Chapter 76 6

I cannot say that I have never been deceived in London, but in all fairness there is nothing to remember.Slowly growing in my heart, the main thing is that only trustworthy people have the belief of trusting others.I was a nameless stranger who could daringly evade payment, but never did a London shopkeeper distrust me. All my sojourn in England I had been involved in a farce which I had to perform from beginning to end.I happened to know the widow of a high-ranking British-Indian official.She actually nicknamed me "Ruby".An Indian friend of hers wrote a mourning poem in English in memory of her husband.There is no need to delve into the advantages of this poem and the fit of the words.It was my bad luck that the author pointed out that the eulogy should be sung in Béhar style.So the widow asked me one day to sing to her this tune.What a silly kid I was then, and reluctantly complied.Unfortunately, at that time no one but me could understand how brutally funny the combination of Béhar's style and that ridiculous line was.The widow seemed deeply moved when she heard the Indian lament for her husband sung in the native tune.I think this is the end of the matter, but it doesn't ① "Ruby" is the pinyin of "Ruby" in English. It was originally a girl's name, and the pet name of the author should be "Rabbi". ——The translator has a conclusion.

I often met this widow at various social gatherings, and after dinner, when we went into the drawing-room to join the ladies, she always asked me to sing this eulogy in the style of Béhar.Everyone who wants to hear a curious example of Indian music, also pleads with her.Then the ill-fated printed piece was taken out of her pocket, and my ears turned red and screamed.Finally, with head bowed and voice trembling, I must begin—but I am acutely aware that no one in this room is more heartbroken by this performance than I am.After singing, amidst giggles, they said together: "Thank you!" "How interesting!" Although it was winter, I was sweating all over my body.What a blow to me who could have predicted, at the hour of my life, or at the hour of his death, the death of this noble Anglo-Indian official!

For a while thereafter, I was staying at Dr. Scott's house, and attending lectures at the affiliated college, when I lost contact with the widow.She lived in a remote part of the suburbs of London, and though I often received invitations from her, my horror at this elegy prevented me from accepting her invitations.Finally I got a urging telegram from her.I was preparing to go to the College when the telegram was received, and my time in London was drawing to a close.I thought I should see her one more time before leaving, so I agreed to her request. I didn't go home, I went all the way from the college to the station.It was a terrible day, freezing cold, with snow and fog.The station I'm going to is the end of the line.I was very calm in my heart and thought it was unnecessary to ask about the arrival time.

All the parking platforms are on the right and I am comfortably sitting in the corner seat on the right reading a book.It was already dark outside by then, and nothing could be seen.Passengers got off at the station one by one.We arrived and left the last stop before the finish line. Then the train stopped again, but there was no one in sight, no lights and no platform.A passenger cannot fathom why the train stopped at a different time and place, so I gave up that attempt and continued reading my book.At this moment the train began to move backwards again.An anomaly on the railroad seemed no wonder, I thought, reading my book.But when we got back to the previous stop, I couldn't ignore it anymore.I asked at the station, "When are we going to a certain place?" The answer was, "You just came from there." I was very embarrassed and asked, "So where are we going now?" "To London It was then that I realized that this bus was a round trip, and when I asked about the next bus to a certain place, they told me that there was no more bus that night.In answer to my second question, I found that there were no hotels within five miles.

I left the house after breakfast at ten o'clock and have not eaten anything yet. The ascetic thought comes easily when abstinence is the only possibility.I buttoned up the collar of my thick overcoat and sat reading by the light of the platform.The one I have brought is the just-published "Materials of Essays" by Spencer.I consoled myself that I might never again have the opportunity to give my full attention to this problem. After a while, a porter came and told me that there was an express train, which would arrive in half an hour.The news made me so excited and happy that I couldn't read any more.Where I was supposed to be at seven o'clock, I finally arrived at nine o'clock.My mistress asked me, "What's the matter, Ruby? What are you doing?" I couldn't be prouder when I told her the story of my wonderful adventure.The supper is over; but my misfortune is not my fault, I did not expect the punishment I deserved, and my executor was a woman.But the widow of a high-ranking Anglo-Indian official just said to me, "Come on, Ruby, have a cup of tea."

