Chapter 75 5
My highest ambition at this time was to be a poet like Mr. Vihari.Had my sister-in-law, his ardent admirer, not stood in the way, I might have led myself to believe that my work resembled his somewhat.She always reminded me that there is a saying in the burning text that a worthless and ambitious person who pursues poetry names will be laughed to death!She probably knew that if my vanity got the better of me, it would be hard to control later.So neither my poetic talent nor my singing power was enthusiastically appreciated by her; but she never missed an opportunity to praise others' singing in front of me, so that I would be outshone; shortcoming.Doubts about my poetic talents have also struck me; but as this is the only field left to operate, and in it I have a chance to maintain my self-respect, I cannot allow the judgment of others to deprive me of all hope; Moreover, the agitation in my heart is so persistent that it is absolutely impossible to stop my poetic exploration. 20. Publishing my works was until then confined to the family circle.At this time, a new monthly magazine called "The Germ of Knowledge" was published. In order to fit the name, it got a germ poet as its contributor.It started publishing all my poetic nonsense indiscriminately.To this day, there is a fear in a corner of my heart that when my end comes, a few enthusiastic literary policemen will conduct a search despite the declaration of invasion of private houses, and they will come to the forgotten literature. In the deepest inner court of the world, brought these poems out, and placed them before the pitiless gaze of the public.
My first essay was also born in the pages of "Sprouts of Knowledge".
This is a critical article, and it has a history.
A collection of poems called "The Genius of Buban Mohini" was published.Mr. Akesai wrote in "Sadalani" and Mr. Pudhib wrote in "Education Daily" to praise the new poet with enthusiasm.An older friend of mine who subscribed at that time often showed me the letters he had received signed by Buban Mohini.He was one of the fans of this collection of poems, and often sent books or cloth ① in homage to the address of the famous poetess.
Several of these poems are so uninhibited in thought, feeling and language that I don't even want to think that they were written by women.The letters I have been shown make it even more difficult for me to believe that the writer was a woman.But my doubts did not lessen the loyalty of my friend, who continued to worship his idol.
①Using cloth as a gift is a customary expression of love or seasonal congratulations. ——Translator Later, I started to criticize the author's works.I am free and erudite to characterize the lyric and other short poems, and it is my great advantage that the printed matter is so unashamedly, so coldly, that it does not betray the true knowledge of the author.My friend suddenly ran up in great anger and threatened me that a BA was already writing a rebuttal.A BA!I was too scared to speak.
I feel the same way I heard my nephew Satya calling the police when I was a kid.I can see the pillar of controversies, erected on my petty reputation, collapse before my eyes under the relentless blow of authoritative quotations; Yes, cough!What a bad hour you were born, my critical text!I spend every day in fear.But, like Satir's policeman, the BA never shows up.
I have said that I was a keen student of the collection of Vishnupa poetry edited and published by the gentlemen Aksa Sarkar and Saluda Miet.The language of these poems is largely mixed up with Metilian, and I find it difficult to understand; but it is for this reason that I searched harder for its meaning.What I feel about these poems is an eager curiosity, like the ungerminated germ in a seed, or the undiscovered mystery of the sandy earth.My enthusiasm is sustained by the hope of discovering these unknown poetic treasures, as I step deeper into the unexplored darkness of this treasure trove.
While I was doing this, I suddenly wanted to wrap my own work in such a mysterious baggage.I heard the story of the little English poet Chetterton from Axel Choudhulee.I don't know anything about his poems, and maybe Mr. Axel doesn't either.If we had known, perhaps the story would not have been alluring.The dramatic element of the story accidentally ignited my imagination. Have not many been deceived by the ancient literature which he succeeded in imitating?In the end, the unfortunate young man died by his own hands.I leave the suicide part aside, and only the girdle brings the feat of chasing Chetterton.
