No More Learning

My training under my father's eye was of a sternly scientific
character. He was determined that I should be a great mathematician
or a scientist, but the poetic instinct, which I inherited from him
and also from my mother (who wrote some lovely Bengali lyrics in her
youth) proved stronger. One day, when I was eleven, I was sighing
over a sum in algebra: it WOULDN'T come right; but instead a whole
poem came to me suddenly. I wrote it down.

"From that day my 'poetic career' began. At thirteen I wrote a
long poem a la 'Lady of the Lake'--1300 lines in six days. At
thirteen I wrote a drama of 2000 lines, a full-fledged passionate
thing that I began on the spur of the moment without forethought,
just to spite my doctor who said I was very ill and must not
touch a book. My health broke down permanently about this time,
and my regular studies being stopped I read voraciously. I
suppose the greater part of my reading was done between fourteen
and sixteen. I wrote a novel, I wrote fat volumes of journals; I
took myself very seriously in those days. "

Before she was fifteen the great struggle of her life began. Dr.
Govindurajulu Naidu, now her husband, is, though of an old and
honourable family, not a Brahmin. The difference of caste roused
an equal opposition, not only on the side of her family, but of
his; and in 1895 she was sent to England, against her will, with
a special scholarship from the Nizam. She remained in England,
with an interval of travel in Italy, till 1898, studying first at
King's College, London, then, till her health again broke down,
at Girton.
She returned to Hyderabad in September 1898, and in
the December of that year, to the scandal of all India, broke
through the bonds of caste, and married Dr. Naidu. "Do you know
I have some very beautiful poems floating in the air," she wrote
to me in 1904; "and if the gods are kind I shall cast my soul
like a net and capture them, this year. If the gods are
kind--and grant me a little measure of health. It is all I need
to make my life perfect, for the very 'Spirit of Delight' that
Shelley wrote of dwells in my little home; it is full of the
music of birds in the garden and children in the long arched
verandah. " There are songs about the children in this book; they
are called the Lord of Battles, the Sun of Victory, the
Lotus-born, and the Jewel of Delight.

"My ancestors for thousands of years," I find written in one of
her letters, "have been lovers of the forest and mountain caves,
great dreamers, great scholars, great ascetics. My father is a
dreamer himself, a great dreamer, a great man whose life has been
a magnificent failure. I suppose in the whole of India there are
few men whose learning is greater than his, and I don't think
there are many men more beloved. He has a great white beard and
the profile of Homer, and a laugh that brings the roof down. He
has wasted all his money on two great objects: to help others,
and on alchemy. He holds huge courts every day in his garden of
all the learned men of all religions--Rajahs and beggars and
saints and downright villains all delightfully mixed up, and all
treated as one. And then his alchemy! Oh dear, night and day
the experiments are going on, and every man who brings a new
prescription is welcome as a brother. But this alchemy is, you
know, only the material counterpart of a poet's craving for
Beauty, the eternal Beauty. 'The makers of gold and the makers
of verse,' they are the twin creators that sway the world's
secret desire for mystery; and what in my father is the genius of
curiosity--the very essence of all scientific genius--in me is
the desire for beauty.