Chapter 7 Bangladesh scenery-1

(India) Tagore sequence The letters translated in this collection summarize the most productive period of my literary life, when, by a stroke of good luck, I was young and not famous. Youth is full of energy and has plenty of leisure. I think writing private letters is a joyful need compared to writing official letters. This is a luxury in the literary form, which can only be written after the accumulation of thoughts and feelings.Other literary forms belong to the author, and they are published only for his own benefit; letters written to private persons are characterized by resignation.

It so happened that after many years, dozens of letters selected from these large numbers of letters came back to me again and again.It surmised rightly that the memory of those days would please me, when, under the shadow of humbleness, I enjoyed the greatest liberty of life. Because these letters were written at the same time as many of my published works, I think this parallel route will expand readers' understanding of my poetry, just as the road is widened by walking it again.I have therefore edited and published this collection for my compatriots.It is hoped that the descriptions of the Bengal country scenes in these letters will also be of interest to English readers, and the translation of some of these selections has been entrusted to one of the most competent and pleasant persons I know.Robin Dronath Tagore June 20, 1920, Bandura, by the sea, October, 1885 The unsheltered sea keeps rising and turning into pale foam, which reminds me of a man who was The bound demon struggled on the chains, and we built a house on the shore in front of its jaws, watching it swing its tail, with what strength, the waves swelled like giant muscles!

From the beginning of creation there has been a quarrel between earth and water: the dry land slowly and silently increases its domain, and opens up wider and wider areas for its children; Whimpering and beating his chest in despair.Remember, the sea was once a tyrant alone, absolutely free.The earth rose from its belly and usurped its throne.From that time on, the angry old thing wailed, in pale waves, as if King Lear had been exposed to the storm.I was twenty-seven years old in July, 1887, and this was the only thing that kept stirring in me—as if nothing else had happened lately. But is it a small thing to live to be twenty-seven--to live through the heyday of the twenties and into the thirties in one's progress?Thirty--that is to say, mature--one expects fruits, not young leaves, from such an age.But, wretchedly, where is the hope of the fruit?When I shook my head, my mind was full of rich shallowness, without any trace of philosophy.

People started complaining: Where are we expecting from you? ——Only because of that hope, we love the tender green of the young shoots.Shall we bear forever with your immaturity?This is when we will find out what we can expect from you.We're going to get an estimate of the amount of oil that the blindfolded, grinding, impartial critic can wring out of you. It was no longer possible to coax these people into waiting eagerly.When I was under age, they trusted me with confidence; it was a sad thing that I failed them when I was on the verge of thirty.But what should I do?Words of wisdom just cannot be spoken!I am completely powerless in supplying things that will benefit all.I have never been able to write anything better than a poem or two, a few gossips, a few light jokes, and as a result those who have high hopes for me will be angry with me; but no one has ever Are they required to develop these expectations?

These are some of the thoughts that have assailed me since I awoke on a fine Visak morning among fresh breezes and sunshine, new flowers and leaves, and found that I had stepped into the twenty-seven Years old.In 1888, our houseboat moored on the sandy shore far from the city.A vast expanse of sand stretches to the four sides beyond the horizon.There were stripes everywhere, as if water had passed by, but what shone like water was sand. Not a single village, not a single person, not a tree, not a blade of grass—just a few damp, dark cracks showing the earth beneath to break the monotony of brilliant whiteness.

Looking east, there is boundless blue above and boundless white below.There is nothingness in the sky, nothingness in the earth--the emptiness below is hard and desolate, the emptiness above is vaulted and light--such a picture of utter desolation can hardly be found anywhere. But looking to the west, there is water, a stagnant river, with high banks on either side, and on it stretches the country woods, from which some cottages peep--all in the night like a charming fantasy.I say "night" because we went out for a walk at night, so the scene was imprinted on my mind.Sachapu 1890 The county magistrate was sitting on the verandah of his tent, administering trial to the crowd waiting to be heard under the shade of the trees.They lowered my palanquin up to his nose, and the young Englishman received me with great civility.His hair was very light, with a few dark strands in the middle.The beard is just beginning to grow.If it weren't for his very young face, people might take him for a white-haired old man.I invited him to dinner, but he said he was going somewhere to arrange a boar-hunting party.

When I got home, there was a big black cloud coming up, followed by a very violent downpour.I can't read, and I can't write. Under an inexplicable emotion, I ran from house to house.It was already very dark at this time, the thunder was still rumbling, and the lightning flashed non-stop. From time to time, there would be gusts of wind that grabbed the big lychee tree by the neck and shook its fluffy tree vigorously. treetops.The hollow in front of the house immediately filled with water, and as I was walking up and down it occurred to me that I should have the magistrate come to my house for shelter.

I sent an invitation; upon inspection, I found that the only available room was crammed with a plank hung from a beam, and piled high with old bedding and pillows.The servants' belongings, a very filthy mat, several hookahs, tobacco leaves, tinder, and two sets of wooden chess pieces, were littered on the floor, along with various chests full of useless Little things like a rusty pot lid, a bottomless iron stove, an old discolored nickel teapot, a soup basin full of dusty syrup.There was a wash-basin in one corner, and damp dishcloths hung from a nail in the wall, and the cook's apron and cap.The only piece of furniture was a rickety dresser, soaked with water, oil, milk, black, yellow, and white, and stains of every color.The mirror on the dressing table, leaning against the opposite wall, had drawers filled with odds and ends, from dirty napkins to bottle-opening wire and dust.

I was dazed for a moment; and then it was—call the steward, call the storekeeper, call all the servants, get some more, fetch water, set the ladder up, untie the rope, Pull down the table, remove the bedding, pick up the pieces of broken glass one by one, pull out the nails from the wall one by one - the light stand fell, and the pieces scattered all over the ground; Throwing the dirty mat from the floor by myself and throwing it out the window, scaring away the cockroaches that ate my bread, my syrup, and the polish on my shoes. The Magistrate's reply came, that his tent was in very bad condition, and that he would be present at once.hurry up!hurry up!At that moment I heard shouts: "Your Excellency has arrived." In my haste and panic, I brushed off the dust from my beard, hair and body, and when I went to receive him in the living room, I tried my best to look as graceful as I had been all afternoon. They all seem to be resting peacefully.

On the surface, I shook hands with the county magistrate calmly, but in my heart I still worried about his residence from time to time.By the time I had to take the guest into his bedroom, I figured the house was passable, and he might get a night's rest if the homeless cockroach didn't scratch his feet.Caligray 1891 I feel lazy comfort, joyful lightness. This is the overriding mood of the place.There is a river here, but it doesn't flow, and it is lying comfortably under its blanket of floating grass, as if it is thinking——"Since I can live in peace, why should I wake myself up?" What about it?” Therefore, the thatched grass on both sides of the bank has hardly been disturbed except when fishermen come to set up their nets.