One day at noon, thick clouds gathered.Enjoying the cool shade of the cloudy lunch break, I crouched on the bed in the inner room and wrote the poem Cabana Kusama Kunja Majhe in imitation of Methiri on the slate... I am very proud of this poem, and my head immediately Someone who came across read it; no one here knew the Metiliwen, so there was no danger at all, and one could only nod their heads solemnly at last and say, "Well, that's very good!"
One day I said to the friend I just mentioned: "When cleaning up old books in the library of the original burning society, I found a broken poem manuscript, from which I copied the ancient Vishnu poet named Baba. Some poems by Nu Singja." While I was reading to him some poems which I had imitated.Deeply agitated, he exclaimed with ecstasy, "This may not even be written by Vitjapati or Chandidas! I really must take this manuscript to Mr. Axel for publication." .”
At this point I showed him my manuscript, conclusively proving that these poems were by no means written by Vitjapati or Chandidas, since the author happened to be myself.My friend was dismayed and murmured, "Yes, yes, these poems are not bad at all!" ①②③Excellent Indian poets of the Vishnu school in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. ——Translator An excellent poet of the Vishnu school in India in the 14th century, the representative is "Ode to Krishna".
The ancient poets of Vishnu often put their own names at the end of the poems as a signature. Banu and Rabbi (the author's name) both mean the sun.
Dr. Nishikonda Chaitji was in Germany when these poems of Banu Singa were published in Bharati.
He wrote a treatise comparing Indian and European lyric poetry.Banu Singh is revered as one of the ancient poets unmatched by modern poets.This is the dissertation for Dr. Nishikonda Chaitji's Ph.D.!
Whoever Banu Singh is, I swear I will not be deceived if his work falls into the hands of my modern self.
Linguistically it may pass; for the ancient poets did not use their vernacular, but an imitation language, which was different for each poet.But there was no affectation in their sentiments, and anyone who tested Banu Singja's ring could see the fineness of the metal inside.It does not have the charming tune of our ancient flute, but only the sound of modern foreign hand organ.
On the surface, it seems that many foreign customs have passed into our family, but in its heart burns the flame of national pride that never flickers.Through the ups and downs of the revolution in his life, my father never forsook his heartfelt love and respect for the country; this heartfelt love and respect for the country formed a strong patriotic feeling among his descendants.But patriotism was by no means a feature of the time I was writing about.At that time, our educated people were far away from their native countries in language and thought.But my brothers were always nurturing Bengali literature.A new in-law wrote my father a letter in English, which he returned right away.
The Hindu Association is an annual meeting that my family helped to set up.
Mr. Nabagopa Mith was appointed as manager.This was perhaps the first attempt to realize the reverence of India as our motherland.The national anthem "Long Live India" written by my second brother and recited by the people was written at that time.Singing songs praising the motherland, reciting patriotic poems, exhibiting the craftsmanship of the country, and encouraging the talents and skills of the people are the characteristics of this annual meeting.
On the day of Sir Curzon's audience at Derry I wrote an essay--in Lord Leighton I wrote a poem.The Anglo-Indian governments of those days were afraid of the Russians, it was true, but they were not afraid of the pen of a fourteen-year-old poet.So while there is no lack of fiery emotion befitting my age in my poems, the senior officers, from the commander-in-chief to the chief of police, show no alarm. Nor did the Times contain weeping readers who predicted the swift collapse of the Empire because of the indifference of its district guardians.I recited this poem under a tree at a meeting of the Hindu Association, with the poet Nabin Singh in the audience.He still mentioned it to me when I grew up.
My fifth brother Jyoti put Dela in charge of a political association of which old Rajnarain Bose was the chairman.They met in a run-down house on a lonely street in Calcutta.The conduct of meetings is shrouded in mystery.This mystery is the only awe-inspiring thing about them, for in fact nothing they say or do frightens the government or the people.No one else in our family knew where our afternoons were spent.Our front door is locked, the conference room is dark, the password is a Vedic verse, and our conversation is whispered.That alone is enough to get us excited, we don't need anything else.Even though I was a kid, I was also a member.We use this spirit of sheer madness ①Leighton (1831-1891), Governor of India from 1876 to 1880. ——Translator Atmosphere surrounds us, making us always lift high into the sky like we are riding the wings of enthusiasm.We have no shyness, timidity and fear.Our main object is to be warmed in the heat of our own passion.