I was never much of a tea drinker, but hoping it might relieve my extreme hunger a little, I managed to swallow a cup of strong medicine and a biscuit or two.When at last I entered the drawing-room, I found a group of old ladies, among whom was a young and beautiful American, the fiancée of my master's nephew, who seemed to be engaged in the usual premarital love affairs. "Let's dance," said my mistress.I have neither the mood nor the physical strength to do this gymnastics.But easygoing can do the hardest things in the world, so while the dance was for an engaged couple, I had to dance with some pretty old ladies between me and hunger Only tea and biscuits.

And my pain is not over yet.My hostess asked me, "Where are you staying tonight?" It was a question I hadn't thought of.When I stared at her blankly, speechless, she explained to me that the local hotel closed at midnight and I should go right away.Happily the friendship was not altogether lacking, for I did not have to go to the hotel alone, but a servant took me there with a light.I thought this might be a blessing in disguise, so as soon as I entered the door, I asked if there was anything to eat: Meat, fish, vegetables, hot or cold!They said, if I want to drink, there are all kinds of wine, but there is nothing to eat.From now on, I hope to forget everything in my sleep, but it seems that there is no place for me in its arms that embrace the world.The gravel floor of the room was cold, and a broken bed and a battered washstand were the only furniture.

This morning the widow of the Anglo-Indian official invited me to have breakfast.I found that the table was covered with cold meals, apparently leftovers from last night.It would have done no one any harm if only a portion of it had been given to me last night, warm or cold, and my dancing would not have been so painfully writhing as a landed carp. After breakfast my mistress told me that she had asked me to sing the eulogy to an old lady who was now sick in bed and I must sing to her outside her bedroom door .She made me stand at the end of the stairs, pointed to a closed door, and said: "This is the room where she lives." I faced this mysterious stranger and sang this eulogy in the style of Beja.I have not heard of the results of this patient after listening to the song.

When I returned to London, I had to atone for my absurd easy-going on my sickbed.Dr Scott's daughters plead with my conscience not to take this as a model of English hospitality.They defended that it was influenced by eating Indian salt. Loken Pallett was my classmate when I took English literature classes at the immediate college.He is about four years younger than me.When I was writing my memoirs, the difference of four years was indistinguishable.But the bridges of friendship before the age of seventeen and thirteen are difficult to fly.Because the weight is not enough in terms of age, children always have to pretend to be the dignity of the elders.But with little Loken, it didn't put up any bars in my heart, because I couldn't see in any way that he was smaller than me.

Both male and female students sit and study in the library of the college.This library is where we meet.If we had been quiet no one would have protested, but my little friend was always in such high spirits that the slightest tease would cause him to laugh.In all countries girls are easily irritable when they are working hard.I regret it when I recall the countless pairs of angry blue eyes that ineffectively projected blame at our irrepressible laughter.But in those days, I had no sympathy for the pain of being interrupted while studying. God bless me, I have never had a headache in my life, nor have I suffered a moment of conscience for interrupted school lessons.