Four or five large boats are leaning against each other and moored nearby.On the deck of a boat a fisherman, wrapped in a sheet from head to toe, fell asleep.On the other boat, the boatman—also basking in the sun—was leisurely rubbing hemp rope.On the lower deck of the third boat, leaning on the oars, an old-looking naked fellow stared blankly at our ship. There are all kinds of people on the shore.But no one could tell why they walked to and fro at the slowest pace, or sat for a long time with their knees folded, or stared at nothing seriously. The only active phenomenon can only be seen from the ducks.They yelled chaotically, plunged their heads into the water, and stretched out to shake the water away. They seemed to be constantly probing the secrets of the bottom of the water, and they had to shake their heads every time to report: "There's nothing there! There's nothing there?" Here the day sleeps twelve hours in the sun, and the other twelve hours in silence within the shawl of darkness.In this kind of place, the only thing you want to do is to look left and right at the scenery, shake your thoughts back and forth, hum a tune for a while, and nod your head dreamily for a while, just like a mother in winter At noon, with her back to the sun, she rocked and hummed her baby to sleep. Yesterday, when I received my tenants, five or six boys appeared and stood in a stately line before me.Before I could ask a question, their spokesman began, in the most elaborate language: "Sir, by the grace of the gods and the luck of your foolish children, Your Excellency has returned to the lowlands." And so he went on and on. After speaking for almost half an hour, he made a mistake in some places, stopped, looked up at the sky, corrected himself, and continued.I presume it's the lack of chairs and stools in their school. "Because there are no wooden seats," he said, "we don't know where we can sit, where our esteemed teachers sit, where we can ask our noblest observer to sit when he comes to visit." .” I couldn't help laughing, at the place where such an elegant eloquence poured out of such a petty mouth.Here, the peasants state their urgent and vital needs in the most straightforward vernacular, and even the most unusual words are unfortunately misused.But those secretaries and peasants seemed to be deeply impressed, and at the same time they were very envious, as if lamenting that what their parents didn't have was given to their children, so that they could use such a wonderful method to ask Zaimendar. I stopped the young orator before he had finished speaking, and I promised to dispose of the chairs and stools they needed. He proudly let me finish speaking, then continued the speech he had not finished speaking, and finally bowed deeply to me, leading his group and the whole team away.I thought he might not mind if I refused to give them a chair or stool, but he would be very disgusted if any passage of his speech was taken away from him after he had learned it by heart.Therefore, I must hear him out even though there are more important business to attend to.Near Shachapo January, 1891 We left the small Caligre River, slow as the circulation of a dying man's blood, and descended into the rapids, which flowed where the land and the water were nothing. , like brothers and sisters in childhood, the river and the bank are not dressed differently. The river lost its muddy quilt, and the water overflowed, and finally extended into a lake. There is a piece of grass on one side, and a pool of clear water on the other. In the early days, the boundary between solid and fluid has not yet been distinguished. Around our moorings stood fishermen's bamboo poles, on which kites circled to catch fish from their nets.The munia stands on the muddy ground by the water, meditating like a Taoist.There are many kinds of water birds.Pieces of weeds floated on the water.Rice fields that do not require tillage rise up from the wet mud everywhere, and mosquitoes fly in swarms on the still water... We set sail again at dawn this morning, passing Katsikata, the water of the lake is six or seven yards wide It found its way out on the curved water channel of the river, and after passing through it, it surged rapidly.It was an adventure to walk across our difficult houseboat.The river was rushing forward at lightning speed, and the boatmen nervously used oars instead of poles to prevent the houseboat from hitting the shore.So we sailed into the river again. The sky has been piled with thick clouds, the wet wind is blowing, and it rains from time to time.The boatmen were shivering with cold.In this cold weather, this wet and gloomy day, it is very difficult, and I passed a dull and dull morning.The sun came out at two o'clock in the afternoon, and it has been pleasant since then.Now the river