Bravery may have its faults sometimes, but it always steadfastly retains the respect which man holds for it.In the literature of all nations we see an unremitting effort to animate this respect.Therefore, no matter what the situation is, in a special place, with a special group of people, they cannot escape the constant impact of this exciting vibration.We must be content to conform as best we can to this vibration, to let our imaginations run wild, and to come together to talk and sing.
To shut up all the outlets, to block up all the passages of those deep-rooted and cherished faculties in a man's nature would undoubtedly create an unnatural condition conducive to depraved activity.It is not enough in the vast schemes of the British imperial government to open a way to priestly employment--if no outlet is left for the adventurous daring, the soul of man will yearn for liberation, and seek the secret way. , the road is tortuous, and the result is incredible.I strongly believe that the comedy being performed by the young members of this association might have turned into a grim tragedy had the government in those days shown menace born of misgiving.The play, at any rate, has been played, and not a single brick of Fort William was damaged, and we can only smile when we think of it.
My elder brother Jotirendra started busy designing clothes for all India, bringing various patterns to the association.The coat is impractical, and the trousers are too western; therefore, he came up with a compromise plan, which was to change the coat a little bit but not to improve the trousers: that is to say, on the front and back of the trousers, add a pair of An ornament similar to the pleats of a coat.That dreadful mixture of hood and sunhat that even our most ardent members wouldn't have the guts to call it decoration.No man of ordinary courage dared to do so, but my brother boldly put on the full costume in broad daylight, and walked from the house one afternoon to the waiting carriage outside the door, to relatives, friends, and family members. Ding and the coachman's stares were completely ignored.There may be many brave Indians, ready to die for their country, but I am sure very few would put on such pan-Indian attire and face the busy streets, even if doing so would be good for the country.
Every Sunday, my brother called a "hunt" meeting.Many of the uninvited attendees we didn't even recognize.There were carpenters, blacksmiths, and people from all walks of life.There was only bloodshed during this "hunt", at least I don't recall any such incident.Its other appendages are so profuse and desirable that we feel that no casualties are insignificant.When we went out early in the morning, my sister-in-law prepared pancakes and side dishes for us; as these did not depend on our hunting luck, we never went home on an empty stomach.
There are quite a few villas on the outskirts of Manique Tula.In the end we always went to any of the villas, regardless of high or low, sitting on the steps of the bathing pool by the pond, and everyone gorged on pancakes.
One of the most zealous and bloodless hunters, Mr. Brajah was director of the municipal school and was our governess.One day he came up with an amusing trick to trick the gardener of the villa we broke into by saying, "Hello, has my uncle been here lately?" The gardener hastened to salute respectfully and said, "No Sir, master hasn't been here lately." "Well, pluck me some green coconuts." We drank good coconut water after pancakes that day.
A landowner occasionally attended our meetings.He has a house by the river.
One day we shared a picnic in this villa despite the caste ban.A great storm came in the afternoon, and we stood on the steps leading to the water by the river, singing loudly to the accompaniment of the wind and rain.I cannot truly assert that we can clearly distinguish the seven notes of all scales in Mr. Rajinarain's singing; , in Mr. Rajnarain's musical effect, the majestic performance of his limbs and features overshadowed his poorer vocal performance.He shook his head from side to side to keep track of the beat, while the storm messed with his wavy beard.When we returned home in the carriage, it was late at night, the wind and rain stopped suddenly, the stars gradually came out, the darkness deepened, the atmosphere was silent, the village path was desolate, and countless fireflies like carnival sparks in the woods on both sides, in the silent Singing and dancing in the carnival.