Accompanied by our constant laughter, we had a little literary discussion.Although Loken hadn't read as much Bengali literature as I had, his sharp wit more than made up for it.Among the topics we discussed was the phonetic method of Bengali. This topic is caused by this.A Scott girl asked me to teach her Bengali.I showed pride when I taught her the alphabet because Bengali spelling is sentient and doesn't like to break the rules every step of the way.I made it clear to her how ludicrous the chaos of English spelling is, and that we memorize it for examinations only under tragic compulsion.But my pride stumbled.We found that the spelling of Bengali is so disobedient to the rules, and habit makes me turn a blind eye to its illegality. Later I set out to find out the rules governing these irregularities.I was amazed at the good help Loken gave on this subject. After Loken entered the British and Indian government and went home, the work in the library of the college, which originated in the murmur of laughter, flowed down with wider waves. Loken's literary boisterous laughter was like the wind in the sails of my literary adventure.When I was in my prime, galloping on the horses of prose and poetry, Loken's infinite appreciation kept my strength from slackening for a moment.There are many soars in prose or poetry, all set off from his cottage in the country.Many a time our literary and musical gatherings have gathered under the care of the evening star and dissipated under the morning star like lights in the morning breeze. Of the many lotus flowers at Saraswati's feet, the flower of friendship must have been her favorite.On the edge of her lotus-pond I have not caught much golden pollen, but as to the rich fragrance of good friendship I have no complaints. While in England I started another poem, continued it on the way home, and finished it when I got home.Published under the title "Broken Heart".At that time, I thought the poem was very good.It is not surprising that the author thought this way; but it was also appreciated by the readers at the time.I remember that after the publication of this poem, the prime minister of the late king of Tepara paid a special visit and brought me a congratulatory message saying that the king loved this poem very much and had high hopes for the author’s future literary achievements. hope. Regarding this poem I wrote when I was eighteen, let me quote here what I wrote in a letter when I was thirty: Neither a teenager nor a youth.This age of juncture is not directly illuminated by the light of truth—the reflected light is here and there, and the rest is shadow.And like the shadows of evening, all its phantasms are elongated and blurred, making the real world seem like a world of fantasy.The strange aspect is that not only was I eighteen at the time, but everyone else around me seemed to be eighteen as well; Joy and sorrow are like joy and sorrow in dreams.There is nothing real to measure there, and the shallow is responsible for the great. My life during this period, from the age of fifteen or sixteen to the age of twenty-two or three, was completely disordered. When the earth was in the early days, when water and land were not clearly separated, huge and misshapen amphibians walked in treeless forests that grew out of slowly seeping silt.So are the emotions of the chaotic period of the immature mind, so unbalanced, unproportioned, and grotesque, that linger in the layerless shadows of its pathless and nameless wilderness.They do not know themselves, nor the purpose of their wanderings; and just because they do not know, they are always apt to imitate something else. So in this period of meaningless activity, when my undeveloped faculties, neither knowing nor reaching the objects they describe, crowd to find a way out, each trying to gain the upper hand from exaggeration . It makes the baby feverish when the baby teeth are about to come out.All restlessness cannot be eliminated until the baby teeth come out and start to help digestion.Thus our early affections torment our souls, like an infant's disease, until they experience their true relation to the outer world. The lessons I have learned from the experience of this period can be found in any kind of self-cultivation textbook, but it should not be taken lightly for that reason.That poisons our lives by shutting up our appetites in the heart, and blocking the way for freedom to pounce.Like that selfishness, which prevents our desires from being free to act, prevents them from reaching their true purpose, and that is why selfishness is always accompanied by festering unreality and presumptuousness.When our desires find infinite freedom in good work, they throw off their unhealthy state and return to their own nature--this is their true purpose and the joy of their existence. The immature state of mind I have described was cultivated by the example and lessons of that era, and I dare not say whether the influence is still there today.Looking back at the period to which I speak, I think that what we get from English literature is more stimulation than nourishment.Our literary gods in those days were Shakespeare, Milton, and Byron; the quality of their works that moves us most deeply is the power of passion.In English social life the discharges of passion are severely repressed, and perhaps for this reason they dominate literature and characterize it as an outlet of unbridled passion to an inevitable outburst. .At least it is this unrestrained excitement that we learn to regard as the quintessence of English literature. There is