bank is very high, covered by quiet woods and dwellings, very quiet and full of beauty. This river bends and bends, a nameless brook in the inner courtyard of the center of Bengal, neither lazy nor ostentatious, generously gave the wealth of her love to both banks, she talked about ordinary joys and sorrows, As Xu spoke, the family of the village girls who had come to fetch water and sat next to her, carefully wiping their bodies shiny with wet wipes, were short-tempered. Tonight we anchor the boat in a secluded bend in the river.The sky is clear.The moon was perfectly round and there was no other boat in sight.The moon shone on the surf.There was silence on both sides of the strait.Yuancun lies in the fertile silt of the river. It only needs to sow the rice seeds and harvest them in autumn, without doing anything else. ——The translator fell asleep comfortably in Shenlin's arms, and the only sound was the crisp and continuous chirping of cicadas.In front of my window in February 1891, on the other side of the river, a group of gypsies made their home there, and erected bamboo frames covered with bamboo mats and pieces of cloth.There are only three such structures, and they are too short to stand up inside.They lived in the open, and only at night crept into this shelter, where they slept crowded together. Such is the way of life of the gypsies, no home anywhere, no rent-collecting landlords, wandering around with children, pigs and a dog or two; the police always follow them with wary eyes. I often pay attention to what the family near us is doing.They are born very dark, but very good looking.The body is fit and handsome, like a farmer in the Northwest.Their women are profuse; in their free movement and natural independence, they seem to me very much like dark Englishwomen. The man had just put the rice cooker on the fire and was now chopping bamboo to weave baskets.The woman first raised a mirror in front of her face, then wiped her face carefully with a wet towel; then tidied up her last night's creases, and went to the man and sat down, helping him from time to time. live. They were truly children of the land, born somewhere in the land, brought up by the roadside anywhere, and died anywhere.Day and night under the open sky, in the bright air, on the bare earth, they lead a unique life; they work, they love, they bear children, they house. Everything happens on land. They are never idle for a moment, always doing something.A woman, after finishing her own work, would plop down behind another woman, untie her hair bun, and comb her hair; while she might be talking about the family affairs of the three bamboo ponchos, from a distance I Not sure, but I'd venture to guess so. This morning a great commotion invaded the peaceful dwelling of the gypsies.At about eight-thirty or nine o'clock, they were spreading out the tattered quilts used as beds and various blankets on the bamboo roof, so as to enjoy the sun and wind.The sow leads the piglets, lying in a pile in the wetland, which looks like a pile of dirt.They were chased by the family's two dogs, who bit them and sent them out looking for breakfast.After a cold night, the pigs, enjoying the sun, croaked out their annoyance when disturbed.I was writing a letter, and I looked out absently from time to time, and this quarrel began at this time. I got up and went to the window, and found a great crowd round the gypsy's house. A very pompous figure, brandishing a stick, swears the most nasty words. The head of the gypsies, bewildered, was trying to explain something.I presume that some suspicious occurrences in the area have brought the police officers here to make inquiries. The woman was still sitting up until then, busy scraping the split bamboo strips, with a calm look, as if she was the only one around and no noise happened.Suddenly, however, she jumped to her feet and rushed towards the officer, waving her arms vigorously in front of him and scolding him in a high-pitched voice.In an instant one-third of the policeman's agitation disappeared, and he had no chance of making a mild protest, so he walked away dejectedly, as if quite a different man. When he had retreated to a safe distance, he turned and shouted, "Suffice it to say, you all need to move out of here!" I thought my neighbor across the street would immediately roll up his mat and walk off with his bundles, pigs, and children.But so far there has been no movement. They are still chopping bamboo, cooking or dressing up as if nothing had happened. The post office is just around the corner from our industrial office - which is very convenient, because we can get the letters as soon as they come.Some evenings the postmaster would come up and chat with me.I enjoyed hearing him talk about the most unlikely things with the most seriousness. Yesterday