One of the objects of our association is to aid in the manufacture of matches, or other similar small manufactures.To this end, each member contributes a tenth of his income.Matches must be made, and matchsticks are hard to come by; though we all know what fiery power a bundle of dry coconut veins can exert in a capable hand, what burns at its touch is not a wick.
After much trial and error, we made a box full of matches.The patriotic enthusiasm expressed in this way does not constitute the only value of this box of matches, because the money spent on making matches is enough to burn the whole family's stove for a year.In addition, there is another small problem, that is, these matches cannot strike a fire by themselves, and they must be ignited by another fire.But if they could inherit a modicum of the patriotic fire that produced them, they would still have customers today.
News came that a young student was trying to make a mechanical loom.We immediately ran to see it.None of us had the knowledge to try the loom, but our ability to trust and hope was by no means inferior to anyone.The poor man had a debt on the purchase of the machine, which we paid off for him.Then one day we saw Mr. Brajah running to our house with a thin earthen towel around his head, "It was woven on our loom!" He cheered and danced a war dance with his arms high.
The outside of Mr. Karaja's skull, had matured to a grayish white by then.
In the end, some people with insight into the world joined our association, gave us a taste of the fruits of knowledge, and dissolved our little paradise.
When I first met Mr. Rajnarain, I was not yet old enough to appreciate his multifaceted interests.There are many opposites mixed in him.Although he has gray beard and hair, he is as young as us; his noble appearance is just like a snow-white coat that keeps his youth fresh forever.Not even his great learning could do him any harm, for learning allowed him absolute simplicity.To the end of his life, his constant stream of passionate laughter was never interrupted by old age, ill health, family misfortunes, difficult thoughts, or vast knowledge, which were many in his life.
He was Lee Chasson's favorite student and grew up in the atmosphere of English literature, but he put aside the obstacles inherent in old habits and dedicated himself to Bengali literature with love and dedication.Though a man of the utmost mildness, he was full of a blazing fire in patriotism, which seemed to burn to ashes the faults and poverty of his country.To commemorate this sage who was soft with a smile, radiant with enthusiasm, eternally young, is one of the things that our compatriots are worth doing.
On the whole, the period in which I am writing is a period of fascination and excitement for me.I have had many sleepless nights for no particular reason other than a desire to break out of routine.I often read alone in the study under the dim light; the big clock of the chapel in the distance is struck every fifteen minutes, and it seems that every passing hour is auctioned off; Ah" to go to the Nitula Crematorium through Kitpur Road.Some summer moonlit nights I would wander like a restless ghost among the light and shadows of the pots and barrels in the roof garden.
Whoever takes these as mere poetry is wrong.Though our earth is quite old, it sometimes surprises us with its departure from serious stability; in its youth, before it became hard and stubborn, it was blazing with zeal, and in many ways unrestrained. .The same thing happens during a person's early adolescence.So long as the elements that formed his life were not finalized, they must have been in turmoil in the process of taking shape.
At this time my elder brother Joti Rendra decided to start Bharati and let our eldest brother be the editor.This gave new food to our enthusiasm.I was only sixteen at the time, but I wasn't excluded from the editorial board either.Not long ago, in the sheer arrogance of my youthful vanity, I wrote a review of "The Killing of Yunyin Yasha".Just as sourness is the hallmark of an unripe mango, so is the hallmark of an unripe critic.When there is no other power, the power of piercing is the sharpest.This is how I sought immortality by leaving claw marks on this immortal epic.This insane critique is my first contribution to Bharatiya.
In the first volume I also published a long poem called "The Poet's Tale".
It is a product of a time when the author saw nothing in the world but a vaguely exaggerated image of himself.Therefore, the protagonist in the poem is of course a poet, not the author's real self, but the self he imagined or expected.
It is also wrong to say that he expects him to be what he describes; it means that he thinks that what people expect of him is to make the world nod and say, "Yes, what a poet, as it should be." In this poem There are brilliant renderings of universal love, the favorite theme of the budding poet, and it is both grand and easy to tell.Simplicity and restraint in performance cannot be done when no truth has yet shone in a man's heart, and what has been said by others is our only stock.It is impossible, then, to avoid being a grotesque exhibition in the midst of trying to exaggerate what is truly great in itself.