feverish intoxication in the impassioned eloquence of English poetry by our teacher of English literature, Axel Choudhulee.The rage of Romeo and Juliet's love, the rage of Lear's impotent lament, Othello's all-burning, fiery jealousy, these are the things that arouse our passionate admiration.Our restrained social life, our lesser fields of activity, are enclosed in monotonous circles, which keep out the stormy passions;--everything is as peaceful and still as possible.So our hearts naturally crave the ardent emotions that animate English literature.Our feelings are not the aesthetic appreciation of literature and art, but Zhishui's warm welcome to the raging waves, although it will stir up the silt at the bottom of the water to the surface. Shakespeare's literature of the same period represents the war dance of the times. This is the era when the Renaissance came to Europe with the violence of all resistance to the harsh shackles and restraints of the human heart.The examination of good, evil, beauty and ugliness is not the main purpose—at that time, man seems to be exhausted to break through all barriers, enter the deepest sanctuary of his body and mind, and discover the ultimate portrait of his own strong desire.Therefore, we will find such sharp, full, and unrestrained expressions in this kind of literature. The feasting spirit of this Dionysian of Europe finds its way into our stodgy, polite society to wake us up and enliven us.We are dazzled by the unbridled brilliance of life falling on our hearts, and our hearts, cracked by habit, seek a chance to excuse themselves. There is another age in English literature, when the low key of Pope's common time gave way to the dance music of the French Revolution, and Byron was its poet. The intensity of his emotion also draws our veiled bride out of her dark corner. In the same way, the passion for English literature stirred the hearts of the young people of our time, and waves of this passion hit my heart from every direction.The initial awakening is the time for the play of vitality, not its inhibition. But our situation is so different from Europe.There, sensitivity and impatience to restraint are reflected from history to literature, and its expression is consistent with emotion.The roar of the storm is heard, for there is a storm roaring.But from there the breeze that ruffles our little world is actually only a little above a whisper.It therefore fails to satisfy our hearts, and our attempt to imitate the roar of a hurricane easily leads us to grandiosity, a tendency which persists to this day, and which, perhaps, is not easily corrected. What is responsible for this is the fact that true artistic rigor has not yet emerged in English literature.Human emotion is one of the ingredients of literature, not its purpose—that is the beauty that exists in its utter perfection in simplicity and limitation.This is a claim that English literature has not yet fully acknowledged. Our minds are molded from infancy to old age only by this English literature, but other literatures of Europe, classical and modern, show in art-forms the nourishment of the Development is not the subject of our study; and I feel, therefore, that we have not yet arrived at a proper understanding of the true aims and methods of literature. Mr. Axer, the man who makes us feel the living emotion of English literature, is himself a zealot of emotional life.The importance of realizing the truth in full emotional fullness is not so clear to him as feeling the emotion in the heart.He has no intellectual respect for religion, but "Song of the Black Mother" would bring tears to his eyes.He does not feel the call to ultimate truth; whatever moves him is of course truth to him, even what is manifestly gross, and he takes it for truth. Atheism was the main argument popular in British prose works at that time, and Bentham, Miller, and Comte were all popular writers.Their articles are the basis for the arguments of our youth.Miller's epoch constitutes a natural epoch in English history.It represents the healthy response of the regime to temporarily bring in these destructive forces to cleanse it of accumulated ideological garbage.In our country these ideas are accepted in literature, but never really used, and we use them only as a stimulus to stir us up to moral revolt.In this way, atheism is just a total intoxication for us. For these reasons the educated people are roughly divided into two classes.One always rushes forward with an unreasonable argument, and hacks to pieces all belief in God.Like a skilled hunter who, as soon as he spies on a creature, will kill it, on or under a tree, whenever they hear any harmless belief, lurking in the safety of an illusion place, they immediately agitated and rushed forward to overthrow it.We had a governess who taught for a short time, and this debate was his favorite pastime.I was only a child then, and I couldn't escape his attack.It's not because he has any knowledge, or his opinions are the result of a passionate pursuit of truth. His words are all picked up from other people's mouths.Although I fought him with all my strength, I suffered several disastrous defeats because of my age.Sometimes I feel so humiliated I almost cry. The other category is not believers, but religious hedonists.They find comfort and consolation in their reunion, immersing themselves in the pleasant sights and sounds and pervading fragrances, under the cloak of religious ceremonies; they indulge in the props of worship.Neither of these types doubts or denies the painful results of their quests. Although