he told me how the people of this place respect the holy Ganges.If their relatives died, he said, and they had no strength to send the ashes to the Ganges, they picked up a bone from the crematorium and ground it into ashes. When they came across a man who at some time drank the waters of the Ganges, they hid his ashes in sauce and offered him to eat, and thus they could imagine with satisfaction that a part of their relative's body had been cleansed from sin. The holy water has been touched. I smiled and said, "This must be a fictional story." He thought for a long time in silence before admitting, "Yes, it might be." On the way February 1891 We had crossed several large rivers and were turning into a small one. Village women stood in the water, bathing or washing their clothes; several women, wearing wet sari, pulled up their veils to hide their faces, and held full water jugs at their left waists, The right arm swings freely and walks home.The children, all covered in river mud, were noisily splashing water on each other to play.At the same time, a child was chanting a song, regardless of whether the key was right or not. On the high bank, the roofs of the cottages and the treetops of the bamboo forest can be seen faintly.The sky opened and the sun shone.Remnant clouds linger in the sky, like cotton fluff.The wind is also warmer. There are not many boats on this small river; only a few small boats carry dead branches and move leisurely amid the weary rustle of oars. Fishing nets are drying among the bamboo poles by the river.Today's day's work seems to be over.JUHARI In June 1891, I had been sitting on the deck for fifteen minutes when thick clouds rose from the west.Clouds rose, black, churning, and splintered, with strips of gloomy light piercing through gaps here and there.All the boats ducked into the tributaries, and dropped their anchors safely on the bank.The farmer put the cut rice bundles on his head and hurried home; the cows followed behind, and the calves hopped and wagged their tails, and followed them again. Then came a roar.Torn pieces of cloud rushed from the west like panting messengers of bad news. Finally, thunder, lightning and wind and rain came together, performing a dance of a mad monk.The bamboo grove seemed to howl when the strong wind swept it back and forth, now east and west.Above all the sound, the storm whistled like a thick snake-taming flute, and a thousand waves swayed like hooded snakes to the tune.Thunder kept bombarding, as if the whole world was being smashed to pieces behind a dark cloud. Leaning my chin against an open window against the wind, I let my thoughts take part in this terrible orgy; my thoughts leaped into the vastness, like children suddenly dismissed from school.But when I was completely soaked by the raindrops, I had to close the window with my poetry, and retreat silently into the darkness like a caged bird.In June 1891, from the river bank where the boat was moored, there was a breath rising from the grass, and the hot air from the ground came like a panting, and it really touched my body.I feel the warm, living earth breathing above me, and she must feel my breath too. The rice seedlings swayed in the breeze, and the ducks took turns dipping their heads into the water and preening their feathers, except for the board, which, as it rocked softly to and fro in the running water, rubbed against the faint, pitiful sound of the side of the boat. There was no sound other than the creaking sound. Not far away was a ferry, and a group of people in variegated clothes gathered under a banyan tree waiting for the ferry to return;I enjoyed watching this for hours.Today is a market day in the village on the opposite bank, so the ferry is busy like this. Some people are carrying a few bundles of straw, some are carrying baskets, and some are carrying bags; Come back on set.In this way, in the silent noon, the flow of people slowly transitions between the two villages. I sat and thought: Why are there such deep, melancholy hues over the fields and riverbanks, in the sky and in the sun of our country?I have come to the conclusion that nature is clearly something more important to us.The sky is free, the fields are boundless; the sun melts them into one bright piece.Among them, human beings seem so small.He came and went, like a ferryboat, from shore to shore; the babble of his voice, the faint echo of his song, was heard; Seen also in the world's bazaars: but so feeble, how ephemeral, how woefully meaningless amidst the grandeur of the universe! When I gaze at the dim and distant blue line that dots the woods on the field on the opposite bank, I combine the beautiful, vast, pure and peaceful nature--quiet, inaction, silent, unfathomable--with ourselves The comparison with the daily cares of my