When I read with shame the poor poetry of my youth, I also think with horror that in my later works, the same error may be written under the distortion of the consequences, in the form of indistinctness. lurking.My cacophony of voices, no doubt, often drowned out what I had to say; one day "time" would search me out.
"The Poet's Tale" was my first printed work.When my second brother and I were in Ahmedabad, an enthusiastic friend of mine unexpectedly printed it out and sent me a copy.I dare not say that he did right, but the emotion aroused in me at that time was not like that of an angry magistrate.He got his punishment, but not from the author, but from the masses clutching their purses.I have heard that unsold volumes weighed heavily on the shelves of bookstores and the heart of the unfortunate printer for a long time.
Works written at the time when I started writing for Bharatiya were not suitable for publication.Nothing guarantees a manhood confession more than a premature rush to print.But it also has a redeeming side: the irresistible urge to see one's work in print wanes early in life.Who are the readers, what do they say, what typos are not corrected, these and other similar worries are like infantile diseases, after passing through one by one, one can write at ease in a healthy state of mind later in life own literary works.
Bengali literature has not yet grown up to exercise the self-restraint of the lovers who can control it.Along with gaining writing experience, a Bengali writer must develop restraint within himself.This made it impossible for him to avoid writing many poor works for a long period of time.The luxury of using small talents casually to perform miracles must have been a stubborn conception at first, so often in the early works can be seen a step-by-step effort to surpass our natural talents and realms of truth and beauty.It is a matter of time before we discover our normal selves, and learn to respect our inherent talents.
Anyway, I have done many youthful follies that shame me, and spoiled the pages of Bharatiya; but I am ashamed not only of its literary shortcomings, but of its cruel arrogance, its excessive presumptuousness and arrogant pretensions.At the same time, I can also frankly admit that the works of that period are filled with a kind of enthusiasm that is not insignificant.Here is a period like this:
If mistakes are natural, so are youthful faculties with hope and faith and joy.If the wrong fuel is necessary to feed the flame of passion, then what should be incinerated is ashes, and the good that the flame has done in my life has not been done in vain.
When Bharati was in its second year, my second brother asked to take me to England; and when my father agreed, I was surprised by this unsatisfactory grace.
The first step is to accompany my second brother to Ahmedabad, where he is a judge.My sister-in-law and the children were in England at the time, so the house was practically empty.
Known as the King's Garden, the judge's residence was the ancient palace of kings.At the foot of the wall supporting the broad verandah, the summer shallows of the Savamati River flowed over a corner of its broad sandy bank.My second brother went to the court, and I was left in the tall palace. Only the sound of pigeons broke the silence of noon; an indescribable curiosity made me wander in this empty room.
My brother kept the books in an alcove in a large inner room.Among them was a rare collection of Tennyson's poems, in large letters and many illustrations.This book is as silent to me as this palace.I, too, linger on its pages.It's not that I can't understand the original text, but it speaks to me like muffled whispers rather than words.In my brother's library I also found an anthology of Sanskrit poetry edited by Dr. Harperlin, which was printed by the old Shrampuri printing house.This poem is also beyond my comprehension, but the loud Sanskrit words and rhythmic progress make me always walk in the middle of the verses of "Amoru Baiyong" in response to their lightly beating drums.
The upper room of the palace tower is the cave of my lonely hermit.My only companions are a swarm of bumblebees.In the unbreakable darkness of night, I sleep there alone.Sometimes a bee or two fell out of the nest on my bed, and if I happened to roll over it, the encounter was unpleasant to the bees, and acutely uncomfortable to me.
It is one of my fantasies to stroll back and forth on this wide terrace facing the river on a moonlit night.I was composing to my lyrics for the first time while I was walking.One of them is a song dedicated to the Rose Lady, which still has a place in my published works.