these religious escapades pained me, I dare not say that I was not at all affected by them.In the intellectual arrogance of young youth this rebellion also has its place.I never take part in the religious ceremonies held in my family, I do not accept them as my own.I was busy blowing a fire with my emotional roar.That was nothing but the worship of fire, offering sacrifices to increase the flames—no other purpose.And just because my efforts have no purpose, they are unlimited and often exceed the specified range. With religion, as with emotion, I feel no need for any underlying truth, my excitement is an end in itself. I recall a few lines from a poet of that time: I never sold it to anyone Even if it breaks into pieces, my heart is still mine! From the point of view of truth, the mind need not worry that way, because nothing compels it to tear itself to pieces.In truth, sadness is not something to be desired, but if the bitter part is removed, it may appear to have a different taste.Our poets often eloquently describe this taste, and call aside the God whom they indulge in their rites of worship.This childishness is something our country has not been able to get rid of.Therefore, even today, we still cannot see the truth of religion, and we only seek artistic satisfaction from religious rituals.The great part of our patriotism, therefore, is not service to our country, but a luxury that brings us to a desirable mental attitude toward our country. When I was in Brighton, I went to hear a first-rate actress, whose name I forget.She could be Mrs. Nelson or Mrs. Albany.Never have I heard such a remarkable free use of voice.Even our best singers cannot conceal the feeling of their exertion; they are not ashamed to sang a high note or a low note, beyond their proper expression.Some bosom audiences in our country think that there is no harm in keeping the performance up to standard by relying on one's own imagination.For the same reason, they are indifferent to the roughness of the voice or the roughness of the gestures of the singer of a perfectly composed song; on the contrary, they sometimes seem to have an opinion that this minor external defect , making the inside of the song even more perfect—like the great ascetic Mahadeva, whose ragged exterior reveals his divinity naked. ①The Hindu god Shiva. ——Translator This kind of emotion seems to be completely absent in Europe.There, the decorative details on the exterior must be flawless.With even the slightest flaw, one would feel too ashamed to face the gaze of the masses.At our musical meetings, no one cared if we spent half an hour tuning the dombra strings, or beating the big and small drums into harmony. In Europe, this kind of work is pre-done behind the scenes, because everything that comes to the front has to be flawless.So there, too, the weaknesses in the performer's voice have no place.In our country the correct artistic expression of a song is the main object on which all efforts are concentrated.In Europe, sound is a cultural object with which to perform the impossible.in our country. Music lovers are content to hear the song; in Europe they must hear the singer. That's what I saw that day in Brighton.To me, the concert is as good as the circus.But even though I loved that performance that much, I couldn't appreciate the songs.I couldn't help laughing when I heard those who sang the closing line imitate the song of the birds.I always feel like this is a misapplication of the human voice.When it was the male singer's turn, I felt a little more comfortable.I especially like the sound of the mid-range, it seems that there is more human flesh and blood in it, not so much like the lament of a ghost breaking free from the flesh. From then on, I listened to and learned more European music, and I began to get its spirit; but until now, I am sure that our music and their music live in a completely different yard, not through the same door. In my heart. European music seems to be entangled with material life, so its songbook is as diverse as life. If we try to repurpose our tunes, they lose their meaning and become comical; for our songs transcend the barriers of everyday life, and only then can they carry us deep into " Compassion, held aloft to Transcendence, their function is to reveal the inscrutable, unspeakable deepest picture of our being, where the worshiper finds his hut repaired, and even the hedonist Found his gazebo, too, but there was no place for the busy man of the world to lay down there. I can't claim to say that I've got a pass on the soul of European music.But the little I know about appearances fascinates me in one way.I think it's so romantic.It's hard to parse what I mean by romance.What I want to talk about is the colorful aspect, the wave on the sea of ​​life, the ever-changing light and shadow in the constant ups and downs.There is also an opposite aspect—the aspect of sheer stretch, of the solid greenness of the sky, of the immensity suggested by the distant, round horizon.Anyway, let me repeat, the danger that I try not to be quite clear, is that when I am moved by European music, I say to myself: it is romantic, it transfers the disillusionment of life into tunes up. The same attempt is not altogether absent in some of our musical forms; but it is not so prominent, nor so successful, as in European music.Our music gives sound to the starry night, to the first red light of dawn.They tell of the sorrow of falling in the dark clouds, and the wordless intoxication of the spring wandering in the forest. We have a beautiful copy of