life—humble, troubled, fame and fortune—drives me almost mad. When nature is hidden, retreating under cloud, snow, and darkness, man feels himself a master; he thinks his wishes, his undertakings, are permanent; he perpetuates them, he looks to posterity, he builds Monuments, he wrote biographies, he even erected tombstones for the dead.He was too busy to think about how many monuments had fallen, how many names had been forgotten! There was a big mast lying on the bank of the river. After a long discussion, several naked village boys decided that it would be a fresh and satisfying feeling to push and roll the mast while everyone shouted and shouted in unison. game.This decision was immediately coordinated, okay, brothers, everyone come!hi hi yo!It's time to act.Every turn of the mast caused a clamor and laughter. There was one girl in the group who had a different attitude.She played with boys only in search of mates, but she clearly disliked the loud and demanding game.At last she climbed to the mast, and sat down calmly without a word. Such a fun game stopped so suddenly!Some of the children gave way, as if resignedly; they stepped back a little way, and glared sullenly at the cold and serious girl.One of the children seemed to want to push her off, and this did not disturb the girl's unconcerned leisurely posture, and the oldest child walked up to her, pointing out a place where she could also rest; Hands on lap, more stable in her seat, at last they had to rely on physical strength to argue, which was a complete success. The shouts of joy resounded through the sky again, and the mast rolled so playfully that even the girl dropped her pride and solemn reserve to join in this meaningless commotion.But we can see all the time that she really thinks boys never know how to play well, and is always so childish!If she had an ordinary yellow clay doll with a big black bow tie in her hand, would she still condescend to participate in these silly children's silly games like this? Suddenly, the boys thought of a wonderful pastime.Two children lifted the hands and feet of the third child and shook them back and forth.This game must be extremely fun, because they are all enthusiastic about it.Only the girl felt that she couldn't take it anymore, she left the playground with contempt, and went straight home. At this time, the accident happened.The dumped kid fell down.He left everyone angrily, and went to lie down on the grass, with his arms crossed under his head, saying that from now on he would have nothing to do with this bad, cold world, and he would just lie on his side forever, With your arms under your head, count the stars and watch the clouds play. The oldest boy, unable to see this premature resignation, ran up to the troubled man, put his head on his lap, and coaxed him apologetically: "Come on, my little brother! Please get up, little brother! Did we hurt you, little brother?" After a while, I found that they were like two puppies, holding hands and pulling away from each other. , In less than two minutes, this little guy was thrown up again. Last night I had the strangest dream.The whole of Calcutta seemed to be shrouded in terrible mystery, and all the houses could only be seen faintly in the thick fog, and behind this veil, something strange was happening. I was driving on Park Road in a buggy, and as I passed Chevreux College, I found it surrounded by thick fog, rapidly growing in size, and quickly becoming unbelievably high.I seemed to know at that time that there was a case of magicians who came to Calcutta, and could perform many such miracles if they were paid. When I arrived at our Zhou Laxinke building, I found that the magicians had also arrived.They are ugly.The Mongolian type, with a sparse upper beard and a few long beards sticking out under the forehead.They can make people bigger.A few girls wanted to grow taller, and the magician sprinkled some powder on their heads, and they immediately became very tall.To everyone I met, I kept repeating: "This is so strange—it's like a dream!" Some people suggested at the time that our houses should also be allowed to grow.The magician agreed, and in preparation for the work certain parts of the house were to be dismantled.After dismantling, they asked for money, otherwise they would stop working, but the accountant firmly refused. How can payment be made before completion?The magicians were furious at this, and they twisted the house in such a terrible way that people and bricks were mixed together, and the bodies were all inside the walls, and only the heads and shoulders were visible outside the walls. This is downright devilish stuff, and I told my older brother, "Look," I said, "that's exactly what it is. Let's just ask God to help us!" But no matter how hard I tried, God I came to curse them out