hot and fierce and passionate； ardent and unashamed in its exulting
and importunate desire for life and love。 And； do you know that the scarlet
lilies are woven petal by petal from my heart's blood； these little quivering
birds are my soul made incarnate music； these heavy perfumes are my
emotions dissolved into aerial essence； this flaming blue and gold sky is
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the 'very me；' that part of me that incessantly and in… solently； yes； and a
little deliberately； triumphs over that other parta thing of nerves and
tissues that suffers and cries out； and that must die to…morrow perhaps； or
twenty years hence。〃
Then there was her humour； which was part of her strange wisdom；
and was always awake and on the watch。 In all her letters； written in
exquisite English prose； but with an ardent imagery and a vehement
sincerity of emotion which make them； like the poems； indeed almost
more directly； un…English； Oriental； there was always this intellectual；
critical sense of humour； which could laugh at one's own enthusiasm as
frankly as that enthusiasm had been set down。 And partly the humour；
like the delicate reserve of her manner； was a mask or a shelter。 〃I have
taught myself；〃 she writes to me from India； 〃to be commonplace and like
everybody else superficially。 Every one thinks I am so nice and cheerful；
so 'brave；' all the banal things that are so comfortable to be。 My mother
knows me only as 'such a tranquil child； but so strong…willed。' A tranquil
child！〃 And she writes again； with deeper significance： 〃I too have learnt
the subtle philosophy of living from moment to moment。 Yes； it is a
subtle philosophy； though it appears merely an epicurean doctrine： 'Eat；
drink； and be merry； for to…morrow we die。' I have gone through so many
yesterdays when I strove with Death that I have realised to its full the
wisdom of that sentence； and it is to me not merely a figure of speech； but
a literal fact。 Any to…morrow I might die。 It is scarcely two months
since I came back from the grave： is it worth while to be anything but
radiantly glad？ Of all things that life or perhaps my temperament has
given me I prize the gift of laughter as beyond price。〃
Her desire； always； was to be 〃a wild free thing of the air like the birds；
with a song in my heart。〃 A spirit of too much fire in too frail a body； it
was rarely that her desire was fully granted。 But in Italy she found what
she could not find in England； and from Italy her letters are radiant。
〃This Italy is made of gold；〃 she writes from Florence； 〃the gold of dawn
and daylight； the gold of the stars； and； now dancing in weird enchanting
rhythms through this magic month of May； the gold of fireflies in the
perfumed darkness'aerial gold。' I long to catch the subtle music of their
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fairy dances and make a poem with a rhythm like the quick irregular wild
flash of their sudden movements。 Would it not be wonderful？ One
black night I stood in a garden with fireflies in my hair like darting restless
stars caught in a mesh of darkness。 It gave me a strange sensation； as if I
were not human at all； but an elfin spirit。 I wonder why these little things
move me so deeply？ It is because I have a most 'unbalanced intellect；' I
suppose。〃 Then； looking out on Florence； she cries； 〃God！ how beautiful
it is； and how glad I am that I am alive to…day！〃 And she tells me that she
is drinking in the beauty like wine； 〃wine； golden and scented； and shining；
fit for the gods； and the gods have drunk it； the dead gods of Etruria； two
thousand years ago。 Did I say dead？ No； for the gods are immortal； and
one might still find them loitering in some solitary dell on the grey
hillsides of Fiesole。 Have I seen them？ Yes； looking with dreaming
eyes； I have found them sitting under the olives； in their grave； strong；
antique beautyEtruscan gods！〃
In Italy she watches the faces of the monks； and at one moment longs
to attain to their peace by renunciation； longs for Nirvana； 〃then； when one
comes out again into the hot sunshine that warms one's blood； and sees the
eager hurrying faces of men and women in the street； dramatic faces over
which the disturbing experiences of life have passed and left their symbols；
one's heart thrills up into one's throat。 No； no； no； a thousand times no！
how can one deliberately renounce this coloured； unquiet； fiery human life
of the earth？〃 And； all the time； her subtle criticism is alert； and this
woman of the East marvels at the women of the West； 〃the beautiful
worldly women of the West；〃 whom she sees walking in the Cascine；
〃taking the air so consciously attractive in their brilliant toilettes； in the
brilliant coquetry of their manner！〃 She finds them 〃a little
incomprehensible；〃 〃profound artists in all the subtle intricacies of
fascination；〃 and asks if these 〃incalculable frivolities and vanities and
coquetries and caprices〃 are； to us； an essential part of their charm？ And
she watches them with amusement as they flutter about her； petting her as
if she were a nice child； a child or a toy； not dreaming that she is saying to
herself sorrowfully： 〃How utterly empty their lives must be of all
spiritual beauty IF they are nothing more than they appear to be。〃
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She sat in our midst； and judged us； and few knew what was passing
behind that face 〃like an awakening soul；〃 to use one of her own epithets。
Her eyes were like deep pools； and you seemed to fall through them into
depths below depths。
ARTHUR SYMONS。
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FOLK SONGS
PALANQUIN BEARERS
Lightly； O lightly we bear her along； She sways like a flower in the
wind of our song； She skims like a bird on the foam of a stream； She floats
like a laugh from the lips of a dream。 Gaily； O gaily we glide and we sing；
We bear her along like a pearl on a string。
Softly； O softly we bear her along； She hangs like a star in the dew of
our song； She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide； She falls like a
tear from the eyes of a bride。 Lightly； O lightly we glide and we sing； We
bear her along like a pearl on a string。
WANDERING SINGERS （Written to one of their Tunes）
Where the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet； Through
echoing forest and echoing street； With lutes in our hands ever…singing we
roam； All men are our kindred； the world is our home。
Our lays are of cities whose lustre is shed； The laughter and beauty of
women long dead； The sword of old battles； the crown of old kings； And
happy and simple and sorrowful things。
What hope shall we gather； what dreams shall we sow？ Where the
wind calls our wandering footsteps we go。 No love bids us tarry； no joy
bids us wait： The voice of the wind is the voice of our fate。
INDIAN WEAVERS
Weavers； weaving at break of day； Why do you weave a garment so
gay？ 。 。 。 Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild； We weave the robes of a
new…born child。
Weavers； weaving a