Moore's Irish Poetry; and I have often heard Mr. Axel singing Irish poetry ecstatically.Together these poems and illustrations conjure up for me a picture of an old Irish dream.I didn't hear the original tune then, but I sang Irish songs to myself, accompanied by the harp in the picture.I longed to hear the real tune, learn it, and sing it to Mr. Axel.Unfortunately some wishes come true in this life and die in the process.When I was in England, I heard Irish songs sung and learned some, but ended my enthusiasm for further studies.The songs were monotonous, plaintive and tender, but always a little out of tune with the silent songs on the harps of the old Irish mansions that filled my dreams. When I got home, I sang to my family the Irish songs I had learned.They were surprised and said, "What's wrong with the rabbi's voice? It sounds so funny and strange!" They even felt that my accent had changed. From this blend of foreign and local tunes, The Genius of Valmiki was born.The tunes in this musical are mostly Indian, but they are drawn out of classical majesty; that which soars high in the air is now taught to run on the earth.Those who have heard the melody sung will, I believe, testify that it has proved neither demeaning nor unprofitable to have the Indian melody form served for the play.This combination is the only characteristic of The Genius of Valmiki. The joyful work of breaking the shackles of melodic forms and making them applicable to all kinds of treatments kept me absorbed in my work. Several of the lyrics in "The Genius of Valmiki" are set in serious classical tones, some of which were composed by my brother Jotirendra;The "Tirina" ① genre in Indian melody is especially suitable for the purpose of drama and is often used in drama.Two English tunes, for the drinking song of the green men of the forest, and one Irish tune, for the lament of the forest fairies. ①A classical Indian tune. ——Translator "The Genius of Valmiki" is not a work suitable for reading.If you don't listen to the singing and only watch the performance, its meaning will be lost.It is not what Europeans call an opera, but a short play with music.That is to say, it was not originally a musical composition.The songs themselves are rarely important or moving; they are just the words of the play. Before I went to England, sometimes some literati would gather at our home, with music, readings, and refreshments.After my return there was another such meeting, which happened to be the last. "The Genius of Valmiki" was made for this entertainment.I played Valmiki, my niece Pratibha played Saraswati - a little history is recorded under this name. I read in Herbert Spencer that when the emotions come into play, language has a melodious inflection, and the voice and intonation are to us like the expressions of anger, sorrow, joy, and wonder in speech Equally important, it is a fact.Spencer's statement that humans find music through the emotional modulation of these sounds resonated with me.I just thought, why not use this kind of opinion as a basis to perform a play with a recitation method?The rappers in our country have a little bit of this attempt, because they often change to a kind of singing suddenly between storytelling, and then stop suddenly before reaching the full song form. As blank verse is more flexible than rhymed verse, so this singing, though not without rhyme, adapts more freely to the emotional expression of the words, since it does not attempt to conform to the requirements of the regular melody. , stricter rules about tone and time.Because the purpose is to express emotion, those formal shortcomings will not make the audience anxious. Encouraged by the success of this new line, "The Genius of Valmiki," I wrote another musical of the same kind, called "The Ominous Hunt."The layout is based on the story of King Dasarata who mistakenly killed the only son of a blind hermit.The play was performed on a stage set up on our roof terrace, and the audience seemed deeply moved by its pathos.Later, many parts of this play were slightly revised and merged into "The Genius of Valmiki", ② this play was not published separately in my work. Much later, I wrote a third musical, The Game of Illusions, which was a different kind of opera.What matters here is the song, not the drama.In the first two books, a series of dramatic scenes are threaded on a song line; in this book, a garland of songs is threaded by a line of drama structure.Its characteristic is that it is an emotional drama rather than an action drama.In fact, when I wrote this script, I was filled with the mood of the song. I wrote the plays of "The Genius of Valmiki" and "The Ominous Hunt" with a passion I had never felt in any other work.In both volumes the musical impulses of that period are expressed. My older brother, Jyoti Rendra, was busy all day on his piano, translating into classical tunes at will.With every turn of his tool, ancient genres assume unexpected shapes, expressing new tones of emotion.The melodies, accustomed to the solemn gait of their primitive age, when thus compelled to march along with a more lively and unaccustomed clapping, reveal an unexpected lightness of force which moves us accordingly.We could distinctly hear them speaking to us as Mr. Axel and I sat beside me composing them as they grew from under my brother's nimble fingers.I①②Valmiki is the author of the Indian epic "Ramayana". Both plays are based on "Ramayana", so they can be combined. ——The translator is the king of ten chariots, the father of Rama, the protagonist of the Indian epic "Ramayana".