in the name of my father, but my heart seemed to be broken, and I couldn't speak.Then I woke up. Isn't this a strange dream?Calcutta is in the hands of the devil, and grows devilishly in the darkness of the foul cloud! The local teachers came to visit me yesterday. They stayed there, while I tried my best to find a word to talk to.Every five minutes I forced myself to ask a question, to which they answered in the shortest terms; after that I sat dazed, fiddling with my pen and scratching my head. Finally I got up the courage to ask about crops, but they were teachers and knew nothing about crops. Having asked all the questions I could think of about their students, I had to ask again: How many students are there in the school?One said eighty, the other one hundred and seventy-five.I hoped this question would spark an argument, but no, they compromised. Why, after an hour and a half, they thought of taking their leave, I cannot say.They could have said good-bye for the same reason an hour ago, or twelve hours later!This decision is obviously empirical and there is absolutely no way around it.There is still a boat on the pier in July 1891, and on the bank in front of it, there is a group of rural women, some obviously going on the road, others to see them off, babies, veils and white hair are all mixed in this assembly . One girl in particular caught my attention.She must have been eleven or twelve; but she was plump and strong, and one would have taken her for fourteen or fifteen.She had a charming face--dark, but beautiful.Her hair was cut short, boyishly, and befitting her simple, frank, alert expression.Holding a baby in her arms, she looked at me with nonchalant curiosity, and there was no lack of straightforwardness and intelligence in her eyes.Her half-female, half-masculine aspect was particularly striking—a legendary combination of masculine chic and feminine allure.I never thought there would be such a type among rural women in Bangladesh. The family clearly doesn't care about trifles.One of them, with her hair in a bun in the sun, combed it with her fingers, while talking at the top of her voice about housework with another woman on board.I guess she has no children except a girl, who is a fool who is neither polite nor talkative, and can't be distinguished by anyone outside her family.I also heard that Gopa's son-in-law was a worthless person, so her daughter refused to go to her husband's house. At last the time of departure came, and they sent my girl with cropped hair, with plump and beautiful arms, with gold bracelets, and an honest, shining face, on board.I can guess that she is going back to her husband's house from her mother's house.They all stood there watching the boat sail away, one or two women wiping their eyes with the end of the flowing sari.A little girl with her hair tightly matted, put her arms around the neck of an older woman, weeping quietly on her shoulder.She may have lost a "baby sister" who would play with her dolls and beat her when she was naughty. The boat passed quietly on the water, as if adding a parting sorrow to the pain - like death - the pedestrians were too far away to see, and those who stayed behind wiped their eyes ①A big sister is often called "baby sister". ——Translator tears, go back to their daily life.Yes, pain lasts only for a while, and the pain may have disappeared in the hearts of those who leave and those who stay,--pain is temporary, and forgetting is permanent, but the real thing is still pain, not forgetting; , we often realize how poignantly true this is.On board the ship for Kartak, August 1891, I forgot my purse, and my clothes became more intolerably ugly every day—the thought kept coming to me, and my proper Self-esteem is incompatible.With this leather bag, I can face the world with my head held high; without this leather bag, I have to hide in a corner to avoid everyone's eyes.I went to bed in this at night and came out in it again in the morning, and the sootiness of the ship, and the unbearable heat of the day, made one always disgustingly damp. Besides, I've been on the boat for some time.My traveling companions are all kinds of people.There is a Mr. Agouri, when referring to living or non-living things, he can't say anything other than personal attacks.Another music lover persisted in trying to play the variations of the "Barab" ① movement late at night. This convinced me that his playing was out of place in more than one way. The steamboat has been stranded in a shallow ditch of the river since last night, and it is now past nine o'clock in the morning.I spent the night in a corner of the crowded deck, almost dead.昨夜，我让船上的侍者给我煎几个油炸薄饼①印度古典音乐中一种形式，适合于破晓演奏。 ——译者来做晚餐，而他拿来了几片形容不出的炸面包，也没有配合的蔬菜。在我惊愕的表情之下，他表示十分歉仄，而且主动地要立刻去给我弄点杂烩。但是夜已经很深了，我拒绝了他的提议，勉强地把这东西干咽了几口，这时，所有的灯都亮起来了，舱面上挤满了旅客，我就躺下睡觉了。 