I found that my knowledge of English was not enough, so I decided to read a few English books with the help of a dictionary.I have had a habit since I was very young, not to let the desire for complete understanding hinder my reading, but to be very satisfied with the structure built by the sporadic understanding beyond my imagination.Even today I reap both the good and the bad effects of this habit.
So after six months in Ahmedabad we went to England.In inauspicious hours I started writing letters about my journey to my relatives and to Bharati.Now I don't have the ability to take it back.These letters are but the result of youthful pomp.At this age the youthful heart refuses to admit that its greatest pride is in its power to know, to receive, to respect; and that humility is the best means of enlarging its domain.Admiration and admiration are seen as signals of cowardice or surrender, and the desire to push back, hurt, or destroy by argument sets off the fireworks of this knowledge.My attempts to use invective to my advantage may occasionally amuse me today, if their lack of directness and common courtesy were not too painful.
I have had almost no contact with the outside world since I was a child.The circumstances that had thrown me into the seas of English society at the age of seventeen, which I was able to keep afloat, would have proved quite distressing.But as my sister-in-law and her children happened to be in Brighton, I got through this first shock under her protection.
Winter was approaching then, and one day we were chatting by the fireside, when the children came running in with the exciting news that it was snowing outside.We ran out immediately.The night was extremely cold, the sky was filled with bright white moonlight, and the ground was covered with white snow.This is not the natural appearance I am familiar with, but a very strange thing, like a dream.Everything nearby seems to recede far away, leaving only the still white figure of an ascetic bowing his head in thought.I have never encountered such a sudden display of beauty so wonderful, so vast, just in the blink of an eye.
I lived happily under the warm care of my sister-in-law and among the noisy games with the children.My strange pronunciation of English made them very amusing, and though I could wholeheartedly participate in other games, I saw nothing funny in this one.How can I explain to them the a sound in warm and the o sound in worm, without a logical way to tell them apart?I was unlucky enough to have to bear the brunt of ridicule really because of the whimsy of the English alphabet.
I have grown very good at inventing new ways to keep the children occupied and interested.This art helped me a lot later, and it still works for me today.But I myself no longer feel the same infinite abundance of quick wit.
It was the first chance I ever had to give my heart to a child, and it was as rich in novelty and flow as a first-discovered talent.
But I don't travel to exchange my home over the sea for my home here.
My purpose is to study law and go back to be a lawyer in the future.So one day I was sent to a public school in Brighton.
The headmaster's first words, after examining my face, were: "What a beautiful head you have!" This verse will never fade from my memory, because she, the one at home eager to her voluntary duty, restrained me. People who are more vain have given me the impression that my head and face are generally extremely mediocre compared with many others.I hope the reader will not fail to count this among my merits, for I secretly take her word for it, and secretly bemoan the stinginess of my Creator in making me.
On many other occasions, I have found that my English friend's estimate of me is different from what she usually says, and I seriously worry about the difference in taste standards between these two countries!
One thing that seemed to be fine at Brighton school: the students weren't rough with me at all.Instead, they used to stuff an orange or an apple in my pocket and run away.I can only attribute their unusual behavior to the fact that I am a foreigner.
I haven't been at the school very long either - but that's not the school's fault.
Mr Taraka Preet was in England at that time.He could see that this was not the way I was going to learn and he convinced my brother to take me to London and put me in a flat by myself.The selected apartment faces Regent's Park.It was severe winter then.There was not a single leaf on the trees in front of the door, and they just stood there staring at the sky with their thin, snow-covered dead branches--a scene that was piercingly cold.
For a newcomer to a new land, there is no place so harsh as London in winter.I don't know anyone nearby, and I don't know the way.The days of staring outside the window alone have returned to my life.But this time, the scenery is not charming.Its countenance is frowning; the sky is opaque; the lights are dull as the eyes of a dead man; the horizon is shrunk, for the great friendly world never gave it a beckoning smile.The furniture in this room was simple, but there was a little organ, which I played at random when the day ended prematurely.Sometimes Indians came to see me; though I knew them very little, when they stood up to go, I felt a tendency to hold them by the skirts of their coats.
