the golden threshold-第2节

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tranquillity　of　mind；　before　which　everything　mean　and　trivial

and　temporary　caught　fire　and　burnt　away　in　smoke。　　Her　body　was

never　without　suffering；　or　her　heart　without　conflict；　but

neither　the　body's　weakness　nor　the　heart's　violence　could

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

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　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。〃



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。　







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　at　fall　of　night；

Why　do　you　weave　a　garment　so　bright？　。　。　。

Like　the　plumes　of　a　peacock；　purple　and　green；

We　weave　the　marriage…veils　of　a　queen。



Weavers；　weaving　solemn　and　still；

What　do　you　weave　in　the　moonlight　chill？　。　。　。

White　as　a　feather　and　white　as　a　cloud；

We　weave　a　dead　man's　funeral　shroud。







COROMANDEL　FISHERS



Rise；　brothers；　rise；　the　wakening　skies　pray

　　　　　to　the　morning　light；

The　wind　lies　asleep　in　the　arms　of　the　dawn

　　　　　like　a　child　that　has　cried　all　n