蚊子在头上嗡嗡着，蟑螂到处乱窜。有一个睡伴在我脚下横躺着，我的脚底不时碰到他身上。四五个鼻子在打鼾。几个让蚊子搅得睡不着的可怜人，抽起水烟来自寻安慰；在这些声音之上，又升起了那“巴拉卜”的变奏曲！最后，清晓三点钟，有些性急好事的人，互相大声地催促起身。在绝望里我也离开床位，坐到我的舱面椅子上，去等天明。这样度过那五花八门的恶梦的一夜。 一个水手告诉我说，这汽轮陷得很深，也许要一整天的工夫才能把它弄出来。我问另一个水手，是否还有别只开往加尔各答的轮船走过，得到的是一个微笑的回答，说这是这条航线唯一的船只，若是我愿意的话，等到达喀达克以后，我还可以坐原船回去！亏得运气还好，在大家竭力推拽之下，到了十点钟，就把它弄漂了起来。提朗一八九一年九月七日巴利亚码头和排列两旁的壮大的树木，构成一幅很美的图画，大体说来，这运河总使我联想到浦那的那条小河。细想一遍以后，我确信如果这运河真是一条河的话，我会更喜爱它的。 椰子树和芒果树还有其他成荫的树，排列在两边河岸上，岸上铺着美丽的青草，渐渐地倾斜到水边去，上面还密布着正在开花的含羞草。到处有螺旋松林，从树林边缘的空隙里，可以瞥见到无边的田野，远远地伸延出去，雨后田里的庄稼，是那样绒一般的柔软，人的眼光仿佛能透入它的深处。然后又是椰子和枣椰丛林下面的小村，安稳地躺在低垂的秋云的凉润的荫中。 这条运河的缓缓的流水，穿过田野和村庄，在整洁的草岸中间，温柔地回绕着，窄窄的水面两边，镶上睡莲和水草夹杂的花边。但是我总是歉然地在想，无论如何它只不过是一条人工的河道。 它的潺潺的流声，并不曾达到原始的时间。它不通晓那些遥远难登的山窟的神秘。它没有流过多少世纪，没有荣获过旧世的芳名，没有用它的乳汁哺育过两岸。甚至一个古老的人工湖，也取得比它更大的气魄。 但是，一百年以后，它两岸的树长得更壮大了，它的崭新的里程碑受了风雨的剥落，长满了青苔而显得柔美了；闸门上刻的一八七一年字样，推回到可尊敬的古运时期；那时候，如果我再托生为我自己的曾孙，再来运河视察喀达克河边地产的时候，我对它的感想就会不同了。西来达一八九一年十月一只又一只的船到达这个码头，过了一年的作客生涯，从遥远的工作地点回家来过节日，他们的箱子、篮子和包袱里装满了礼物。我注意到有一个人，他在船靠岸的时候，换上一条整齐地叠好的绉麻拖地，在布衣上面套上一件中国丝绸的外衣，整理好他颈上的仔细围好的领巾，高撑着伞，走向村里去。 潺潺的波浪流经稻地。芒果和枣椰的树梢耸入天空，树外的天边是毛绒绒的云彩。棕榈的叶梢在微风中摇曳。沙岸上的芦苇正要开花。这一切都是悦目爽心的画面。 刚回到家的人的心情，在企望着他的家人的热切的期待，这秋日的天空，这个世界，这温煦的晓风，以及树梢、枝头和河上的微波普遍地反应的颤动，一起用说不出来的哀乐，来感动这个从船窗里向外凝望的青年人。 从路旁窗子里所接受到的一瞥的世界，带来了新的愿望，或者无宁说是旧的愿望改了新的形式。前天，当我坐在船窗前面的时候，一只小小的渔船飘过，渔夫唱着一支歌——调子并不太好听。但这使我想起许多年前我小时候的一个夜晚，我们在巴特马河的船上。有一夜我在两点钟时候醒来，在我推上船窗伸出头去的时候，我看见平静无波的河水在月下发光，一个年轻人独自划着一只渔舟，唱着走过，呵，唱得那么柔美，——这样柔美的歌声我从来也没有听见过。 一个愿望突然来到我心上，我想回到我听见歌声的这一天，让我再来一次活生生的尝试，这一次我不让它空虚地没有满足地过去，我要用一首我唇上的诗人的诗歌，在涨潮的浪花上到处浮游；对世人歌唱，去安抚他们的心；用我自己的眼睛去看，在世界的什么地方有什么东西；让世人认识我，也让我认识他们；像热切吹扬的和风一样，在生命和青春里涌过全世界；然后回到一个圆满充实的晚年，以诗人的生活方式把它度过。 这算是一个很崇高的理想吗？为使世界受到好处，理想无疑地还要崇高些；但是像我这么一个人，从来也没有过这样的抱负。我不能下定决心，在自制的饥荒之下，去牺牲这生命里珍贵的礼物，用绝食和默想和不断的争论，来使世界和人心失望。我认为，像个人似地活着、死去、爱着、信任着这世界，也就够了，我不能把它当作是创世者的一个骗局，或是魔王的一个圈套。我是不会拚命地想飘到天使般的虚空里去的。 一八九一年，加尔底格月二日我一来到乡下，我就不把人孤立分开来看。就像一条河流过许多地方，人流也这样地潺潺地、曲折地流经乡村和市镇。“人来了又走了，但我却永远长流。”并不是一个真实的对比。人类和它的一切大大小小的汇合的流水，和江河一样，一直流了下去，从它出生的泉源直到死亡的大海；两头是黑暗的神秘，中间是游戏、工作和不停的嘟哝。 那一边耕者在田里唱歌；这一边渔船浮掠了过去，时间过着，日光更热了。有些洗浴的人还呆在水里，有的洗完了提着装满的水罐回家去了。这样地，走过两边的河岸，千百年来总是嗡嗡地哼着，同时那叠句是用哀愁的和声唱出：我却永远长流！ 在中午的静默之中，听到有年轻的牧人用最高的声音在叫他的同伴；有几只船哗哗地驶回家去，浪花溅打着村妇放在水里准备打水的空罐；在这些声音里面还有些不大明显的声音，——鸟的啁啾，蜂的嗡哼，船屋在来回摇荡时的可怜的叽嘎声，——这一切构成了柔和的催眠歌，像一个母亲在竭力地抚慰一个生病的孩子。“别急呵，”她唱着，安慰地拍抚着他发热的前额。“别难受呵；也别再哭啦。把你的竞争、抢夺和打架都丢开吧；把这些忘记一会儿吧，睡一会儿吧！” 一八九一年，加尔底格月三日这是库迦格①的满月，我在河边徐步，一面和自己对话。 这简直不能叫做对话，因为尽是我说，而我想你的同伴尽是听着。这个可怜人简直没有机会发表自己的意见，我不就是那股迫得他像傻子似地无言可答的力量吗？ 但这是画样的一个夜晚呵！有多少次我想描写这样的夜晚，而总是写不出来。河上没有一丝波纹；从远远的中流一①九月的月圆之夜，意思是“大家都醒着”。这一夜幸福的女神拉克什米，把幸福赐给不睡的人。——译者条沙碛的边缘外，看到了遥远的主流的最远的河岸，直达这边河岸，闪烁着一大宽条的月光。没有一个人，也看不见一条船；在新形成的小岛的沙岸上，没有一棵树也没有一根草。 就仿佛一轮孤寂的明月从颓毁的大地上升起；一条无定的河水漫流过一片无生命的荒野；一段冗长的神话在一个荒废的世界里作了结束——所有的帝王，他们的臣子和朋友，和他们的黄金城堡都不见了，只剩下七个海，十三条河和冒险的王子们曾在上面行进过的无边的荒泽，在月下苍白地闪光。 我来回徐步，像是这个临危的世界的最后的脉搏。其他的人似乎都在彼岸——生命的岸——在那里，英国政府和十九世纪，茶和烟，在统治支配着。一八九二年一月九日这几天，天气总在冬春之间摇摆。在早晨，也许，在北风扫掠之下，山和海都会发抖；在夜晚，又会和从月光里吹来的南风一同喜颤。 无疑地春天已经来临了。在长久中断之后，唤春从对岸的树林里又发出鸣声，人们的心也被唤醒了；夜色来临以后，可以听到村里的歌声；表示他们不再连忙地关起门窗，紧严地盖起被窝睡觉了。 今晚月亮正圆，她的圆大的脸从我左边的洞开的窗外向我凝视，仿佛在窥伺我的信中有没有批评她的话——她也许疑惑我们世人对于她的黑迹比她的光线更为关心。 一只鸟在河岸上“啼啼”地哀唤。河水似乎不再流动。河上没有一只船。岸上凝立的树林把不动的影子投在水面。天上的薄雾使得月亮看去像一只勉强睁开的倦眼。 从今起，夜晚会越来越黑暗了；而且当明天我从办公室回来的时候，这个月亮，我客中的良伴，将离我更远一些，她疑惑她昨夜是否聪明，这样地对我完全袒露出她的心，因此她又逐渐地把它掩盖起来。 在陌生和孤寂的地方，自然真正地变得亲切了。我确实忧虑了好几天，一想起月亮的圆时过去了，我将会每天地更觉得寂寞了；觉得离家更远了。当我回到河边的时候，美和宁静将不再在那里等着我了，我必须在黑暗中回去。 无论如何，我要记载下来，今晚是个满月——是今年春天的第一次月圆。在此后的岁月里，我也许会回忆到这一晚上，回忆到河岸上“啼啼”的鸟叫，对岸船上闪烁的灯光，发亮的远伸的河水，河边树林的边缘所投下的模糊的阴影，和灿白的天空在我头上冷冷地发光。 一八九二年四月七日河水落下去了，这边的支流里各处都深不到腰。所以船在河中间抛锚一点也不奇怪。在我右边的岸上，农夫在犁田，不时地把牛牵到河边来饮水。在我左边的岸上，上面有古老的锡利达花园的芒果树和椰树，下面浴场的斜坡上有村妇在洗衣裳，装满水罐，洗浴，用本地的方言在谈笑着。 年轻的姑娘们仿佛永远在水里玩个不完；听着她们无忧无虑的欢笑是一种愉快。男人们正经地照例浸了几次水就走开了，但是女孩子们对水是比较亲热的，她们和水在同样的简单自然的方式之下，谈着、说着、卷着、溅着；她们也许都会在灼热的强光之下萎缩下去，但她们也都经得起打击，而不至于无力地碎裂。这个僵硬的世界，若没有她们，就探索不到她们双臂的柔美拥抱的神秘，就会荒芜起来了。 邓尼生说过，女人对于男人就像水对于酒一样。今天我觉得应该说是像水对陆地一样。 女人和水在一起更感着舒服熟识，她们在水里沐浴，和水游戏，在水旁边集会；同时，对于她们，其他的负担都不像从泉旁、井中、河岸或池塘取水那样地更为合适。波浦一八九二年五月二日世界有许多似非实是的道理，其中之一就是当风景是开阔的，天空是无垠的，云雾是浓厚的，情感是深不可测的——这就是说当“无穷”在明显突出的地方——它的适宜的伴侣只能是一个孤寂的人，一大群人在那里就会显得那么渺小，那么骚乱。 一个人和“无穷”是有相同的条件的，他们大可以从彼此的宝座上互相凝视。但是在有一大群人的地方，人类和“无穷”都变得那么微小，它们必须彼此碰掉一些，才能互相适合起来！每一个灵魂都要那么大的地方来扩展，在群众之中就必须窥伺空隙，不时地从那里伸出一个小小的仙鹤般的头去。 因此我们竭力聚在一起的唯一结果，就是使我们不能装满了，我们和这无边无底的“广大”的，拉起来的手和伸出来的臂。 一八九二年，杰斯塔月八日努力说俏皮话的女人，结果只变成冒失，是很讨厌的；那想说滑稽话的，无论成功与否，对于女人都是不体面的。滑稽是难看而夸张，所以在某些地方是和高大有关的。象是滑稽的，骆驼和长颈鹿是滑稽的，一切长的太大的东西都是滑稽的。 尖锐和美倒是接近，像刺和花一样。所以讽刺对于女人，还不是不适宜的，虽然从她口中说出会刺伤你。讥笑有笨大的味道，女人不如把这个留给我们高大的男性。男的福斯塔夫能使我们笑得劈裂了肋条，而女的福斯塔夫只揪断我们的神经。 一八九二年，杰斯塔月十二日我总在傍晚时分独自在屋顶凉台上漫步。昨天下午我觉得把本地风光介绍给客人是我们的责任，因此我陪他们一块出去散步，带着阿勾里作个向导。 在地平线的边缘，远远一片树林是青翠的，一线浅蓝色的薄云徐徐升起，笼盖在树林上面，看去特别美丽。我想把它描画得带点诗意，我说这就像蓝色的化妆药水抹在睫毛的边上，使美丽的蓝眼睛更加美妙。在我的同伴之中，一个没有听见我的话，一个没有听懂，同时第三个用应付的话来回答：“对了，很好看。”我感到我奋发的诗情再也鼓不起来了。 走了一里路以后，我们到达一个水坝。水边有一排棕榈树，树下有一股天然的泉水。在我们站住观泉的时候，我们发现我们看见过的北方天边那一线蓝云，涨大了，变黑了，向着我们奔来了，同时电光也闪将起来。 我们得到了同一的结论，就是观赏自然的美，可以更好地在屋檐下进行，但正在我们踅回家去的时候，暴风雨已在空旷的原野上，怒吼着踏着大步赶上我们。我没想到我正赞赏美丽的自然夫人睫上的蓝水，她却会像一个生气的主妇那样追赶着我们，要给我们一记这么响的耳光！ 沙土迷天，几步外什么都看不见了。风雨更强烈了。沙地上的碎砾打在我们身上，就像枪子似的；狂风又掐住我们的颈背，开始下落的雨点，鞭打着我们，撵着我们跑。 跑呀！跑呀！