While I was living in this apartment, a man came to teach me Latin.His gaunt figure and shabby clothes stood no more against winter's grip than the bare tree.I don't know how old he is, but he looks much older than his real age.A few days during class, he suddenly forgot some words and appeared blankly ashamed.His family regarded him as a weirdo.He gradually developed a theory that he believed that in every age, and in every human society, everywhere in the world, one main idea has been expressed; it may take different forms in different degrees of civilization, but in Essentially one and the same; this acceptance of thought is not a process of adoption, for this truth, even without communication, is still good.His greatest preoccupation was collecting and documenting facts to confirm his theories.While he was doing these things, he had no food in his house and no clothes on his body.His daughters paid him little respect for his theories, and perhaps more often complained of his confusion.Some days I could tell by his face that he had found some new proofs and that his thesis was making considerable progress.
In such a case, I would raise the subject, feigning warm concern for him.Sometimes he brooded gloomily, as if his burdens were too heavy to bear.Our lessons would come to a standstill; his eyes would look into the void, and his mind would not return to the pages of the first volume of Latin.I feel sorry for this man who is physically hungry and theoretically burdened, and although I have no illusions about benefiting from Latin class, I can't make up my mind to dismiss him.This pretense of learning Latin dragged on during the time I lived in this apartment.On the eve of my leaving the apartment, when I settled the salary with him, he said pitifully: "I didn't do anything, I just wasted your time, and I can't accept any payment." made him accept his salary.
Although my Mr. Latin never bothered me with proofs of his theory, I have not yet disbelieved it.I believe that the human mind is connected through a deep and continuous medium, through which disturbances in one part are secretly transmitted to other parts.
Mr. Preet placed me again at the home of a counselor named Bacal.
