It is
scarcely
two months
since I came back from the grave: is it worth while to be anything
but radiantly glad?
since I came back from the grave: is it worth while to be anything
but radiantly glad?
Sarojini Naidu - Golden Threshold
"Honestly," she said to me, "I was not
pleased; such things did not appeal to me. " But here, in a
letter from Hyderabad, bidding one "share a March morning" with
her, there is, at the mere contact of the sun, this outburst:
"Come and share my exquisite March morning with me: this
sumptuous blaze of gold and sapphire sky; these scarlet lilies
that adorn the sunshine; the voluptuous scents of neem and
champak and serisha that beat upon the languid air with their
implacable sweetness; the thousand little gold and blue and
silver breasted birds bursting with the shrill ecstasy of life in
nesting time. All is hot and fierce and passionate, ardent and
unashamed in its exulting and importunate desire for life and
love. And, do you know that the scarlet lilies are woven petal by
petal from my heart's blood, these little quivering birds are my
soul made incarnate music, these heavy perfumes are my emotions
dissolved into aerial essence, this flaming blue and gold sky is
the 'very me,' that part of me that incessantly and insolently,
yes, and a little deliberately, triumphs over that other part--a
thing of nerves and tissues that suffers and cries out, and that
must die to-morrow perhaps, or twenty years hence. "
Then there was her humour, which was part of her strange wisdom,
and was always awake and on the watch. In all her letters,
written in exquisite English prose, but with an ardent imagery
and a vehement sincerity of emotion which make them, like the
poems, indeed almost more directly, un-English, Oriental, there
was always this intellectual, critical sense of humour, which
could laugh at one's own enthusiasm as frankly as that enthusiasm
had been set down. And partly the humour, like the delicate
reserve of her manner, was a mask or a shelter. "I have taught
myself," she writes to me from India, "to be commonplace and like
everybody else superficially. Every one thinks I am so nice and
cheerful, so 'brave,' all the banal things that are so comfortable
to be. My mother knows me only as 'such a tranquil child, but so
strong-willed. ' A tranquil child! " And she writes again, with deeper
significance: "I too have learnt the subtle philosophy of living from
moment to moment. Yes, it is a subtle philosophy, though it appears
merely an epicurean doctrine: 'Eat, drink, and be merry, for
to-morrow we die. ' I have gone through so many yesterdays when I
strove with Death that I have realised to its full the wisdom of that
sentence; and it is to me not merely a figure of speech, but a
literal fact. Any to-morrow I might die.
It is scarcely two months
since I came back from the grave: is it worth while to be anything
but radiantly glad? Of all things that life or perhaps my temperament
has given me I prize the gift of laughter as beyond price. "
Her desire, always, was to be "a wild free thing of the air like
the birds, with a song in my heart. " A spirit of too much fire
in too frail a body, it was rarely that her desire was fully
granted. But in Italy she found what she could not find in
England, and from Italy her letters are radiant. "This Italy is
made of gold," she writes from Florence, "the gold of dawn and
daylight, the gold of the stars, and, now dancing in weird
enchanting rhythms through this magic month of May, the gold of
fireflies in the perfumed darkness--'aerial gold. ' I long to
catch the subtle music of their fairy dances and make a poem with
a rhythm like the quick irregular wild flash of their sudden
movements. Would it not be wonderful? One black night I stood
in a garden with fireflies in my hair like darting restless stars
caught in a mesh of darkness. It gave me a strange sensation, as
if I were not human at all, but an elfin spirit. I wonder why
these little things move me so deeply? It is because I have a
most 'unbalanced intellect,' I suppose. " Then, looking out on
Florence, she cries, "God! how beautiful it is, and how glad I am
that I am alive to-day! " And she tells me that she is drinking
in the beauty like wine, "wine, golden and scented, and shining,
fit for the gods; and the gods have drunk it, the dead gods of
Etruria, two thousand years ago. Did I say dead?
pleased; such things did not appeal to me. " But here, in a
letter from Hyderabad, bidding one "share a March morning" with
her, there is, at the mere contact of the sun, this outburst:
"Come and share my exquisite March morning with me: this
sumptuous blaze of gold and sapphire sky; these scarlet lilies
that adorn the sunshine; the voluptuous scents of neem and
champak and serisha that beat upon the languid air with their
implacable sweetness; the thousand little gold and blue and
silver breasted birds bursting with the shrill ecstasy of life in
nesting time. All is hot and fierce and passionate, ardent and
unashamed in its exulting and importunate desire for life and
love. And, do you know that the scarlet lilies are woven petal by
petal from my heart's blood, these little quivering birds are my
soul made incarnate music, these heavy perfumes are my emotions
dissolved into aerial essence, this flaming blue and gold sky is
the 'very me,' that part of me that incessantly and insolently,
yes, and a little deliberately, triumphs over that other part--a
thing of nerves and tissues that suffers and cries out, and that
must die to-morrow perhaps, or twenty years hence. "
Then there was her humour, which was part of her strange wisdom,
and was always awake and on the watch. In all her letters,
written in exquisite English prose, but with an ardent imagery
and a vehement sincerity of emotion which make them, like the
poems, indeed almost more directly, un-English, Oriental, there
was always this intellectual, critical sense of humour, which
could laugh at one's own enthusiasm as frankly as that enthusiasm
had been set down. And partly the humour, like the delicate
reserve of her manner, was a mask or a shelter. "I have taught
myself," she writes to me from India, "to be commonplace and like
everybody else superficially. Every one thinks I am so nice and
cheerful, so 'brave,' all the banal things that are so comfortable
to be. My mother knows me only as 'such a tranquil child, but so
strong-willed. ' A tranquil child! " And she writes again, with deeper
significance: "I too have learnt the subtle philosophy of living from
moment to moment. Yes, it is a subtle philosophy, though it appears
merely an epicurean doctrine: 'Eat, drink, and be merry, for
to-morrow we die. ' I have gone through so many yesterdays when I
strove with Death that I have realised to its full the wisdom of that
sentence; and it is to me not merely a figure of speech, but a
literal fact. Any to-morrow I might die.
It is scarcely two months
since I came back from the grave: is it worth while to be anything
but radiantly glad? Of all things that life or perhaps my temperament
has given me I prize the gift of laughter as beyond price. "
Her desire, always, was to be "a wild free thing of the air like
the birds, with a song in my heart. " A spirit of too much fire
in too frail a body, it was rarely that her desire was fully
granted. But in Italy she found what she could not find in
England, and from Italy her letters are radiant. "This Italy is
made of gold," she writes from Florence, "the gold of dawn and
daylight, the gold of the stars, and, now dancing in weird
enchanting rhythms through this magic month of May, the gold of
fireflies in the perfumed darkness--'aerial gold. ' I long to
catch the subtle music of their fairy dances and make a poem with
a rhythm like the quick irregular wild flash of their sudden
movements. Would it not be wonderful? One black night I stood
in a garden with fireflies in my hair like darting restless stars
caught in a mesh of darkness. It gave me a strange sensation, as
if I were not human at all, but an elfin spirit. I wonder why
these little things move me so deeply? It is because I have a
most 'unbalanced intellect,' I suppose. " Then, looking out on
Florence, she cries, "God! how beautiful it is, and how glad I am
that I am alive to-day! " And she tells me that she is drinking
in the beauty like wine, "wine, golden and scented, and shining,
fit for the gods; and the gods have drunk it, the dead gods of
Etruria, two thousand years ago. Did I say dead?