但是这里地是不平的，水流给它留下浑浑的瘢痕，平时都难走过，在风雨中就更不容易了。我弄到陷在荆棘丛里，当我站起挣开的时候，差点被狂风掀在地下。 当我们快到家的时候，一群仆人，又像一阵风暴似的，叫喊着做着手势奔向我们。有的拉着我们的手臂，有的悲叹我们的窘境，有的热切地给我们引路，有的爬伏在我们的背上，仿佛怕狂风要把我们一齐刮走似的。我们竭力摆脱了他们的殷勤，最后，好不容易进到房子里，带着淋透的衣服，污秽的身体，零乱的头发，喘息着。 我得到了一个教训：我将不再在小说或故事里写下这样的谎言，就是一位主人翁能够心头怀着情人的形象，毫不焦急地在风雨中行走。没有人能够在心里记住任何面貌，不论它多美，在这样的一场风雨里，光是不让沙子进入眼里，就够他忙的了！……毗湿奴派诗人有声有色地歌唱拉达如何在风雨之夜去赴和克里希纳约定的幽会。我不知道他们曾否停下来想一想，当她走到他面前的时候，该是什么样子？很容易设想到，她的头发是那样地零乱，还有她的那些涂泽妆饰会变成什么样子。 当她遍身泥污地跑到那凉亭上的时候，她一定难看极了！ 但当我们读着毗湿奴派诗歌的时候，我们从不想到这些。 在我们心头的画面上，我们只看到一幅一个美丽的女子，被她的绝世无双的英俊的情人所吸引，做梦似地在雨季沉黑的风雨之夜，不顾一切地，穿过开满繁花的醉花树底，来到株木拿河边的图画。她系起脚镯怕它作响；她披上深蓝的斗篷怕被人看见；但是她没有打着伞来防雨淋，也没有带着灯怕她跌倒！ 有用的东西真是可怜，在实际生活上虽然那么重要，而在诗歌里却是那样地被忽视！但是诗歌无论如何也不能把我们从和它的连系上甩开，它将永远和我们在一起；甚至于这样，我们听说，文明进步的时候，消灭的将会是诗歌，但是它的特征将一个一个地不断被提了出来，作为改良鞋子和雨伞之用。 一八九二年，杰斯塔月十六日这里没有教堂塔顶的钟声，附近也没有居民，鸟儿一停止了歌唱，绝对的寂静就和夜晚一齐来到。在这里，初夜和深夜没有多大差别。在加尔各答，不眠之夜像一条黑暗的缓流的大河；在你仰卧在床上的时候，能够数出它流过的种种声音。 但是在这里，夜晚像一个阔大静止的湖水，安稳地睡着，一点动静都没有。当我昨夜辗转反侧的时候，我感到我像包围在浓厚的止水里一样。 今早我比平常起晏了一点，下楼到我屋子里去，背倚在靠垫上，叠膝而坐。这样，胸前放一块石板，我开始在晨风和鸟声的伴奏下写诗。我进行的很顺利——微笑在我的唇边浮泛，我的眼睛半闭着，我的头随着韵律摇晃，我哼着的东西，渐渐成形——当邮差来到的时候。 我收到一封信，最近一期的《实践》杂志，一本《一元论者》，和几张校样。我读了信，浏览了未裁开书页的《实践》杂志，然后又回去点头哼哼着写我的诗，我没有做其他的事情，一直把诗写完。 我不知道为什么写着一页一页的散文，也没有给我以写一首诗那么大的快乐。一个人的种种感情，在诗歌上能以应用完美的形式，就仿佛能用指头拈起来似的；但是散文就像满口袋的松散的东西，又沉重又苯大，不能随便地提得起来的。 如果我能一天写一首诗，我的生命将在一种喜乐中度过；虽然我侍弄诗歌已经有几个年头，但它还没有被我驯服起来，还不是那种可以让我随时套上笼头的飞马！艺术的快乐，就在于当幻想愿意的时候，有个长空万里飞行的自由；那时节，即使在回到世界监狱里面之后，回响和欢情还会在耳边和心头缭绕着。 短诗不断地不招自来，这样就妨碍我把剧本写下去，若不因为这缘故，我大可以把叩我心门的一些思想，放进两三个剧本里去。我恐怕必须等到寒冷的冬天，除了《齐德拉》以外，我的所有的剧本都是在冬天写成的。在那个季节，抒情的意味容易变冷，人就有工夫去写剧本。一八九二年五月三十一日现在还不到五点钟，天色已经黎明了。清爽的微风吹着，园里一切的鸟都醒起来开始歌唱。杜鹃鸟像发了狂似的。很难了解它为什么不倦不停地叫。这决不是为招待我们，也不是为分散苦恋的情人的心思——它一定有它自己的目的。但是，够可怜的，这个目的仿佛永远不能达到。而它并没有灰心。它的咕咕——咕咕——直叫下去，不时还放出绝顶热烈的颤音。What exactly does this mean? 这时在远处，另一只鸟用无力无情的微弱的声音咯咯地叫着，仿佛一切的希望都没有了；可是在那阴凉偏僻的地方，它又情不自禁地发出这小小的悲叹：咯咯，咯咯，咯咯。 关于这些胸颈柔软、毛羽辉煌的天真禽鸟的家务事，我们所真正知道的是多么少呵！到底为什么它们认为它们必须这样地坚持歌唱呢？西来达一八九二年杰斯塔月三十一日我恨这些客气的礼节。这些日子我总在重复这一句话： “我宁愿做一个阿拉伯的牧人！”一个上好的，健康的，强壮而自由的化外之民。 我感到我愿意从这个使人心身变老的，对于古老腐朽的东西不断的争论与计较中退出，去感受一个自由而健旺的生命的快乐；去享有——不管好坏——宽阔的，果决的，无拘无束的思想和抱负，从习惯与常识，常识与愿望，愿望与行动的永远磨擦中解脱出来。 只要我能完全地无限度地从我的桎梏生活中释放了出来，我将风暴似地猛扑四方，到处喧嚣地兴波作浪；我将像一匹野马，为我自己的速力而快乐得发狂地奔腾！但是我是一个孟加拉人，不是一个游牧的人！我照旧坐在角落里，垂头丧气，忧虑，争论。我把我的心思，一会儿朝上，一会儿朝下——像煎着的鱼一样——沸滚的油先煎了这一面，又煎着那一面。 让它去吧，我既不能彻底地粗野，那么我只好力求彻底地文明。为什么要煽动这两者之间的争吵呢？一八九二年六月十六日一个人在河上或在旷野里住得越久，就越看得清楚，再没有比纯朴自然地履行一个人日常的平凡义务更美丽更伟大的事情了。从地上的青草到天上的星辰，它们各个也只不过是做着这样的事情；在自然里有那么深远的宁静和那么卓越的美，也是因为这些东西都不力求超过自己的限度。 但是它们各个所作的事情决不是短暂的。青草要使出它所有的力量，从它细根的尖端来吸取食料，只为的是要像草似地生长；它并不空想要变成一棵榕树；因此大地得到了一张美丽碧绿的地毡。而且，的确地，在人类社会中找到的小小的美和宁静，都是来自细小责任的每天执行，而不是从大的作为和动听的谈话中得来的。 一八九二年，阿沙拉月二日昨天，是阿沙拉月①的第一天，雨季的登基典礼是用相当的盛大仪式来庆祝的。整天都很炎热，而在下午，浓云就大阵大阵地涌卷起来了。 我心里对自己说，这是下雨的头一天，我宁可冒着雨淋，也不愿禁闭在我那地牢似的船舱里。 在我的生命里，一二九三②年是不会再来了，提到这个的话，还有几个阿沙拉月的头一天将会重来呢？我的生命必须相当地长，才能数到三十个阿沙拉月的头一天，它至少是对于我，《云使》的诗人说出了特殊的区别。 有时我想到我是多么幸福，我的生命中每一天的日子都是那么美好，有的被朝阳和落照映得绯红，有的是深暗的云彩送来了清新的凉意，有的像一朵白花在月光中开放，多么巨大的财富呵！ 一千年以前，迦梨陀娑欢迎了阿沙拉月的头一天；而在我的生命中，每一年，这个阿沙拉月的头一天，都在它所有的光辉中发亮起来——这个和这位老优禅尼诗人完全相同的，给无数的男男女女带来了欢会与离愁的一天。①②孟加拉的纪元年代。——译者雨季开始的一月。 一年一度这样伟大的永受尊敬的一天，从我的生命中溜掉了；总有一个时候，迦梨陀娑的一天，《云使》的一天，印度的雨季永恒的头一天，将不为我而再来。当我体会到这点的时候，我感到我愿意好好地观赏自然，给每天的日出以有意识的欢迎，向每天的落日道别，像对一个密友一样。 多么盛大的一个节日，多么宽阔的庆祝会场呵！而我们还不能完全地反应它，我们真正是生活得离开世界太远了！星光走了千万里路到达了地上，但是它达不到我们的心里——我们是在千百万里以外呵！ 我陷进去的世界住满了陌生的东西。他们总是忙着在自己周围建起墙壁和法规，而且他们是那么小心地把窗帘掩上怕人看见呵！我总在奇怪为什么他们没有给花树做一个呢罩，或搭上天篷来揽住月光。如果来生是被今生的愿望所统治的话，那我就愿从我们这颗装殓起来的行星里，托生到自由空旷的快乐国土上去。 只有那些不能纳头深入美的整体的人，才轻看美，以它为感觉的对象。但是那些尝到了它的不可言说的味道的人，知道它超过年月的最高力量还有多远——不对，连人的心也没有力量达到它的渴望的终点。 再者——我漏掉了我在开头所想说的一件事情。不要害怕，这件事不用再用四张信纸，这就是，阿沙拉月头一天的晚上，大矛头般的阵雨，下得很大，完了。赴阁隆达途中一八九二年六月二十一日无尽的形形色色的画图：沙岸、田野、庄稼和村庄，在空中飘浮的云彩，昼和夜相遇时光开放的色彩——都从两侧滑入眼底。小船轻轻地划过，渔夫在捕鱼；河水在悠长的日子里整天地发出柔畅的抚爱的声音，广阔的水面，在夜晚的沉默中静止了下来，像一个被哄进睡乡的孩子；无边天空的一切星辰，都在他上面环守着——这时节，当我在清醒之夜坐起的时候，两旁是睡着了的河岸，只有偶尔一两声村畔林中豺狗的嗥叫，和被尖利的巴特马河波浪所侵蚀的碎片，从峰顶般高的河岸上滚落水里的声响，打破了寂静。 风景并不常是特别引人入胜的——一片伸展的没有草树的黄黄的沙岸；一条空船系在岸边；和天空一样朦胧的绿水流了过去；但是我说不出它们是怎样地感动了我。我猜想是我那被奴仆看管的童年的愿望和追求——当我自己在寂寞的囚室里，我熟读了，参加了海员辛伯达的在许多异地的探险——在我心中还没有死去，而看到任何一条空船系在岸边的时候，旧的愿望和追求就又被唤醒了。 如果我在童年没有听过童话，读过和《鲁滨逊飘流记》，我知道，远远的河岸和对岸的广阔的田野的景色，决不会这样地激动我——事实上，整个世界，对我将会有不同的魅力。 在人的心里，幻想和事实纠缠成怎样的一个迷阵呵！不同的几股——细小和巨大——的故事、事件和图画的线索是怎样地纠结在一起呵！西来达一八九二年六月二十二日清晨很早，我还在床上的时候，听到浴场上的妇女叫出快乐的“乌鲁！乌鲁！”①的笑声，这声音非常奇怪地感动了我，虽然说不出是为什么。 也许是这种快乐的呼声，使人想到这世界上前进着的、庆祝活动的大流，而个人和这些庆祝活动的大部分，都没有什么联系。世界是那么大，人们的集会是那么浩阔，但是一个人和这些集会的连结是多么少呵！遥远的生活的声音，飘送过来，带来了不相识的家庭的消息，使人体会到，大部分的世人不是他的亲属也不认识他；这时他感到被遗弃了，他和世界只有很松弛的连结，一种隐约的愁闷爬满了他的心头。 因此，这“乌鲁！乌鲁！”的呼声，使我的过去和将来的生活，变成一条长长的道路，从道路的两端，这声音向我飘来。而这个情感替我这一天的开始染上色彩。 等到经理人和他的同事以及佃户们一来见我，他们一走进这个场面，这个暗淡的对于过去和将来的忆想将立刻被挤了出去，而一个极其强壮的现在，将行着礼站在我的面前。 ①妇女们在节期所喊出的特别的尖脆的欢呼。——译者沙乍浦一八九二年六月二十五日在今天的信里，提到了Ａ的歌唱，使我的心中起了一种无名的热望。生命中每一种小小的快乐，夹杂在市嚣中间，没有得到欣赏的，现在向游子的心提出了要求。我喜爱音乐，而在加尔各答没有声乐和器乐的饥荒，我对于这些只是充耳不闻。但是，虽然我在那时候没有体会到，这个需要定会使我的心发渴。 在我读着今天的信的时候，我感到那么强烈的愿望，想听听Ａ的美妙的歌声，我立刻确信许多被压抑的，呼吁充满的创造热望中之一，就是要求可以得到而被忽略了的快乐；当我们忙于追求空想的，不可能的事物的时候，我们把生活饿死了……没有尝过的容易得到的快乐所留下的空虚，总在我的生命中生长着。总有一天我会觉得，只要我能把过去拉回来，我将不再拚命追求那难得的东西，而只把那些生活所献出的，细小的，不招自来的日常的喜乐一口饮干。一八九二年六月二十九日昨天我说过，今天夜里我和诗人迦梨陀娑有个约会。当我点上蜡烛，把椅子拉到桌前，准备