He lets students live at home and helps them prepare for entrance exams.Apart from his mild-mannered and small wife, there was nothing attractive about the family.
我们可以理解这种教师会怎样地去招揽学生，因为这些可怜的东西不常会有自己选择的机会。但是在这种情况下，这种人怎样娶到妻子，想起是使人苦恼的。巴卡尔太太努力从她的爱狗上得到安慰，但是当巴卡尔要惩罚他妻子的时候，他就虐待这条狗。所以她对这不幸的动物的感情，只使她的敏感更加扩大起来。
在这种环境中，我嫂嫂从德文郡的托尔奎写信叫我，我简直是欢天喜地地跑到她那儿去。我说不出我多么喜欢那里的山和海，和盖满了花朵的牧场，松林的浓荫，还有我的两个活泼爱玩的小伴。但是我有时会被疑问所痛苦，就是为什么当我的眼睛饱餐着美景，我的心灵浸透了喜悦，我的悠闲的日子，载满了纯净的快乐，渡过无边的蔚蓝太空，而这时居然会听不到诗的召唤。因此有一天我沿着版岩的海边走去，用稿本和伞武装起来，去履行我的诗人的天职。我选择的地点是不容置疑地美丽的，因为这不依靠着我的韵律和幻想。那边有一小块平坦的悬岩，永远渴望似的伸出在水面上；在前面流动的、蔚蓝的、泡沫点点的波浪上摇晃着，晴朗的天空微笑地在这催眠中睡着了；后面，松梢的浓荫像困倦的林中仙子脱下的衣裳一样地摊开着。坐在岩石的宝座上，我写了一首诗，《沉舟》。今天我也许会相信它是一首好诗，如果那时候我为慎重起见把它沉在海里的话。但是我得不到这种安慰，因为它存在我的心里；虽然可以把它从我的作品里驱逐出去，一张传票又可能把它拘了回来。
责任的使者是不闲着的。召唤又来了，我又回到伦敦去。
这一次我住在司各特博士的家里。在一个晴朗的夜晚，带着提包和行李，我侵入了他的家庭。只有白发的司各特博士和他的妻子还有大女儿在家。那两个小女儿，被一个陌生的印度人的侵袭所惊吓，已经躲到亲戚家去住了。我想只在她们听说我这人并不凶恶之后才回家来的。
在很短的时间内，我就成为他们家庭之一员。司各特太太待我像儿子一样，我从她女儿们得到的由衷的款待，是比自己的亲戚还要难得的。
住在这家里的时候我想起一件事——人性到处都是一样的。我们喜欢说，我自己也相信一个印度妻子对丈夫的热诚是很特殊的一件东西，在欧洲是找不到的。但是至少我在司各特太太和一个理想的印度妻子之间，看不出任何差别。她的全副精神都贯注在她丈夫身上。他们有限的进款使他们不能多雇佣人，司各特太太照料着她丈夫所需要的每一个细节。
在他夜晚下班回来以前，她就亲手把他的扶手椅子和毛绒拖鞋放在炉火前面。她从不容许她自己有一刻忘记他所喜欢的东西，或使他高兴的行为。每天早晨她和唯一的女仆从顶楼收拾到厨房，楼梯上的铜杆或门纽以及附件都擦得锃亮。除了日常家务以外，她还有些社会义务。做完了每天的事务她就热烈地参加我们的诵读或是乐队，因为在主妇的许多责任之中，使闲暇时间能有真正的快乐的责任，也不是最轻的。
有几个夜晚我就参加女孩子们转桌子降神的游戏。我们把手指按在一张小茶几上，这茶几就在屋里乱转。后来弄到我们无论按住什么东西，它都会颤动起来。司各特太太不大喜欢这个，她有时严肃地摇着头说，这样做是不是对，她是有疑惑的。但是她勇敢地忍耐着，不愿扫我们年轻人的兴。直到有一天我们把手按在司各特先生的礼帽上让它旋转的时候，这时她受不住了，她十分生气地赶上前来，禁止我们去动它。她不能忍受魔鬼和她的丈夫头上所戴的东西有任何关系的想法，甚至于一刻也受不了。
在她的一切行为之中，对于丈夫的尊敬是最突出的。关于她的温柔克己的记忆，使我很清楚地看到，一切女性的爱的最终的圆满，是要从尊敬中找到的；如果没有外因来妨碍它真诚的发展，女性的爱自然地成长成为崇拜，在奢侈的设备很丰富的地方，浅薄无聊玷污了白日和黑夜，这种爱就退化了，妇女的天性就找不到它的圆满的快乐。
我在这里过了几个月。我哥哥回去的时候到了，父亲写信叫我和他一同回去。这个前景使我愉快。我的国家的阳光，我的国家的天空，一直在静默地召唤着我。当我告别的时候，司各特太太哭着握住我的手。她说：“如果你必须这么快就走，你为什么要到我们家来呢？”这个家庭已经不在伦敦了。这位博士的家里人有的已经到另一个世界里去了，其余的人散居在我不知道的地方。但是这个家庭永远活在我的记忆里。
在冬季的一天，我走过唐卜莱治威尔斯的一条街，看见一个人站在路旁。他的脚趾从破靴子里露了出来，他的前胸也半裸着。他没有对我说什么，也许因为求乞是不许可的，但是他抬头看了我一会儿。我给他的钱也许比他希望的多了些，在我走出几步之后，他跟上来说：“先生，你错把一块金钱给我了。”说着他要把钱还给我。我本来不会特别记住这件事情，只因为同样的事又发生过一次。当我第一次到达托尔奎火车站的时候，一个搬夫把我的行李送到站外的汽车上去。我袋里找不到零钱，在汽车开走的时候，我给了他一个两个半先令的银币。过一会儿他跑来追我，喊叫司机停车。我以为他看出我是一个老憨，他要想法再敲我一点钱。车停住了，他说：“先生，你一定把这两个半先令当作一个辨士给我了！”